“The restaurant is a twenty-minute drive,” Saveliev replied. “Plus dinner—at least an hour. Plus the drive back. We have two hours. Maybe more.”
“That’ll be enough.”
Stepan got out of his car and headed towards the building. In his pocket was a set of lock picks—a relic from his investigator days. He never thought he’d have to use them again. The concierge in the lobby was watching TV and paid him no mind. Stepan walked past, nodding, and took the elevator to the seventh floor.
Apartment 74. The lock was modern but not too complicated. Three minutes later, Stepan was inside.
The apartment greeted him with silence and the scent of expensive cologne. The same one he smelled every time Artem came to their house.
The office. Corner right. Stepan found the safe exactly where Daria had said. A massive metal cabinet with a digital lock. Six digits.
He tried 140323—Svetlana’s date of death with the year. The lock blinked red. He tried 031424—the upcoming wedding date in American format. Red again. He tried 240314—the wedding date in reverse. Red.
Stepan stopped. Three failed attempts. One more, and the safe might lock down. Or worse, send a signal to the owner.
He took out his phone and called Saveliev.
“Igor, I need help. The code isn’t working.”
“What combinations have you tried?”
“Svetlana’s date of death, the wedding date.”
“Hold on.” Saveliev fell silent. “Zhanna said he uses important dates. Maybe not of death, but of when they met? I don’t know when he met Dasha.”
“Ask her. Send her a message.”
Stepan texted Daria: “Date you two met?” The reply came a minute later: “April 15. Why?”
“150424.” He entered the code. Red.
“It’s not working,” he said into the phone. “Damn it.”
“Maybe the engagement date? When was that? Ask her.”
Another message: “When did he propose?”
“September 28. Why are you asking? Is everything okay?”
“Everything’s fine. Just checking.”
“280924.” Stepan entered the code, holding his breath. Green.
The safe clicked open. Inside was exactly what Zhanna had described. Folders. Lots of folders. Neatly labeled, arranged by date.
Stepan took the first one. The cover read: “Project O.” Olga. Inside was a photograph. Documents. Copies of real estate contracts. And the most chilling part—a journal. Handwritten notes in a neat script.
March 12. O. is starting to ask questions. Need to speed up the process.
March 15. Documents signed. House transferred.
March 18. Problem solved. Accident in the bathroom. Police are not suspicious.
Stepan felt bile rise in his throat. He opened the next folder. “Project K.” Kira. The same photographs. The same documents. The same cold-blooded journal.
June 5. K. found messages with Z. Problem.
June 8. K. is threatening with police. Need to act.
June 12. Balcony. 9th floor. Clean.
Stepan flipped through the pages, and each line was like a punch to the gut. This man documented his murders. Kept records. Like an accountant keeping track of expenses.
The next folder. “Project S.” Svetlana.
And the last folder. “Project D.” Daria. Stepan’s hands were shaking as he opened it. Inside were photos of his daughter: at the exhibition, in a café, on the street. Some were taken even before they had officially met. He had been watching her. Selecting her. Like a hunter selecting prey.
From the notes:
April 15. First contact. D. is an ideal target. Father is a former investigator, but already retired. House in a prime location. Apartment downtown. Estimated value 80+ million. May 20. Relationship developing according to plan. D. trusts completely. September 28. Proposal accepted. Wedding set for March. March 10. Father is suspicious. Need to speed up the process. After the wedding, 2 months maximum. Then divorce or… an alternative.
Stepan photographed every page. Every document. Every photograph. His hands trembled, but he forced himself to work methodically, like in the old days. When he finished, there was one more folder left in the safe. Unlabeled.
He opened it and froze. Inside were documents in a name he didn’t know. Igor Saveliev. Photographs. Address. Place of work. And a note: “Connection to subject D. Potential threat. Surveillance.”
Artem knew about Saveliev. He knew he was helping.
Stepan grabbed his phone.
“Igor. He knows about you. He has a file.”
“What?”
“Photos, address, everything. He was watching you.”
Saveliev swore.
“When are the entries dated?”
Stepan looked at the documents. “The last entry… This morning. ‘S. and subject met at Z.’s house. Threat confirmed.’” He had seen them. This morning, when they were at Zhanna’s. Artem had been following them.
“Stepa, get out of there. Immediately.”
“What about Dasha?”
“I’ll call her. We’ll figure something out. But you need to leave. Now.”
Stepan closed the safe and rushed to the exit. In the hallway, he heard the sound of the elevator opening. He froze. The elevator doors parted, and Artem stepped into the hallway. Alone. Without Daria. Their eyes met.
“Stepan Andreevich,” Artem said calmly. “What a surprise. Decided to visit your future son-in-law?”
A knife gleamed in his hand. The hallway shrank to the size of a grave. Stepan looked at the man who was planning to kill his daughter and felt time slow down to an impossible crawl.
“Where is Dasha?” he asked, trying to keep his voice from trembling.
Artem smiled. The same smile Stepan had seen a hundred times: warm, charming, inviting. Only now he knew what lay behind it.
“Dasha? Oh, don’t worry. She’s safe. For now.”
“What did you do to her?”
“Nothing. For now,” Artem repeated, taking a step forward. The knife in his hand glinted in the hallway light. “You know, Stepan Andreevich, I underestimated you. I thought you were an old fool, a paranoid who’d lost his mind. But you turned out to be… persistent.”
“You knew we were coming.”
“Of course. I saw you this morning at Zhanna’s. Poor Zhanna. She was always the weak link. Too sentimental, too… conscientious.” He said the word with disgust. “I knew she’d break sooner or later.”
Stepan slowly backed towards the apartment. If he could get inside, there would be something to defend himself with. Anything.
“Don’t move,” Artem warned. “I’m faster. Believe me, I know how to use this thing. Like with Kira. Like with Olga. Like with Svetlana.” Artem laughed. “Oh, you found my archive. Impressive, isn’t it? I’ve always been meticulous. I like order. I like when everything is documented.”
“You’re sick.”
“No, Stepan Andreevich. I’m practical. People are a resource. Some use oil, others use wood. I use people. What’s the difference?”
