Chapter 4: Entanglement

"The People request remand, Your Honor. The suspect is fluent in at least three languages; we believe she may pose a flight risk," Casey Novak argued before Judge Petrovsky.

"Your Honor, I am not a flight risk," Serim countered. "I have limited funds, my only living relatives are in the area, and most importantly I have a deep respect for American laws and justice. Let's not forget that I villingly turned myself in to the police. I'm not going anywhere."

The SVU squad room was as busy as usual: Olivia was taking the statement of a seventeen-year-old victim of date rape, Fin was on the phone with one of his old friends from Narcotics, Elliot and Munch were filling out paperwork.

Casey came in to talk to Cragen. "The search warrant for the Bailey case," she said, handing over the document.

"Thanks. How did it go with the Petrov case today?"

"Araizhanova got out on bail. You should've heard her talk about her respect for law, justice, and the American Way in the courtroom. For someone who beat and castrated her ex to death..."

"Allegedly beat and castrated her ex to death," Munch corrected. "She really asked for bail?"

"Of course. Why shouldn't she? She might as well enjoy her last few weeks of freedom before the jury puts her away for the rest of her life."

"We still don't know she's guilty."

"Munch, do you really buy her crap about being framed?"

"I don't buy the crap that a sexagenarian walked across town in the middle of the night with a copper pipe and beat a younger man to death without an obvious motive."

Cragen reminded him, "Nothing suggests another suspect, and no one else seems to have as much motive as the ex wife."

"Isn't it possible," Munch argued, "that someone from Araizhanova's past killed Petrov in order to get to her?"

"Then they're pretty good at hiding it. No one saw anyone else leave his apartment that night."

"But no one got a good look at the woman's face; it could be someone dressed as Araizhanova. Doesn't it bother you that we never found a trace of his blood on any of her clothes?"

"Not like clothes are hard to dump," Fin commented.

"If she were smart enough to dump her clothes, why did she leave the murder weapon?"

"She was probably in a panic when she dumped the murder weapon," Olivia suggested. "Later, she would have been thinking more clearly, and realized she needed to hide the evidence."

"Consider," Munch continued, "no blood found in the victim's bathroom, no blood found in the suspect's bathroom. Where, in the middle of the night, did she go to wash the blood off?"

"You consider," Elliot countered, "the suspect's fingerprints found at the scene, her argument with the victim earlier that day, a witness seeing her out the window after the attack."

"The witness saw a woman from the back in the middle of the night. We don't know that was Araizhanova. We don't even know for sure if that was the killer." He added, "Plus, she's over sixty years old. You think she was strong enough to beat someone to death with a pipe?"

"You could," Fin stated.

"Not without a mark to show for it. The victim had defensive bruises on his arms; he fought back. Why didn't Serim have a mark on her when she came in?"

Cragen spoke up. "Munch has a good point. Remember that in America the suspect's innocent until proven guilty. Munch, in my office."

Once behind closed doors, Cragen turned to face him with a frown. "You know we never go for an easy close, but the truth is, the evidence does implicate this woman, and we have other cases that need our attention."

Munch shook his head, more in confusion than negation. "My gut tells me that she didn't do it."

Cragen paused. "Are you sure it's your gut?"

"What are you implying?"

He sighed. "You're getting too involved in this case. I wouldn't expect that from you, at least not over a case like this. What do you see in this woman?"

"Innocence," he replied.

Munch once again looked around at the crime scene. He examined the chalk outline of the victim on the floor. "Okay," he spoke aloud to himself as he began to jot his thoughts down in a notebook. "Things that still don't make sense: number one, motive." He began pacing, looking over the apartment. His eyes fell on the door. He walked over to it. "Number two, the chain on the door isn't broken. No forced entry, but earlier that day he didn't let Serim in." He walked back to the body, contemplating the bloodspots on the floor. He pictured how the murder might have happened in his mind. Petrov let someone in; she begins clubbing him with a pipe. "Number three," he said, "why did he let her inside his house with a large pipe?" He opened the door and looked at the hall. "She must have left the pipe in the hall, at some point stepped out and picked it up...Someone he knew," he said to himself. "Maybe a girlfriend. At least he thought she was. She was younger than him. Stronger. She held the pipe higher up than Serim would have, giving her swings less force, but more accuracy. She would already be wearing a wig, leaving behind no stray hairs. Was it personal? I don't think so. But she would have wanted to make it look like it. A professional killer.

