Four men gathered at a round table: Senior Investigator Renko, District Prosecutor Zurin, Assistant Deputy Prosecutor General Gendler and a ministry elder called Father Iosif, who was as silent and motionless as a stuffed owl. He had long since passed the mandatory retirement age of sixty and, presumably, rolled on with year-to-year contracts. No one knew exactly what Father Iosif's status was. No one ever heard him speak.

Zurin had never looked better; fit and eager for the fray. Under Yeltsin, he had been round and apoplectic; in Putin's regime, Zurin ate sensibly, exercised and lost weight. A stack of dossiers tied with self-important red ribbons stood by him.

Gendler had placed Arkady's ID and pistol, a nine-millimeter Makarov, in the middle of the table and noted what an ideal setting for Russian roulette it was.

"Except, you need a revolver," Arkady said. "A cylinder to spin. Otherwise you've pretty much eliminated the element of chance."

"Who needs chance?" Gendler placed a tape recorder on the table. He pressed Record and identified site, date, time and persons present for a hearing on dismissal.

It took Arkady a moment to realize what was transpiring. "Wait, this is a hearing on suspension."

"No, this is a hearing on dismissal."

"I received the letter for suspension late last night. I have it." He passed the letter to the assistant deputy, who laid it aside without reading it.

"Duly noted, a typographical error. However, this is the second hearing. For whatever reason, you did not attend the first."

"I'd like to change the date."

"Out of the question. The panel is assembled. We have a quorum and we have the supporting dossiers and material that Prosecutor Zurin has brought. We can't ask him to cart those back and forth at your convenience."

"I need time to prepare materials."

"It's your second letter. The first letter went out a month ago. Your time for preparation ran out yesterday."

"I received no first letter."

"I received mine," said Zurin.

"Then I would have been suspended."

"You were."

Which explained the lack of caseload coming from the prosecutor. Nothing could hide the triumph in Zurin's face. He had played his part perfectly and so, in his ignorance, had Arkady.

"I was in the office every day."

"Preparing for this dismissal hearing, I assumed," Zurin said. "I didn't get in your way."

Gendler said, "Renko, you brought nothing else to substantiate your defense?"

"No."

"But you have been active. According to Prosecutor Zurin, two nights ago you were seen leaving a sobriety station. Yesterday you altered autopsy reports in an effort to fake a murder."

"The autopsy was not faked. I was assisting on a murder case. We may have a serial killer."

"Today you claim to have discovered a serial killer. Every detective's wet dream. I'm sorry, but in a contest of claim and counterclaim, I have to go with hard evidence, and you don't have any."

Arkady said, "I suggest that we go over the prosecutor's evidence to see how hard it really is."

"We don't have time. We're overwhelmed. So, do you expect to contest your dismissal or not? I should warn you-"

"No."

"You are not contesting your dismissal?"

"I am not."

"He's folding," Gendler told Zurin, half in surprise.

"I heard. So he won't be needing these." Zurin gathered Arkady's ID and gun from the table.

"Not the gun." Arkady clamped Zurin's wrist.

"It's property of the state."

"Please, gentlemen." The assistant deputy tried to separate them.

Arkady bent Zurin's fingers back. The prosecutor let go and said, "See, he's crazy. He attacked me right in front of witnesses."

"Read it." Arkady passed the gun to Gendler.

"Read what?"

"On the slide."

The engraving on the gun was as fine as calligraphy.

"'This firearm and a lifetime license are awarded to Honored Investigator A. K. Renko in gratitude from the Russian people.'"

"It's mine," Arkady said.

"I'll take that under consideration." Gendler kept the pistol.

"Renko," Father Iosif said. "Now there was a son of a bitch."

Everyone froze. Gendler was dumbfounded. No one had ever heard Father Iosif utter a word before.

"He keeps the gun," Father Iosif said, and the decision was made. Each desk in the squad room was a stage with a different drama. A murderer handcuffed to his chair. A profusely sweating tourist who kept feeling his pockets in case his passport materialized. An old lady whose cat was missing. She had brought pictures. Besides mug shots of professional criminals, a bulletin board carried photos of soldiers gone AWOL, a new handful every day. A goldfish nibbled on a companion.

Arkady arrived with a bag of cold sodas. Day three was the day the snakes of alcohol usually came out, but Victor was bright as a robin.

"You got here without incident? You didn't roll the car? None of the doors blew off?"

"It's in mint condition."

"How did the meeting go?"

"It was for dismissal, not suspension."

Victor sat up. "You're not serious."

"They seemed to be. They have no sense of humor."

"You're out?"

"A mere citizen."

"That's as 'mere' as it gets. Do you want me to kill Zurin? I will. I'd be happy to."

"No, but I appreciate the offer."

"You can't win in this fucking world. Let's get drunk tonight. Let's get drunk until our eyes swim. What do you say?"

Arkady sat at Victor's computer. On its screen a beautiful model with voluminous blond hair and Nordic-blue eyes was wrapped in a wolf jacket and matching cap. In the background the onion domes of St. Basil's glowed in golden sunlight.

"You're making progress," Arkady said.

"Suspended, dismissed, you don't let go."

"Not yet."

A label on the photograph said, Oksana Petrovna is represented by Venus International.

At the tap of a key the scene changed to a studio apartment. Oksana Petrovna lay on her back in the middle of the floor with her head resting in a pool of blood, hands on her hips. Her leather trousers and underpants were pulled down to her ankles. Possibly the first position of ballet. Hard to say. The date of the photo was two years ago. According to the notes, a homeless man confessed and then recanted.

Arkady said, "It looks like she was hit from behind."

"Yeah, then they beat some poor bastard until he would confess to buggering the czar. After that, the case went cold."

Arkady punched up the next screen. Inna Ustinova looked younger than her thirty-two years. A yoga instructor, she had been married twice, once to an American who had promised her Malibu, California, and delivered Columbus, Ohio. According to her entry in Facebook, she had resolved to date only Russians. Her ambition? To dance at the Club Nijinsky. Her body was discovered six months before in a culvert at a dog show in Ismailova Park. She was naked from the waist down, with no signs of violence, an apparent overdose. Her feet were apart and her arms stretched like wings, as in the second position.

"That's it?" Arkady asked.

"That's it."

"No third position?"

"Yeah. It's called pissing into the wind."

"Venus International. Is that a well-known modeling agency?"

"I called a friend. She says it's so-so."

"The name is not quite right," Arkady said.

"What do you mean?"

"Well, it's not quite right, is it? 'Venus' suggests a little more."

"You mean…"

"Exactly."

"More…"

"Yes."

"Well, they used to present what they called 'private modeling' of lingerie and the like but they've been on the up-and-up for years."

"Was Venus at any time also a matchmaking agency? Beautiful Russian brides for lonely American men?"

"When Venus started out, it tried to be any number of things. I know what you're after. Did the paths of these two women ever cross?"