Nastya walked around the square, looking over the selection in the other stalls. There were copies with the elegant EBS logo everywhere, and all the sellers assured her that the series went like hot cakes. Well then, no wonder Solovyov was rich. Apparently, his fees were better than good. Especially if he didn’t get an outright fee but a royalty based on sales.

Putting the books in her bag, she walked to the rendezvous spot. Gennady was late, it was already five minutes past the time. Nastya made a face. She liked punctuality.

At last, fifteen minutes late, the young policeman showed up. He didn’t even think to apologize and with a businesslike air began pulling papers out of his case. His expression was not very friendly, in fact, it was almost disgusted.

“Here are notes from the registers of thirty video rental places. I killed two days on that.”

“And how many are there in all?” Nastya asked innocently.

“Seventy-four.”

“That means you’ll kill another three days,” she said calmly. “And don’t give me that look as if I made you spend your working hours on my personal problems.”

“I have a very heavy load as it is,” Svalov grumbled.

“Just imagine – so do I. And this maniac wandering the city freely is our headache. Not someone else’s, but yours and mine. Let’s try to keep that in mind all the time, all right?”

Nastya took the papers and went back to Petrovka Street to take care of urgent cases. By the time she got home, it was almost ten. There was a note on the kitchen table: I’m teaching tonight. Dinner is in the oven, don’t be lazy, please, and heat it up. Love.

Lyoshka knew his wife well, no denying it. Nastya’s famous indolence sometimes found paradoxical manifestations, and being too lazy to heat up food was a usual occurrence. If a dish could be eaten cold, she did, and if it really needed to be hot, and Lyoshka wasn’t there to supervise, she preferred a hunk of bread with cheese or sausage and a cup of strong coffee.

The struggle between hunger and laziness lasted about a minute, whereupon Nastya adopted a compromise: she quickly stuffed the traditional sandwich into her mouth and then patiently waited for husband’s return to have dinner with him. With her bread and salami, she got comfortable, stretched out her legs with her feet on another chair and opened the best seller she bought at the railroad station The Blade. The book was beautifully written, the plot developed quickly, and she was captivated from the first few pages.

A while later Nastya noticed that her fingertip, with which she turned pages, had turned black. Was the ink rubbing off? She rubbed with another finger. The white page now had smudges. Nastya brought the book close to her face and sniffed – it had that smell of freshly printed books.

She looked at the publishing information in the back. It was sent to the compositor on January 26, 1995, and signed off for the printer of March 3, 1995. That was over a year ago, and the ink was still rubbing off. And there was the smell. That wasn’t possible. This must be a second printing. But why was the old information on the page? It looked like the leftover print run from last year.

She rummaged in her purse and got out the second copy – the one Solovyov gave her from his shelves. The books were exactly the same, with the same publishing information. But this book did not smell of fresh ink and did not smudge. How could that be if both books were printed at the same time, a year ago?

Then her mind moved to the mathematical. The book seller had told her that popular books went at a rate of ten a day. All right, say five. And how many book stalls were there in Moscow? Around three hundred. Say only two hundred. Five books at two hundred stalls is a thousand a day. How many were printed? The information said 70,000 copies. That’s seventy days of sales. And only in Moscow. But Sherkhan sold books in other cities, too. That information page listed their official dealers – twelve companies in twelve regions of Russia. Assume that half the print run stayed in Moscow and the other half was sent out to the other cities. Thirty-five thousand in Moscow. Thirty-five days of sales. What if they sold five a day only the first week and then it slowed down? But the book seller at the station said that Secret of Time had been in print around a month and he had sold seven books just today. No, it didn’t work. The Blade could not be available on the shelves for a year if they printed only 70,000 copies. It should have stopped selling last May or June. Say, even August. But this was April… Where did this book she bought at the station come from?

The key turned in the lock and Lyoshka was home.

“How was your lecture?” Nastya asked, rubbing her cheek against his shoulder.

