Detective Carson Ryder Thriller Series Books 4-6: Blood Brother, In the Blood, Little Girls Lost. J. Kerley A.
Pelham problem. Another damned doll just showed up.”
“How many does that make?”
“Four.”
“How many in a set?”
“It’s all over the board. Some have a dozen. Five or six is typical.”
I thought a moment. “Can you take someone along who knows the things? Got any Russian cops in the precinct?”
Waltz frowned. “Not at the station. Wait, there’s a guy fills the pop and candy machines, Alex something or other. I can probably get hold of him.”
I accompanied Waltz to Pelham’s headquarters, knowing her nibs would be happy to hear a friendly accent. Especially given the phalanx of screaming anti-Pelhammers across the street from her HQ. Waltz figured the two of us could handle the doll gig, get back to our little problem with my brother.
Sarah Wensley was in her usual position in front of the table with the brown box, the doll nestled inside, face up. I’d seen the first doll, but not the two recent additions. They had gotten smaller and the doll I was looking at was four inches tall.
Waltz peered into the box. “It’s from the same series or whatever as the other. Mouth’s gone.”
Pelham wandered into the room, waving at a departing news crew.
“I’m thinking when we get to the last doll, it’ll have one of those party snakes in it, y’know. The ones on a spring?”
Wensley shivered. “I’m not opening it.”
Waltz had his gloves on. Shook the doll. “Sounds empty, like the others.”
One of Pelham’s Secret Service handlers pushed through the door, looked at Waltz.
“There’s a guy out front says he’s a consultant to the NYPD. He’s a bit odd.”
“Fat? Got a thick Slav accent?” Shelly asked.
The agent nodded. “And pockets full of candy bars.”
“Send him back.”
Alex Borskov entered the room like a liberator, handing out chocolate bars. I figured he was real popular with kids. Pelham smiled, took a Snickers. When his pockets were empty, Borskov grinned.
“Am understanding I am come here to consultate?”
Waltz said, “These people have been receiving some dolls, Mr Borskov. They’ve gotten four, starting with one six inches tall, now they’re down to this …”
Borskov eyed the doll, his face breaking into a wide grin.
“I KNOW THEM WELL! Every Russian know them well. They are matryoshka dolls.”
I tried the name. “Matra-matree …”
“Matryoshka! The word comes from the name Matryona.”
“Does that mean something special?” Waltz asked.
Borskov pumped his hands over his chest to indicate large breasts. “Matryona is by tradition a buxom, earthy peasant woman – the mother.”
“The dolls are especially symbolic of mothers?” I asked.
“Many kinds of nesting dolls. Hundreds. Matryoshka is only one for symbol of perfect mother-woman. Strong lady, Matryona. Very powerful.”
“They’re more than funny dolls,” I said to Waltz. “They’re matriarchal symbols. Womanhood symbols. And who’s the most powerful woman in the country right now?”
We both looked at Pelham.
Waltz dispatched the doll to Forensics for more useless testing, then pulled me into the men’s room, locked the door.
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