ISBN 978-5-0064-1774-8

      Created with Ridero smart publishing system

      First chapter

      The day before, a girl left me, meanly, treacherously, with practically no explanation. She probably would have said that she didn’t quit, but left in English, but the aftertaste remained. For me, a detective with ten years of experience, it was almost a punch in the gut. If she still went to suffer, it would not be so bad, but she went to rest at sea. Pictures from this vacation flashed through my head, I imagined them, although in order to see them in reality, I only had to go to her social networks. I didn’t want to discuss this with anyone, and there was nothing to discuss here, but I knew one thing for sure: I couldn’t call her and sort things out.

      “Goodbye, Malika,” I said mentally, trying to concentrate on my life, but I couldn’t. Every now and then I started thinking about what I did wrong. She had long insisted on living together, but for me, a private detective, it was akin to losing my profession; I cannot live with a woman under the same roof, doing investigations: flies separately, cutlets separately. And yet the feeling of guilt overtook me. It was easier for me to accept the breakup if I knew that she left me not because I was bad, but because she found someone better. Because only in this case did she turn out bad. In order not to stress myself out and not go in circles, I retired to my archive.

      The archive was a small room in my apartment, only eight square meters. It was completely filled with small cabinets with small drawers containing files from the time of my grandfather, who was also a detective. When I needed to get ready, I came here.The atmosphere of the wooden, parquet floor and the small boxes filled with cards with handwritten text did their job – I calmed down, caught my breath. When I was feeling particularly bad, I could even sleep here. It was very good to sleep on a warm, wooden floor to reboot. That was exactly what I planned to do that night.

      I loved to come here when I needed to think, the very atmosphere created by this wooden floor and these treasures in the boxes made me think correctly or not think at all, but feel, feel, feel. The magnetism of this small room of only eight square meters can only be compared with the evening windows of houses, each of which has its own leisurely life with its own tragedies and moments of truth. Here in the boxes there is the same thing, only multiplied by the fates of people in alphabetical order. And also the smell, it cannot be confused with anything. I could transfer everything that is here into a digital form and store it in the files of my computer, but I will not be able to transfer the smell into a digital form.

      On the wall hung a portrait of my grandfather, round-faced, bald, slightly stooped, wearing thick glasses and holding a huge magnifying glass in his hand. He was dressed to the nines: an unchanged three-piece suit and a watch on a chain sticking out from under a dark blue vest. It was a picture that one of his clients painted him in gratitude. I didn’t think that I would ever become as great as him, but his portrait helped me. It was as if he was telling me from a portrait: “Get your act together, you can do it.”

      My grandfather was a great professional in his field, my mother’s father, we were friends. He died early, just a year and a half short of his sixtieth birthday, but I remembered him. I was still too young for him to communicate with me on an equal basis about the cases he was investigating, but I learned some rules from him. For example, learning to let go when you can no longer do anything. Now I couldn’t let go.

      I comfortably “made myself a nest” on the floor, for these purposes I had a huge checkered blanket in the corner, and began to plunge into the dark kingdom of dreams. “Just don’t dream of me, just don’t dream of me,” I repeated, hoping for a miracle. Sleep began to envelop me, if only for another five minutes I would have fallen asleep like the dead, but then the phone started ringing. I forgot that I didn’t turn it off and left it in the kitchen. I hoped he would shut up now. I closed my last business just a week ago, so I was hoping to spend at least another week to digest it. It was a complex, confusing matter related to money, and always when it comes to money, you have to give it your all.People are very calculating when it comes to money and plan crimes in such a way that we detectives need to try very, very hard to unravel them.

      The phone didn’t stop ringing. I waited warily for the phone to go silent, and finally, after two minutes, the long-awaited silence came. I did not want to get up to save the settings for sleep and then move into a new state, freed from focusing on my woman. And just as I closed my eyes, hoping to fall asleep, the phone rang again. I was angry and had no choice but to get up and go see who called me.

      Delilah called, it was my new partner. I was introduced to her only recently and, frankly, it was forced on me. It was rumored that our agency belonged to her uncle, but I did not delve into the details. I was almost sure that she would run away from me after the first case.

      The code of honor required that I call her back myself; after all, two missed calls were difficult to ignore. I looked at my watch – 21:05. I should have called, but even then she got ahead of my intention. The phone rang right in my hands, and her photograph with her name appeared on the screen: Dalila Dvorzhetskaya.

      – Do you know that Lilya Kolyuki has disappeared?! – she blurted out almost immediately.

      “No,” I answered quickly. – And who is it?

      – Stand-up comedian. Her aunt contacted our agency this morning, I want to take on this case.

      I chuckled skeptically.

      – Weren’t there any other people willing? This is actually what the police should be doing.

      “She’s been doing it, but it’s no good, they’ve been looking for it for a week.” She suspects that Lilya was “removed” by black realtors who were interested in her apartment.

      I sighed.

      “I don’t want to take this case,” I said firmly. “I think the police are doing a better job of investigating it than we are.”

      I was about to hang up, but Delilah was not going to give up.

      – Let me come and we will discuss it with you. Don’t rush to conclusions until you know all the details.

      “Well, come,” I said sadly, but immediately regretted it. The spoken word is not a sparrow; if it flies out, you won’t catch it.

      I decided to get ready. I remembered the name of the missing woman that Dalila said, but initially I thought that she said Lilya Kalyuka, because kalyuka was the name of an ancient Russian musical instrument, something like the current flute.

      I went online, and indeed the news that a stand-up comedian had disappeared had already leaked to the media, it was Lilya Kolyuki. She, apparently, was not a famous comedian, and even the news of her disappearance did not cause much public outcry. Through a search engine, several videos surfaced where she performed not alone, but as part of a group called “Fifteen Shoes.” It was a comedy show consisting of eight participants. I was especially struck by the screensaver of this show, where multi-colored shoes fell from the ceiling, participants came running, hurriedly put them on, and one of the participants was missing a shoe. She looked around and grabbed her head, eagerly feigning confusion. This is where the cutscene ended.There were few comments under the video, mostly written by the participants themselves, but there were also those who expressed genuine sympathy that Lilya Kolyuki had disappeared. These were isolated comments.

      I took a break from the video and needed a break. I turned on the coffee machine to make myself a cappuccino. The time was late, but I didn’t feel it. Looking at the clock built into the coffee machine, I saw that it was already 22:15.

      “Is Delilah really coming this late?” In my mind I imagined her getting into the car and driving towards me. Her portrait began