“Fine. Why haven’t you eaten, you brazen thing?”

“I was waiting for you. You know I can’t eat alone, it’s too boring. We’ll eat together.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Chistyakov snorted. “Good old Lyoshka will heat it up and serve it and then we’ll eat. All right, stay where you are, I know you’re never going to change. What are you reading?”

“An Eastern Best Seller from Japanese-American life.”

“And the second book?”

“Same thing. They’re the same.”

“Did you buy it for someone?”

“No. Listen, let me run something past you.”

Lyoshka had already started reheating the hash and was slicing tomatoes on the cutting board, his back to Nastya.

“I’m listening,” he said without turning.

“You have to look at something.”

“Then wait a bit.”

He finished the salad, wiped his hands on a towel, and came over to the table.

“Take a look at these two books, please,” Nastya asked. “Tell me what you think.”

“Other than the fact that they are exactly the same?”

“Yes.”

Lyoshka opened both books and read the title page closely. Nastya didn’t think there was anything interesting there. On top in black letters was the author’s name, Akira Hakahara. In the middle of the page, the title, The Blade. On the bottom the logo of Sherkhan Books, the face of a roaring tiger.

“But they are different,” he said, looking up in surprise at his wife.

“What makes you say so.”

“They are made differently. This one” – he showed her Solovyov’s copy, “is printed photomechanically, and the other photoelectrically.”

“I don’t see it. What shows that?”

“The letters are colored in different ways. With the photomechanical method, the ink is even, but here, in the second book, you can see that the ink is much paler on the bottom half of the letters than the top. Take a look.”

Now Nastya could see it. Rather, she had seen it before, but a person who didn’t know about printing would not have paid any attention.

“What does it mean?” she asked slowly, realizing that she had come across something important.

“It means that these books are not from the same print run.

By the way, why are you asking? Do you have a suspicion about something?”

“The ink is smudging,” she explained, showing him her blackened fingertip. “It’s completely fresh. But the publishing information says that it was printed a year ago. Oh, Lyoshka, something’s burning!”

“Damn!” He moved to the stove and turned off the flame under the skillet. “The hash is burnt. You and your printing mystery.”

“I’m sorry,” Nastya said piteously. “I didn’t mean to.”

They ate in silence but then Nastya said, “Lyoshka, what is a photomechanical method?”

“Forget it. It’s too long and hard to explain.”

“Make it short and simple, for dummies. Very general. I just want to know what distinguishes one method from the other.” “Why do you care so much?”

“Not so much, but I do want to know. Not for any crime that I’m working on. But you know that I don’t like not understanding.”

“First the manuscript is composed on a computer and an original mock up is made. Then film – slides – is made from the original. Got that?”

“So far.”

“That part is the same for both methods. Then come the differences. With the mechanical process, they make a matrix from the slides. A matrix is good for about fifty thousand prints. If the print run is for more than fifty thousand, they made a second matrix. With electrography, copies are made with photocopying technology. A kind of risograph, if you know what that is.”

“I don’t, but that’s not really important. I’ve grasped the main differences. Lyoshka, why have a print run that’s not divisible by fifty thousand?”

“What do you mean, why? Pass the ketchup, please.”

“Here. I want to know why people print more than fifty thousand but less than one hundred thousand. If you have to make a second set of matrices anyway, why not use them fully. Right?”

“It may not pay,” he said with a shrug. “They may not be able to sell a hundred thousand, so the cost of paper and jackets is wasted and the books will just take up space in a warehouse. Fifty is not enough, a hundred too much. That’s all.”

“Then there’s something else I don’t get. Why print a book by photocopy if you have the matrices for another thirty thousand copies. Are the matrices destroyed once a book has been printed?”

“Depends on the contract. They might, they might not. Why are you hung up on this?”

