“Well, that’s it,” said Rostov. “Trail’s cold.”

“Not so fast,” replied Sokolov. “There’s one witness we haven’t interviewed.”

“What witness?” Rostov cast his arms wide as his words echoed off the abandoned and run-down buildings around him. “Not even a rat to interrogate!”

“True enough,” said Sokolov. “But if these walls could talk…”

He ignored Rostov’s puzzled look and dipped once more into his rucksack of tricks. This time, he produced a small palette studded with oil paint pots and a brush. Walking to a boarded-up shack nearby, he began to paint.

“What is this, finger-painting time in art class?”

“No. Interrogation!”

Sokolov didn’t look up until he’d finished; he’d painted over the boarded windows with eerily lifelike eyes, and the door with a mouth of the same consistency.

A moment later, the shack sprang to life with an audible yawn like a settling old house.

“Good morning, friend,” said Sokolov.

“And good morning to you, stranger,” the shack said, its voice tinder-dry old shingles and rusting hinges. For his part. Rostov’s mouth was a gaping, broken window.

“Tell me, friend,” continued Sokolov. “Did you see a suspicious-looking fellow come through here about a day ago?”

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