Read Online The Ice Curtain by Robin White - Free Book Online

jumped in. Why aren’t you hunting for them?”
    â€œSo now the police are accomplices to murder?”
    â€œWhy bother to ask? You already know the answer.”
    The sergeant kicked Nowek backward into the wet snow.
    â€œI’ll tell you what
else
I know, citizen Nowek. We aren’t looking for Gavril because we know exactly where he is. We found him where you left him in an alley with his throat cut so badly his head came off when we picked him up off the street.”
    Nowek struggled to sit. “Gavril is dead?”
    â€œYou’re the only healthy one left. Here’s the gun. Here’s the body. Here you are. Everything fits. You’re in trouble. You can still help yourself.” The pencil was poised next to a final line marked
Confession
. “Is there anything you want to say?”
    â€œIf Gavril was already dead, who was driving Volsky around?”
    â€œYou.”
    â€œI took a cab here from a record shop. The
Melodiya
. The proprietor will remember me. The cabdriver will remember me, too. Nobody let me in through the gate. The security cameras will show that. So how did an amateur assassin end up inside the gates and inside that Chaika?”
    The pencil moved away from the last line. “A thorough investigation will answer these questions.”
    â€œYou’re an optimist. The Moscow militia hasn’t solved a contract killing in years. Why would you? You’d have to arrest your friends.”
    The boot lashed out again. It lifted Nowek off the pavement, sending him hard against the Chaika’s fender. “As of tonight, your information is out of date,” said the sergeant. “You’ll be our first.”
    Another first. He’d ridden in militia cars before, even in prisoner vans. But always in front. Never in back. The locked cage was mustard-yellow fiberglass, windowless, reinforced with wire mesh. It was airless, lightless, cold as a meat locker. The chill did nothing to hide the smell of vomit, urine, the unmistakable rusty odor of blood. His clothes no longer felt wet. Volsky’s blood was coagulating into a glue that cemented his pants to his skin.
    The walls were slick with condensed breath. It beaded up and dripped as the jeep swayed and jounced its way to the district militia headquarters, and its annex: Gagarinsky Detention Facility 3.
    There, Nowek was photographed and X-rayed. He had his blood drawn with a thick needle blunt with use. The bruise on his left leg from the Chaika’s fender was lurid and purple. It was duly noted against future prisoner claims of torture. Finally, Nowek was processed into the Preliminary Detention Area.
    By law he could be kept in PDA for seventy-two hours. As mayor of Markovo, he’d enforced that law over the objection of the militia. Practically, he knew he’d remain in Gagarin-sky 3 until the militia obtained a confession, or someone wanted him moved.
    He was escorted down a long flight of concrete stairs decorated with enthusiastic posters. At the top was WHO DOESN’T FULFILL SOVIET LAWS WORKS AGAINST THE PEOPLE ! and THE PEOPLE OF THE USSR ARE EQUAL ! and farther down, THE PARTY IS THE HONOR OF OUR EPOCH !
    At the bottom, nothing had changed in over half a century. Even the air was old. It was a large, bare room of wooden benches, caged incandescent lights, a single armored door. Nowek was led through it to a corridor lined with bars.
    â€œLend me your boots,” came a voice from the darkness. “I’m going in front of the judge! For one day only!”
    â€œCigarettes? Come on, cookie. Let’s make a trade.”
    â€œI need your fucking boots!”
    â€œYou’re in luck,” said his escort as he unlocked a cell. “Tonight you have a private room. Tomorrow we’ll give you the honeymoon suite.” He unfastened Nowek’s belt, then unlocked his wrists and pushed him in. The door pulled shut. Nowek could hear the locking bar drop.
    Nowek