He clearly had an entire lurid scenario in his mind, half of which was correct, and she had no defense for it. She simply dropped her eyes. “Someone else was there. I heard my father talking as I went down the stairs.” It was a lie. She hadn’t heard anything.

“Who was he talking to?”

“I don’t know. Someone from the building, I suppose. Those neighbors who were listening so carefully, they must have heard him.”

The detective tapped the file with the back of his fingers. “Nope, nothing like that here.” He read from the report again. “So how come your father’s called Fyodor Kaminsky and you’re Mia Kramer?”

“His name was Kramer, too. They made us change it when we arrived. But when he got the job at Smerdjakov’s, he used his Russian name again. The customers liked that.”

“And Mia? That’s your real name?”

“It used to be Demetria Fyodorovna. They changed it at Ellis Island.”

“And your mother?”

“Has nothing to do with the case. She died ten years ago.” Mia waited for a reply, but he just stared and then stood up from the table. Another man stepped away from the wall where he’d been standing, and they conversed in undertones.

“Can I go now?” she asked.

“Yeah. Just stay away from married women.” The detective snorted, then strode with the other man out of the interrogation room.

A patrolman took her by the upper arm and led her along a corridor to a public room. Grushenka stood up from a bench as she entered. The pale Slavic face was as beautiful as ever, and the voluptuous body seemed to invite embrace. But Mia felt only disgust.

“I’m sorry, Mia,” Grushenka said, pressing her lovely full lips together in contrition. “I never meant to hurt you, or anyone.”

Mia walked past her without replying.

* * *

The tenement apartment was still sweltering in spite of the open windows. A paper bag full of trash that leaned against the wall added the odor of rotten vegetables. She lifted it gingerly by the damp bottom, laid it sideways on the shelf of the dumbwaiter, then reeled it down by its rope to the basement for the super to collect. Shutting the door cut off the fetid odor that rose through the shaft. As she turned away, the apartment door opened and Van came in.

“So, what the hell happened?” he asked, yanking open the icebox and snatching a bottle of beer. “I’ve just come back from the police station, and they said he fell from the roof. Or was pushed. Did you do it?”

“You expect me to say yes? I wasn’t there, so it could just as easily have been you. We both know how evil he was.”

He downed half of the bottle in several swallows, then wiped his mouth with the back of his wrist. “No, just a sanctimonious pig, a fanatic.”

“And you don’t call that evil?”

“No such thing as evil. We’re all animals who piss and fuck from the same part of our bodies. Some of us just do it in a more refined way.”

She grimaced. “You don’t have to be so vulgar, Van. If he wasn’t evil, why did you hate him so much?”

“Because he beat me once too often, especially after Mother died. And you know what he said when he beat me? That God smites us to drive out our impurities. That every blow hardens us and shapes us. Even after he started drinking and fucking every woman in sight, he was still whining remorse in front of his stupid icons.” He closed his eyes and finished the rest of the beer.

“So, why didn’t you kill him?” Mia took the bottle from his hand and set it with the other empties.

“I could have, and my conscience would have been clear. But I made a practical decision. If I killed him for being a pig, someone might kill me tomorrow for the same thing.” He reached into the icebox for a second beer.

“What a disgusting moral code.” She sat down, fanning herself with the newspaper.

“Okay, sorry. Well, whoever did it, I’m responsible for the funeral arrangements after the cops release the body. You’ll have to help me.”

“No, you’re going to have to do that yourself. Now that he’s out of the way, I’m getting the hell out of this place. I’m sick of nosy neighbors, of climbing up five flights every day, of having to stay on the roof every summer night until it cools. I’ve got a job offer in Washington.”

“Washington? What’s wrong with the accounting job you’ve got here?”

“Bookkeeping for a shoe store? No future in that. The government’s offering much better jobs for the war. This one’s with the Lend-Lease program.”

“Lend-Lease. What the hell’s that? Sounds like they’re loaning out lawnmowers.”

“Oh, come on. Don’t you listen to the radio? It’s war supplies. We make them and lend them to the Brits. Anyhow, I was going to announce it, but then this thing with Father came up. I’m leaving tomorrow. I need a few days to find a rooming house before I start work.”

He sat down, nonplussed. “You’re really serious, aren’t you?”

“Yes. Don’t worry. I’ll keep in touch, and the police will know where to find me. You can keep everything he left. The furniture, his filthy money, this cockroach-infested apartment. You’re the man of the house now. Enjoy it.”

Chapter Two

Washington, DC, October 1943 (fourteen months later)


Mia glanced at the wall clock. Four thirty. Technically, she was supposed to be working, but she had nothing in her in-box, so she slid the new job application from her drawer and finished filling it out.

Age: Twenty-nine.

Education: Diploma—Manhattan School of Accounting.

Work experience and skills: Typist, accountant, Russian-English translation. Dictation in English or Russian.

Typing speed: Sixty words a minute. (She exaggerated only slightly.)

Mother’s and Father’s names: Ekatarina Kaminskaya, Fyodor Ivanovitch Kaminsky.

Her gentle mother had been gone too long to be more than a vague memory. But her father… well… her recollection of him was a mix of disappointment and fear, ending in disgust. He’d never really beaten her, the way he had Ivan, but his orders—that she dress like a drudge, that she give up her fun-loving American friends, that she be housekeeper in their tenement apartment—were absolute and tinged with threat. Her protestations simply elicited a slap from him. “Never question my authority,” he’d say. “A father knows what’s best for his children.” It was her first small victory to be allowed to take an accounting course at the local college, though he agreed only because he knew the dreary accounting job that followed would add to the family finances. And she’d had to fight hard to be allowed out of the house to volunteer for the Roosevelt campaign.

