of the closest place to get the kind of fish they needed, how much to get, and how to select it.
“And don’t forget tomatoes, cucumbers, herbs, potatoes, and a can of mushrooms. And if you see any marinated julienne beets, get some.”
“What for?” Nastya asked.
“For a side dish. If we’re spending money on sturgeon, we should serve it properly. Do what your elders tell you and don’t get smart.”
“Big deal!” she snorted as she put some plastic shopping bags into her purse. “Eight months, that’s all you have on me, and you act as if…”
“Take the car, my adult darling,” Chistyakov said. “You need to get a lot of vegetables, for the whole week.”
“I don’t need it,” Nastya insisted.
“You do. Or your back will go out again. Don’t argue with me, please.”
“I don’t like taking the car to the market. It’s showing off somehow. And then, you have to find a parking space, it’s crowded, you know. I just don’t want to.”
Alexei tossed the pen down on the table and rolled his eyes to the ceiling.
“Lord, why didn’t you give me the smart woman I had chosen and waited for so many years and stuck me with this brainless dummy instead? Now I’ll have to drop my lecture, get dressed, and go marketing with her because the silly bint isn’t supposed to carry anything over 5 pounds, otherwise she gets a backache. But she doesn’t want to take the car, it’s this feeling she woke up with this morning. And because of that her miserable husband either has to go with her to carry the bags or prepare himself for several days of whining, moaning and groaning, pathetic attempts to get his pity and sympathy. Which one should I pick, oh, Lord?”
Nastya knew he was joking, but she could tell that he was beginning to be annoyed. She really did not like driving, it made her tired, but now it looked like she’d have to take the car, otherwise Lyoshka would go with her instead of working on his lecture. That wouldn’t be good.
The market wasn’t too far and the trip did not take long. An hour later Nastya was unloading her purchases in the kitchen under Alexei’s demanding eye. To her great amazement, she had picked the sturgeon properly and had gotten everything on the list, without forgetting anything or mixing things up.
“All right, go work now,” Chistyakov said generously. “I’ll do the cooking. You’re bound to destroy an expensive dish.”
She gave her husband a joyous kiss on the cheek and rushed to the bedroom. The unpleasant but necessary part was done, now she could get on with the pleasant, interesting, and satisfying part – her job.
Nastya turned on the computer and began by creating a chart with fourteen columns – one for each stolen film. She put the title at the top of each column and then made lines. Ten administrative districts. The name at the left of the lines. Then we take each rental place, check the address to see which police district it’s in, and enter the data in the right box. For now there were thirty video rental places, but by Tuesday she hoped to have another forty-four.
When Nastya worked on something, she did not like to think that she might be doing it in vain. She firmly believed that there was no useless work. Even if it did not yield the desired result, there would definitely be some result that she had not expected at all. The film-loving thief could have rented where it was more expensive but no name was required. He could have. Easily. And then Nastya’s attempt to find him among the multitudes who rented in cheap places was doomed to failure. But she kept in mind the fact that he had stolen them, when it was simpler to buy them. And if there were financial reasons for it, then he probably rented where it was cheaper. Of course, the theft might not be connected to money, but the criminal’s mind. In any case, she had to work with the names. If she got nothing, it meant the thief rented where it was more expensive, or did not rent at all, getting tapes from another source. That would mean different working hypotheses and more work for her. There was no useless work. A negative result was still a result, as Nastya Kamenskaya liked to say.
It had warmed up, and Kirill Esipov, general director of Sherkhan Books, decided to start the dacha season. He left for his dacha, or summer house, outside Moscow along the Yaroslavl Road on Friday evening, expecting his two colleagues – Grisha Avtayev and Semyon Voronets – for lunch on Saturday. Esipov was not married, but he had a relationship with the same woman for the last two years. Tall, a full head taller than him, long-legged Oxana was a model. Esipov’s six-foot-six bodyguard Vovchik had been eying her for a long time.
The central heating had warmed up the house, and Oxana was walking around in shorts and a thin-strapped T-shirt, which exposed a rather broad expanse of smooth skin on her taut belly.
“What time are they coming?” she asked, coming over and sitting on Kirill’s lap.
“Three. Why? Do you have plans?”
“No plans, I just want to get dressed before they get here.”
“Why the modesty?” Esipov chuckled.
“Because,” the girl replied in an injured tone. “I don’t like the way your idiot Voronets undresses me with his eyes.”
“He undresses you?” Kirill asked, still lazily.
“Haven’t you noticed? Or maybe you think just because the three of you are so rich and such close friends, I’m supposed to belong to all of you? You get first dibs since you’re the captain of the team, and then they get sloppy seconds. Is that what you think?”
“Oxana, Oxana.” He caressed her back and shoulders with a gentle, soothing rhythm. “Don’t be like that. You’re a beauty and it’s not surprising that men drool over you. It’s completely natural, and you shouldn’t take offense. Just as you shouldn’t get mad at me that I don’t punch every man who looks at you. I can’t beat up half of Russia, now can I?”
“But you have to tell your Voronets to stop staring at me,” Oxana insisted, cuddling closer. “He’s disgusting and I don’t like it.”
“Now, Oxana, darling, that’s silly. And really, it’s unprofessional. You’re a model and you have to be used to everyone looking at you, not just those you find personally attractive.”
“All right.” She made a joke sigh and kissed him on the top of his head. “I’ll put up with your Semyon in the name of the majesty of my profession.”
Oxana was no dummy, even though she liked to coo and act the little fool. Behind the broad calm forehead without a single line lay the pragmatic mind of a girl who knew what was what, and what the value of various services and favors cost. She was tactful and educated enough so that Esipov could take her to social events. At the same time she had a good sense of social distance. After all, she could lodge the same complaint about Vovchik as about Semyon, but she never complained about Vovchik to Esipov. Vovchik was a servant, the lower class, and if she said one word he’d be fired without regrets or severance pay. And why should the guy suffer? For having a normal, male reaction that did not distinguish between an ordinary girl and boss’s girl? Semyon Voronets was another matter. Nothing threatened him, Kirill wouldn’t part with him for anything, they were old friends and business partners, so she could complain about him. It did Semyon no harm, but at least she got it off her chest, she couldn’t carry it around inside all the time. And then, it was a shame to complain about Vovchik, he was a nice guy, and most importantly, he knew that he didn’t have a chance against his boss. While Semyon Voronets thought he was irresistible and for some reason saw nothing wrong with screwing the girl of his friend and partner. And there was nothing irresistible about him.
By the time Avtayev and Voronets arrived, Oxana had changed into jeans and a heavy, long-sleeved T-shirt. After the requisite ten minutes with the guests, she politely excused herself, smiled sweetly, and left the room.
Vovchik the bodyguard was in the spacious kitchen working assiduously on the crossword puzzle. Hearing steps, he looked up and smiled welcomingly.
“Did they say when they were going to eat?” he asked, giving the girl a carnivorous