“A brief one, yes. I’m mourning the loss of one of my dogs. Fred would have been the first Georgian Shepherd to win Best in Show at Westminster, I believe.”
“I’m sorry,” said Heat and Rook, nearly in unison.
He made a pained smile and said, “Even show dogs get sick. They are only human, yes?” Nikki observed that his Georgian accent grew thicker in sadness.
Rook must have had the same thought and said, “So you’re from Georgia. Spent some mighty good times in Tbilisi on an assignment not long ago.”
“Ah, yes, I enjoyed your article very much, Mr. Rook. Insightful. But the times were not so good when I defected. We were still under the boot of Moscow.”
“That was when?” asked Detective Heat. The mention of defecting from a Russian satellite and its potential clandestine implications snagged her interest.
“1989. I was twenty-eight and, not to be boastful, one of the leading biochemists in the Soviet Union. Such as it was then. You know, yes, that there is much bad blood between Georgian people and Russians?”
“Yes,” said Rook. “Lots of actual blood.”
“Mostly Georgian. And Moscow, they wanted my talent put to use for war, so it was double insult. I was young, and no family to worry about, so I left for freedom, you see. Soon, I was fortunate to get fellowship at the Spokes Institute here.”
“And just what is the Spokes Institute?” she asked.
“You call it think tank, I guess. Although, many days, there is more talking than thinking.” He chuckled. “But our mission is policy study to demilitarize science. So is good fit for someone like me. Plus the fellowship grant gives me time to follow my passion for breeding the next prize-winning show dog.” He laughed again, then fell off into brief melancholy, no doubt at the memory of Fred.
Heat had questions to ask concerning his defection but used this lull to transition to her business. She asked Vaja if he’d been following the murder cases in the news, and he confessed he had been preoccupied lately with losing his poor dog. But Nikoladze had heard of the suitcase murder because of its spectacular nature. Heat told him, in addition to Nicole Bernardin’s killing, she was also investigating her mother’s. Then she asked the same basic questions she had that morning at the brewery about the events surrounding Cynthia Heat’s tutoring in his home back in 1999: her mother’s state of mind; her sense of agitation; whether she was being followed or bothered; if there were things upset or missing in the house.
Vaja said, “I would much like to help you with your questions, but unfortunately, I don’t have enough information to share. You see, your mother only came here to tutor twice.”
“Your child gave up?” asked Rook.
The scientist looked down at him from his perch on the railing with amusement. “My child? I assure you that would be most unlikely.”
Nikki asked, “Who, then?”
“My protege.”
“A protege from the institute?”
“No.” Nikoladze hesitated but continued. “He was someone I met at a dog show in Florida. He also came from Tbilisi.” Heat sensed his discomfort at the subject and understood why, but knowing that often the host household was not the target for her mother to spy on but could be the link to an acquaintance who was, she started troweling away layers.
“He showed dogs, as well?”
Vaja lowered his eyes and said, “No, he was groomer’s assistant.” Then, as if he’d decided to surrender, he let it out. “We had much in common. He and I hit it off, so I invited him to come here to learn from me about breeding and training the dogs. I also got him the piano lessons, but he was not serious enough.”
Rook said, “The piano’s not for everyone.”
“Serious enough about me.”
Nikki took out her notepad. “May I ask the name of this protege?”