Well, the old tyrant had been dead over a year now, and the police investigation had gone nowhere. That was a relief, though she felt a slight shame for leaving the burial in Van’s hands. Well, Van, or Ivan, as his father had persisted in calling him, had inherited Fyodor’s bank account and possessions, of which the only things of value were a copper samovar and some gold-painted icons. As an atheist and a cynic, Van must have found that amusing.

She did think occasionally of Grushenka, but always with embarrassment. Since that unfortunate involvement, she’d been celibate. Men had paid court to her, but she wasn’t interested. And women weren’t exactly beating a path to her door. Even if they were, the risk of losing her job was too great.

Sally, sitting at the desk across from her, glanced over. “You’re going to leave us, aren’t you? I saw the application.”

“I’d like to. When I took this job last year, I didn’t think it would be so dreary. It’s only slightly better than the one I had before.”

Sally turned the platen and yanked out her finished page. “Yeah, numbers are numbers. Nothing jazzy about them. But didn’t you work for the FDR campaign in New York during the last election? Maybe something good might come from that.”

“That’s what I thought. Mrs. Roosevelt even thanked me for the bookkeeping I’d done for the committee. I gave my resume to the campaign headman, hoping for a little secretarial job in the administration. But everything went to the men. It’s maddening.”

“Hey, Mia!” The office boy stuck his head through the opening in the doorway. “Boss wants to see you.”

Mia winced with vague anxiety, then followed the boy down the corridor to the door at the end. After a timid knock and a muffled “Come in,” she opened the door.

Mr. Steinman sat at his desk puffing on a cigar. Another man sitting on his left stood up as she entered.

“Mia, this is Mr. Harry Hopkins. He’s looking for an assistant and insisted on talking to you.”

Still bewildered, she turned to face the stranger. He was tall, angular, and gaunt, and his too-large suit jacket drooped over both shoulders. His head, which jutted forward slightly, was almost cadaverous and had a receding hairline. The hand he held out to her was all bone, as if it should have held a scythe. She took it cautiously.

“I’m pleased to meet you, Miss Kramer. I’m afraid I’m in a hurry and don’t have time for an official interview. I need an assistant who’s good at taking notes and dictation.”

“I told you, Harry. George Osborne is good at that.” Steinman tapped his cigar ash into an enormous glass ashtray.

Hopkins ignored him. “It also involves the sort of Lend-Lease accounting you’ve been doing, but on a larger scale.”

“I’m telling you, George is the best accountant we’ve got.” Steinman was standing now. “And he’s a senator’s son.”

“…and Russian.”

“I know Russian,” Mia said quietly.

Steinman sat down again, obviously defeated, and puffed on his cigar.

“Yes. That’s why I’ve come. The First Lady gave me a copy of your resume. So, do you want the job or not?”

“Yes, of course.” That was all she could manage. “When can I start?”

“Monday would be good. That will give you time to move in over the weekend.”

“Move in? Where? I already have a room in town.”

“No. I’ll need you close at hand. For meetings, and I’ve got a pile of calculations already on my desk. Your office will be down the hall from me, and they’ll give you a room upstairs.”

Mia was flustered. This strange, cadaverous man wanted her to live in the same house as him? Suddenly she had doubts.

“Upstairs? Where exactly is your office?”

“Sorry. Didn’t I mention that? In the White House. Come around to the Rose Garden entrance at eight o’clock on Monday, and someone will take you up.”

* * *

Mia checked her watch as she lugged her suitcase along the path that curved around the White House South Lawn. Seven thirty. She was on time.

“Can I help you, miss?”

Startled, she turned to see a uniformed policeman.

“Um, I’m supposed to report to Mr. Hopkins. I have an appointment at ten o’clock.”

“Well, the public ain’t supposed to be wandering around the Rose Garden, but I’ll take you to the door.” He swung toward the left and began walking.

“Thank you.” She grabbed her suitcase and scurried after him. The officer led her up a low flight of steps and along an arcade to the end. A door opened as they approached.

“I got a woman here says she has an appointment with Mr. Hopkins,” her guide announced. His job done, he hooked his thumbs on his belt and stepped back.

Nodding, the second officer dialed something on his phone and passed the message along. Mia glanced at her watch again. Quarter till eight.

Some two minutes later, a civilian in a dark suit appeared. “Good morning, Miss Kramer. I’m George Allen, the White House butler. Mr. Hopkins is expecting you.” He took her suitcase out of her hand.

Pleased to finally be acknowledged and relieved of the cumbersome baggage, she followed him without glancing back. He led her along a corridor that took them back into the main building, and they climbed a flight of stairs to the second floor. They passed closed doors, and she wondered what majestic staterooms lay behind them. He halted at the far end of the corridor where a plaque near the door read Lincoln Suite. The butler knocked and set her suitcase down against the wall.

The door opened to the same cadaverous man who’d hired her. “Ah, right on time. Thank you, Mr. Allen.” He waved away the butler and opened the door wider to admit her.

Inside, a desk, cabinet, and side table were covered with papers, and a jacket hung over the back of a chair. “Sorry about the mess. The paperwork just overflows, which is why I’ve hired you.”