Chapter 8

The old caseOrlov's car, a BMW, rolled gently through the evening streets, taking us towards the archive storage. Sunset had already painted the sky in crimsongold tones, and the lanterns, turning on one after another, cast trembling circles of light on the asphalt. The cabin was stuffy, smelled of dust and old leather — a smell that usually irritates, but it, on the contrary, had a calming effect on me, as if it transported me back to my childhood, when I loved to hide in my grandfather's study among old books.I watched houses flashing by the window, people hurrying somewhere every passerby seemed to me to be a potential character in my game. Here is a woman with a bright bag — perhaps she has ulterior motives? But the man, nervously looking around, isn't he acting too suspiciously? I couldn't help but smile, imagining how I could weave these random passersby into my complicated scheme.Orlov drove the car intently, occasionally glancing in the rearview mirror."You seem too thoughtful, Anna,— he remarked, without taking his eyes off the road. — What are you thinking about?"Just watching,— I replied without turning around. — I wonder how many of these people keep their secrets. And how many of them are willing to commit a crime in order to achieve a goal."You have too analytical a mindset for simple observation,— Orlov chuckled. — Are you already building psychological profiles?—Maybe,— I shrugged, still looking out the window. — After all, it's part of my job.At the archive, we were greeted by an elderly curator, a gray—haired man with piercing eyes and a neat beard, who looked like the main character from an old detective story. He reluctantly handed us the file folder, but his curious gaze revealed that he hadn't missed a single detail. He seemed to be mentally compiling a dossier on each visitor."Be careful with your documents,— he said sternly, handing over the folder. — These are not just papers, they are pieces of someone's life."Of course,— Orlov nodded. — We will be extremely careful.Orlov immediately began sorting through the documents—stacks of yellowed papers, faded blackand-white photographs, interrogation protocols, crime scene diagrams. He laid them out on the table, sorted them by date, and made notes in a notebook."Look," he showed me one of the photographs, "I've seen this method of opening the lock before. A very specific approach.—Indeed," I agreed, only glancing at the picture out of the corner of my eye. — I wonder how many more similar cases we will find.While he was poring over the reports, I surreptitiously glanced at one of the old files lying on the edge of the table. On the cover was written: "Case No. 47. Apartment theft. The suspect has disappeared."My heart started beating faster. That was it. That's the case I was looking for. I quickly flipped through several pages, my gaze clinging to familiar details. The handwriting, the description of the stolen items, even the investigator's small note about "unusual neatness"—all this was part of my carefully planned plan."He'll find a similar handwriting," I thought, "but he won't understand that it's not a coincidence. All these cases are just steps up which I have been improving my skills. And this theft... it was my first step, my experiment, which will now serve as a false thread leading to a long-forgotten past.""I found something interesting,— Orlov suddenly said, raising his head. — There is a very similar handwriting of the crime in the 1985 case. The same method, the same neatness"Maybe it's an episode,— I said, trying to keep my voice neutral. — It's worth checking the rest of the archives.We stayed in the archive for several hours. Orlov, fascinated by the process, took notes, built chains, his eyes burned with excitement. While I was helping him outwardly, inside I was already planning my next move, feeling the game gaining momentum."It's amazing how much you can learn from old cases,— Orlov muttered, putting down another document. — Every little thing can be a key."Yes," I nodded, "sometimes the most important thing is hidden between the lines.The sun had long since set, and only the dim light of the table lamps illuminated our concentrated faces. Shadows danced on the walls, creating the illusion of movement. Ahead of us was a night full of mysteries and new possibilities. I knew that Orlov was close to solving the mystery, but he didn't even suspect that all these clues were just fragments of a mosaic that I had put together especially for him. The game was just beginning, and I was sure that the victory would be mine.We left the building when the city had already completely plunged into the silence of the night, broken only by the occasional rustle of tires on asphalt and the distant hum of rare cars. The lanterns cast quivering circles of light on the sidewalk, and the shadows from the trees were intricately intertwined, like the threads of someone's tangled web. Orlov started the engine, and the Volga began to move gently again, taking us away from the dusty shelves of the archive, from the smell of old papers and the musty air saturated with decades of other people's secrets.There was a tense silence in the salon, which he seemed to perceive as a working atmosphere, and I — as a premonition of the finale of the first act of my carefully thought-out play. My fingers involuntarily touched the inside pocket of my coat, where there was a tiny, invisible photograph, extracted from a folder under the noise of flipping through the protocols. It depicted a room with a broken mirror, a detail that I specifically left in case No. 47. Now she will become another thread in the web that I was weaving around Orlov."You know," Orlov broke the silence, adjusting the rearview mirror and taking a quick look at it, "this guardian... he knows too much. He looked at us too closely. Sometimes old archives store not only papers, but also people who don't want the truth to come out.I smiled slightly at his reflection in the mirror.:"You've become paranoid, Maxim," I said softly. — He's just an old man who loves his job. He probably sees people like us every day, and he's already used to treating everyone with suspicion. But you're right about one thing: the past tends to come back, especially if it's properly warmed up.Orlov chuckled, tightened his grip on the steering wheel and gave me a quick glance.:— And you, Anna, are too calm for someone who has just been digging into cases of theft. Like you know something I don't."I just trust the process,— I shrugged, trying to keep my voice level. — And I understand that sometimes the key lies on the surface. You just need to be able to see it.We turned onto a narrow street, where the streetlights shone especially dimly, casting long, distorted shadows that seemed to reach out to the car, trying to slow it down. There was an atmosphere of mystery in the air, and I could feel Orlov's excitement growing — he had already begun to build a theory of the connection between the 1985 case and my "first step," completely unaware that I had given him this clue myself. Everything was going according to plan: he saw the pattern that I had drawn myself and accepted it as an objective reality."We'll check the connections at that apartment tomorrow morning," he said, gripping the steering wheel so hard that his knuckles turned white. — Someone must have seen this woman who fled the scene of the theft. Perhaps the neighbors remembered something important — the car, the clothes, the manner of bearing.—Of course," I replied quietly, looking out the dark window, through which the lights of the city floated by, twinkling like distant stars. — Look for it, Orlov. Look for the one I'll let you find.