This wasn't Arkady's Moscow anymore. The Golden Mile-the area between the Kremlin and the Church of the Redeemer-had been a neighborhood of workers, students and artists. The local restaurants were stand-up cafeterias that served steamed cabbage. The streets glittered not with diamonds but broken glass. But that population was gone. Bought out, sold out, "developed" out, they had been relocated and replaced by boutiques and leggy women with Prada bags who circulated from Pilates class to tapas bar, from tapas bar to sushi, from raw fish to meditation.

Since the Lada's muffler sounded like a snare drum, Arkady pulled to the curb to call Zhenya. Sometimes the boy withdrew for weeks and what Arkady feared was his isolation. Besides the chess players he hustled, Zhenya had no regular human contact that Arkady knew of except for a gang of runaways led by a dangerous young thug named Yegor who was suspected of setting homeless people on fire.

Ten rings without an answer was Arkady's limit. He no sooner gave up than a white SUV loomed alongside and a woman with sunglasses perched on her forehead motioned for him to roll down his window. A silk scarf was knotted casually around her neck and a gold chain dangled from her wrist.

She said, "This is a 'No Lada Zone.'"

"A what zone?"

"Ladas."

"Like this car?"

"Correct. No Ladas are allowed to park in the zone, let alone to sleep in."

Arkady looked at Victor snoring in a rubbery fashion.

"We are in Russia?" Arkady asked.

"Yes."

"In Moscow?"

"Yes, of course."

"And the Lada is a Russian car?"

"One Lada can reduce the value of an entire city block."

"I had no idea."

"I mean, were you towed here?"

"Passing through."

"I knew it. 'Through traffic' is the worst. Why did you stop?"

"We're releasing rats."

"That's it. I'm alerting Security."

Arkady's cell phone rang. Because he expected a callback from Zhenya, he answered without checking the caller.

"Thank you," Zurin said. "You actually picked up for once. This will be like a birthday present but better."

Arkady rolled up his window. When the woman started another diatribe, he held up his ID. A moment later the SUV melted and she was gone.

"What would be better?"

"Your letter of resignation."

"I haven't given you one."

"No hurry, Renko, you have all day."

For Arkady, Prosecutor Zurin exemplified the modest ambition of a cork. It floated. In regime after regime, policy after counterpolicy, Zurin floated and survived.

"Why would I resign?"

"Because the last thing you want is a departmental hearing for suspension."

"Why should I be suspended?"

"You disregard orders and overstep your authority and regularly hold the office of the prosecutor up to ridicule."

"Could you be more specific?"

"The business with a dead unidentified prostitute. You were told not to initiate any investigations."

"I didn't. I was with a militia officer who responded to the radio call of an overdose after the local precinct failed to answer. I assisted the officer when, with the exception of forensic technicians, no support arrived."

"What support do you need for an OD? You gave me your head on a silver platter. All you had to do was stay in the car."

"It's not an OD," Arkady said. "According to the pathologist, the girl was administered-"

"You miss the point. You ignored my orders. You were not authorized to order an autopsy."

"Detective Orlov is and it's his case, not mine."

"Orlov is an irredeemable alcoholic."

"Today he's a whirlwind."

Victor opened his door and threw up.

"We only order autopsies when there are suspicious circumstances."

"A healthy young woman was dead. If that doesn't make you suspicious, what does?"

"That's enough. I want you here in the office. Where are you now?"

"I don't know. There's a Starbucks on the corner."

"That's no help. Renko, you can resign gracefully or be put out with the trash. Stick with your friend Orlov. You'll sink together."

Five minutes later Arkady sat in a traffic jam on Kutuzovsky while police cleared the way for fleets of government sedans that sped down the center lane and he had time to contemplate the increasing likelihood he was going to be dismissed. Then what? He could cultivate roses. Keep pigeons. Read the great books in their original languages. Exercise. The problem was that being an investigator left a person fit for little else. It was an acquired taste like the Masai's mixture of blood and milk.

He found the Nijinsky Fair invitation that had fallen from the vodka bottle at the trailer and turned it every which way. It wasn't really like a credit card. A little longer and thicker. More like a roulette plaque. The day before he hadn't noticed the existence of the fair and now banners for it seemed to hang on the scaffolding of every construction site in the center of Moscow, NIJINSKY LUXURY FAIR written in silver against a black field.

Arkady found a newsstand at a Metro station. The press covered the fair from different points of view. Izvestya approved of its capitalist excess. Zavtra detected a Jewish conspiracy. Readers of the more down-to-earth Gazeta suggested different luxury items, most having to do with private islands, private castles or sexual enhancement.

To each his dream. Victor lived in yesterday's version of the future: a spiral of units around a central staircase, each unit a cube of exposed cement combining function and grace. One unit had toppled. It lay on its side, stripped of plumbing and wiring. The city and the historical commission had fought over the building for years because at one time the intelligentsia of Moscow regularly met in the Orlov apartment to debate ideas, read poetry and drink. Esenin, Mayakovsky, Blok had attended at a time when, as Victor put it, poetry wasn't romantic slop. Victor could recite them all. Some people called the building the House of Poets. A cat delicately approached across a yard of empty bottles and dandelions. A pair of kittens watched from a bed of dirty towels.

Victor was refreshed. The shakes had passed and hearing the price of a ticket to Nijinsky Fair snapped him awake.

"Ten thousand dollars to get in the door? Then there'll be free food?"

"I think it's likely. By the way, the prosecutor called. He wants me to resign and he wants you to call Olga an overdose and fold the case."

"Wait. We're in the middle of a homicide case. He's not only fucking you, he's fucking me on the bounce. He's fucking Olga too. I don't mean you, puss." The cat weaved between Victor's feet. "So, what are you going to do?"

"Go to bed."

"No letter of resignation?"

"My heart wouldn't be in it."

"And then?"

"And then I think it would be a shame to miss a night with millionaires. Mix. Show as many people as possible the photo of Olga but be on your good behavior."

"No problem. I can offer them sentiments from Blok: 'John, you bourgeois son of a bitch, you can kiss me where I itch.'" Victor smiled with self-satisfaction. "Poetry for all occasions." Arkady's apartment was a distinctly bourgeois affair of paneled wood and parquet floors inherited from his father. There were no photos on the walls. No family gallery on a piano. The women in his life were irretrievably lost. The food in his refrigerator accumulated until he threw it out.

He dropped into bed but slept badly and in a dream found himself in a white room between a stainless-steel table and a laundry bin. In the bin were body parts. It was his task to reassemble the girl he called Olga. The problem was that the bin also contained parts of other women. He recognized each by her color, texture, warmth. No matter what he switched, however, he couldn't complete any single one.