Soviet garages were mysteries because steel siding was not legally for sale to private citizens, yet garages constructed of such siding continued to appear magically in courtyards and multiply in rows down back streets. Rudy Rosen’s second key opened the mystery in the courtyard. The hanging bulb Arkady left untouched. In the sunlight he could see a tool kit, cases of motor oil, windshield wipers, rearview mirrors and blankets kept to cover the car in winter. Under the blankets there was nothing more unusual than tires. Later Minin and the technicians could dust the bulb and tap the floor. The sweepers had stood timidly in the open door the entire time; the old dears hadn’t tried to make off with even a lug wrench.

Why wasn’t he tired or hungry? He was like a man with a fever but no diagnosed disease. When he caught up with Jaak at the Intourist Hotel lobby, the detective was swallowing caffeine tablets to stay awake.

“Gary’s full of shit,” Jaak said. “I don’t see Kim killing Rudy. He was his bodyguard. You know, I’m so sleepy that if I find Kim, he’s going to shoot me and I won’t even notice. He’s not here.”

Arkady looked around the lobby. To the far left was a revolving door to the street and the outdoor Pepsi stand that had become a landmark for Moscow prostitutes. Inside stood a line of security men who scrupulously let in only prostitutes who paid. Camped within the grotto darkness of the lobby, tourists waited for a bus; they’d been waiting for some time and had the stillness of abandoned luggage. The information stands were not only empty, but seemed to express the eternal mystery of Stonehenge: why were they built? The only action was to the right, where a semi-Spanish courtyard under a skylight invited attention to the tables of a bar and the stainless-steel glitter of slot machines.

Rudy’s lobby shop was the size of a large armoire. A case displayed postcards with views of Moscow, monasteries, the fur-trimmed crowns of dead princes. On the back wall hung ropes of amber nuggets and the bunting of peasant shawls. On the side shelves, wooden hand-painted dolls of ascending sizes crowded around plaques for Visa, MasterCard, American Express.

Jaak unlocked and opened the glass door. “One price for credit cards,” he said, “half-price for hard currency, which, when you consider that Rudy bought the dolls from idiots for rubles, still gave him a profit of a thousand percent.”

“Nobody killed Rudy over dolls,” Arkady said. Handkerchief on his hand, he opened the counter drawer and flipped through a ledger. All figures, no notes. Minin and forensics would have to come here, too.

Jaak cleared his throat and said, “I have a date. See you in the bar.”