"She wouldn't have been carrying a purse. The witness saw her in an overcoat. She probably didn't take it off when she did the beating. She had the knife in a pocket. Her gloves would have been leather; something with a good grip. There would have been blood on the gloves, but there was no blood on the door handle. The first responders found the door open; she must have left the door slightly open during the attack. It would have made the attack easier to hear, but she was willing to take that risk."

Munch went through the bathroom medicine cabinet again, then searched the victim's bedroom. He finally found what he was looking for stuffed between the bed and the wall: an unopened box of condoms.

"He knew she was coming," he said. "She worked up to this. She hunted him, seduced him, then killed him. Sounds like a couple of my exes."

He looked around again. He felt like he'd been over every inch of the apartment. "If she was a hired gun, she would have been careful. No one in the building saw anyone besides Serim visit the victim. No one at work knew he had a girlfriend. That doesn't make sense; this is the kind of guy who would have bragged to everyone about seeing a younger woman. Or any woman."

His frown deepened as he tried to remember back to the night of the murder. The man's wallet had been on the coffee table, but nothing had been taken from it. "He was planning on paying her: a prostitute. That explains why he didn't tell his coworkers about her. But a prostitute would have taken the wallet and wouldn't have tried to frame his ex wife. Once again, I'm forced to return to the conclusion of a professional assassin. The modus operandi was probably special-ordered by whoever hired her. Only Serim might know who that person is. If only I could get her to talk..."

Munch took a cab from the crime scene to Serim's apartment. He intended to interrogate her again, informally.

She was home. "Detective. What a surprise. Perhaps I should report you for harassment?"

"You can do that later. Right now, I'd like to talk to you about the case."

"I really don't think there's any more I can tell you."

"Maybe not," he said. "I heard you like eating out. I know a good Japanese restaurant not far from here. Do you like sushi?"

"Is this ethical?" she asked skeptically.

"Do you want a free dinner or not?"

"There's an American saying about there being no free lunches."

"Notice I'm not taking you to lunch."

"I don't think the lunch part vwas the point."

Munch sighed. "I understand you don't trust me, Ms. Araizhanova, but unless we get evidence that you're innocent, you're going to jail."

She stared at him, trying to discern his agenda. "I really didn't kill him," she stated.

"Then what are you afraid of?"

Without looking convinced, she got her coat and followed him out into the overcast evening. Grumbles of distant thunder echoed in the dark blue clouds that dimly reflected the city lights. Whether it would rain or not was anyone's guess.

Munch and Serim got in a cab that took them to a moderately classy place called Hitomaro's.

"You're usual table, Mr. Munch?" asked the young maitre d'.

"Yes please."

As they were led to the small table in quiet corner near the back, Serim whispered, "No offense, but I didn't take you as a sushi person."

"I'm full of surprises. But I really come here for the sake. Best sake in town; you have to try some."

She gave him a strange look. "Thank you, Detective. It's good to know some people don't just assume I like vodka because I'm Russian." The look might have been some sort of gratitude.

Munch smiled. The great sake—specifically the hope that it would make the suspect more communicative—was the reason he'd chosen this restaurant. Alcohol: the original truth serum.

As they ate their sushi and drank their sake, Munch asked her questions about her two grandchildren, trying to gain her trust and make her more talkative.

"You know, I love my children very much, but sometimes I think people only have children to get to grandchildren. There's nothing better than having bright, charming, full of energy children that someone else takes care of."

"I wouldn't know."

"You don't have any children, Detective?"

"No, I don't. And you can call me John."

"I can call you John, but it's a free country and I choose to call you Detective."

"You're an interesting woman."

She rested her elbows on the table and folded her hands beneath her chin. "Da."

"I've known other Russians who say 'da' even though it's one of the first words they learn in English. Does it give you some kind of sense of solidarity with your old country to say 'yes' in you're native language?"

"I'm not saying 'yes,' I'm saying your English word, 'da.' As in 'You are stupid, da.'" She smiled at him.

He laughed and pretended to drink some sake. She did the same.

"This is very good," she commented.

"Thanks. I made it myself."

She rolled her eyes and expertly lifted another sushi roll to her lips with her chopsticks.

"One thing still doesn't make sense," he said casually, "If you're afraid your children could be in danger from whoever killed your ex, why did you ask for bail?"

She stiffened. "I know what you're trying to do, Detective: get me to let my guard down and tell you something incriminating. It won't work."

"That's not what I'm trying to do," he said honestly. "But if I'm going to find out the truth about your ex's murder, I need to know who would want to hurt you bad enough to kill him."

"How can you be so sure I was the target?"

"A hunch. I also believe you suspect who's behind it."

