“Then let us get out of this cold hall and go somewhere warm,” Madame Agafiya said.
She led us into a parlor off the hallway. It was a large room with high ceilings and was furnished with every piece Moscow’s flea markets had to offer. Or at least it seemed that way. There was clutter everywhere, and two green fabric couches stood as islands among a sea of pictures, photos, figurines and tiny collectibles. Was it designed to disorientate her patrons? Or simply to mask the decayed state of the building?
“Sit.” Agafiya gestured at the couch nearest the window.
She settled on the one opposite, and her bouncer watched us from the doorway. Dinara and I did as instructed, and I felt the old springs give as I sat on the frayed couch.
“What answers? And how much?” Agafiya asked as she arranged the layers of her multi-colored dress.
“We’d like to ask you about Ernest Fisher,” Dinara replied. “We were told he came here.”
Agafiya’s hands froze and she studied them as though they were suddenly the most interesting things in the world.
“I don’t know this man,” she said.
I ignored the obvious lie and produced a photograph and showed it to her. “Ernie Fisher,” I said, “but it’s possible you know him by another name.”
Her eyes flashed with indignation when she looked up. Her gaze softened as it shifted from me to the photograph.
“I’ve never seen this man before,” she lied. “Who are you people?”
“Would it make a difference if you knew he was dead?” I asked.
Agafiya looked as though she’d been slapped in the face. “You lie,” she said.
Dinara produced her phone and showed the stunned Russian madam a news article based on the Otkrov blog piece. It featured a photo of Ernie Fisher and gave an account of his death.
“Why would someone do this?” Agafiya said at last. “Ernst was a nice man.”
“So you did know him,” I remarked.
She nodded, and tears formed in her eyes. “He was an old friend. He told me never to say I knew him or that he was here.”
“Where did you meet?” I asked.
“Many years ago. I worked in a bar. He was a customer,” Agafiya said. “Long time ago.”
“How long?”
“Maybe thirty years?” she said.
“In Russia?” I asked.
“Of course,” Agafiya replied. “I’ve never been to another country.”
I was surprised. There was nothing in Fisher’s history to suggest he had any contact with Russia prior to his chief-of-staff posting.
“Did he have a room here?” I pressed. “A private space?”
Agafiya shifted uncomfortably.
“He’s dead,” I said. “Your silence doesn’t protect him anymore. It just protects the people who killed him.”
Agafiya eyed me uncertainly.
“If you help us, we might be able to find the man who murdered Mr. Fisher,” I assured her.
She nodded. “Downstairs. But there’s nothing there.”