“Curiosity. Lyoshka, it looks like we have tax evasion here, pure and simple. The publishing house is not as stupid as your wife. They probably use the matrices all the way and print a hundred thousand. But in the information they put seventy thousand, and that’s their tax base. The remaining thirty thousand they sell but don’t pay taxes on. After a while they take the slides and do copies. The publishing information is the same and everybody thinks that they’re still selling remaining parts of the original print run, which was actually completed and taxed. It’s important that the book be a popular one. Good idea, huh?” “Yep,” he agreed. “I just don’t understand what’s it to you. Are you planning to switch jobs and move to the tax police? Or be a publishing lawyer?”

“No, honey, I’m not going anywhere. I’m just solving a puzzle for my mental exercise.”

“Really?” Lyoshka raised his eyebrows. “And here I thought you planning to defend your friend Solovyov, who was being hurt by the big bad greedy publishers.”

She flushed. He was wrong, she hadn’t been thinking of Solovyov at all. Moreover, judging from his lifestyle, the publishers weren’t cheating him. But Lyoshka was suspicious anyway. He seemed hurt, even. How could she have been so clumsy? What had made her discuss these books with him?

“You’re wrong, darling,” she said in a steady voice. “Solovyov has nothing to do with it. It’s a coincidence that it’s his books we’re discussing.”

“Fine,” he said. “If you say so. What are your plans for Saturday? Going to work?”

“No, I’m home tomorrow. I need to use the computer.” “When’s the next visit to Solovyov’s?”

“Lyoshka!”

“Now, now, I’m as cool as a frozen mammoth. I just need to know for the car. When will you need it?”

“If you don’t mind, I’d like to go Sunday afternoon. But if you need the car, I can go tomorrow or Monday.”

“Do what you were planning,” he said. “I’ll be home Sunday.” “Thanks.”

The air was thick with tension and Nastya tried to think of a way of discharging it. But nothing original came to mind.

“Lyoshka, I can’t stand to watch you torture yourself,” she said decisively. “I’ve told you that we’re dealing here with a serious crime. Nine boys have died, teenagers who were missing persons. Somewhere in Moscow or nearby there is a monster who keeps them locked up, pumping them full of drugs, sleeping with them until they die of an overdose. He is crazy, a maniac. Every day I live in horror that more parents will show up to report yet another missing boy. The only lead I have is connected to the place where Solovyov lives. I have to go there, please understand. It’s my duty. It’s my responsibility before the poor parents who wait months for word of their son and find only his corpse. But your feelings are just as important to me. You are my husband, I love you, and for your peace of mind I am ready to do anything. I don’t want you to suffer from baseless jealousy. But if you can’t stop yourself, then I’ll have to stop.” “What are you trying to say?”

“I’ll stop going to Solovyov’s.”

“What about the boys? Their parents?”

“Nothing. Let someone else look for the maniac, someone whose husband isn’t so jealous.”

Lyoshka smiled in chagrin, but with evident relief. He seemed embarrassed.

“I’m sorry, Nastya. I didn’t think it upset you so much. No more, I’ll stop.”

“And I can see Solovyov?”

“As much as you like.”

“And you won’t have fits over it?”

“I will.” He burst out laughing. “Strictly out of stubbornness. To spite you. So that you see what it’s like for me when you’re upset and I don’t know why or how to help.”

“Being difficult, eh?”

Nastya knew it was over. The conflict had been brewing for a week, since last Friday, when she first went to see Solovyov and wish him a happy birthday. Wariness, tension, and cool alienation had hung over the apartment for a week, even though they both behaved normally – calm, peaceful, and amiable. Hidden conflicts are very dangerous, leaving permanent wounds, despite the absence of shouting, yelling, or other loud and colorful manifestations. She remembered a line from a section of The Blade she had just read: “A person with sad eyes is a person who never cried as a child when scolded or beaten.” The line seemed vaguely familiar, but Nastya wasn’t in a mood to dig around in her memories.