She leaned in intimately and whispered, "I still don't trust you." She stood up. "Thank you for dinner, Detective. Perhaps I can repay it sometime."

"Wait." He grabbed her arm to keep her from walking away. "I'll take you home."

She didn't try to pull away. "I'm a big girl now; I can get there on my own," she said pleasantly.

He wasn't sure what to say, or why it meant so much to him to get to the truth. "For how much this interrogation is costing me, I think I have at least an hour left."

Serim waited as he paid the bill. They walked out into a cold and greasy night rain. Munch stepped to the curb to hail a cab, but the cab drove by without slowing, splashing him with water from the gutter. Serim laughed.

"What's so funny?" he asked, irritated.

"I think that should be quite obvious," she said, still smiling.

The next cab pulled over. They both climbed in, shivering and dripping wet. "I should have thought of an umbrella," Serim complained.

They didn't talk for a few minutes after Serim gave the cabbie their destination.

"This is the quietest interrogation I've ever endured," she said. "Except for this once in 1980…which I'd rather not talk about."

"I'm hoping the pressure will get to you and you'll confess."

"You think just being in the same car with you is torture?"

"A couple of my ex wives seemed to think so."

"How many wives have you had?"

"Too many."

"I learned my lesson after just one. Marriage is not a mistake I'll be making again. Are you married now?"

"Not even close."

The cab stopped at her building. When Munch followed her out of the car, she gave him an impatient look. "Are you stalking me now?"

"I've still got a half hour left in my interrogation. Just think of it as a suspect protection program."

"That's a euphemism for oppression if I've ever heard one. And I've heard a lot."

They reached her door. She looked down at Munch's muddy clothes. "You should come in and get yourself cleaned up."

Munch went into her kitchen, grabbed a handful of paper towels, and wiped off as much of the mud as he could. When he went back to the living room, he didn't immediately see Serim. After a moment, he heard water running in the bathroom. The door was ajar. He took a few steps closer until he could see her reflection in the mirror. She was brushing her teeth.

"The truth is, I'm worried about you, Serim," he called. "Whoever framed you, I think they might try something else while you're out."

She spat the toothpaste into the sink. "Or are you worried that I'll try something else while I'm out?"

"You still don't believe that I think you're innocent?"

"I probably vwouldn't if I were in your place," she admitted. "I'm going to take a shower. If you want another look around my house for evidence, go ahead. That's what you're really here for, isn't it?" She closed the door without giving him a chance to answer.

He sighed. For someone who'd turned herself in to the police, she was very distrustful. Probably the result of living most of her life in the USSR. Knowing fully that he wouldn't find anything, he began half-heartedly looking around the apartment. He flipped through the pages of her books, opened the drawers in the kitchen, lifted up the cushions of her sofa.

"If you find my remote controller, let me know."

He looked up at Serim, who stood in the bathroom doorway wearing a light green bathrobe, her wet hair shining silver and black.

"The last time I lost my remote, I tried to get the CIA to find it for me by calling in an anonymous tip that Bin Laden was hiding in my couch cushions. They still haven't shown up to look."

"Vwas that supposed to be a joke?"

"My coworkers don't always appreciate my wry sense of humor, either."

Serim walked over and sat down beside him. "It's very late," she noted. "I don't know much about American rules, but I think it vwould not be very good for you if your boss knew you were at a suspect's house this time of night."

"Not at all."

"I guess it's a good thing neither of us finds the other attractive, da?"

He suddenly became aware of how close her lips were to his. She wasn't the kind of woman he would consider his type; she was older than he usually found attractive, but she was definitely his intellectual equal, and he couldn't deny that her closeness was causing his body to respond.

"A very good thing," he said.

Their lips touched. He closed his eyes. He knew he shouldn't be doing this, and he told himself to stop, but his body wouldn't obey his mind. He didn't move for what felt like a long time, but when she pulled away he decided the kiss only lasted a few seconds.

"If you're so worried about me, stay and guard me. I'll even leave my bedroom door open."

She went to bed, and he remained sitting on the sofa, paralyzed with indecision. He knew he should leave, but he wanted to stay. The thought of returning to the loneliness of his apartment was unbearable. If anyone knew he'd spent the night at her apartment, they would assume he slept with her, so what did it matter whether he slept with her or not?

Finally, at about four in the morning, he fell asleep, and awoke an hour later from Serim's alarm clock. They didn't say anything to each other until Serim was walking out the door. "I'm going to work. Lock the door when you leave."

He left a few minutes later, going back to his own apartment to get ready for his shift. He had to drink four cups of coffee before he could think straight, and decided it would be a bad day.