Kitabı oku: «The Stylist», sayfa 3

There, she had done everything she could to make him invite her to visit. She needed this house and its owner, and if she had to lie to be able to come here, she would lie. Pretend. Act as if she were in love. Once upon a time she had been hurt, so hurt that she thought she would not survive it. But that was over ten years ago, and in her heart there was no need for revenge, in her heart there was nothing for this man. Empty. As if nothing had ever happened. But if for her work she had to cause him pain, she would do it without a second’s thought. It could not possibly hurt any more than the pain she had experienced. And even that, as she learned from bitter experience, can be survived. And so Solovyov would survive if he had to suffer a few unpleasant minutes when his eyes opened to the real feelings and motives of the woman to whom he was attracted.

Solovyov took her by the hand and pulled her toward him. Nastya jumped down from the low window sill and sat on his lap. He gave her a long, tender and very expert kiss, every now and then pulling away from her lips and moving his lips along her long neck. One hand was behind her back, the other caressed her breast under the loose sweater. Nastya paid attention to her reactions. She didn’t feel a thing. God, twelve years ago she would have died from caresses and kisses like this. But now – nothing. It was not unpleasant, she did not want to tear away in a grimace of disgust, as she would have if it had been a stranger. But there was no delight as in days of old, either.

She pulled away carefully from his arms and went back to the window sill.

“I didn’t hear an answer, Solovyov. I still don’t know whether you want me to come back.”

“You don’t want to.”

He looked at her closely and tenderly with his incredibly warm eyes.

“Don’t kid yourself, Nastya. You don’t need me. I’m a cripple and you’re a young healthy woman with normal needs that I can’t satisfy. You don’t feel a thing when I embrace you. So what is this all about?”

“I told you that you haven’t grown up. Sex is still the most important thing for you. You were a stud and you still are.” She smiled and patted his hand. “And you haven’t understood. I’m going back to my honored husband, and you take some time to think about what I said. I’ll come back tomorrow, and we’ll talk. I hope your business associates won’t be in the way tomorrow. That’s all, Solovyov, I’m off. Don’t sec me out, I’ll leave quietly, so that I don’t have to say good-bye to your sharks of capitalism. Is there only one door out of here – to the living room?”

“No, that door leads to the hallway.”

“Until tomorrow, dear,” she said mockingly, at the door.

He nodded without taking his wary eyes from her.

Nastya slipped quietly into the hallway. The door to the living room was open, and the voices carried clearly. Nastya took a few steps in the other direction and peeked into the kitchen. Andrei was having a peaceful talk there with the long-mustached Zhenya Yakimov. That meant that only the publishers were in the living room.

She got her jacket carefully from the closet, trying not to make any noise, and listened to their conversation.

“The Gazelle is what you need for that business,” Avtayev the commercial director was saying. “We won’t be able to manage otherwise.”

“That’s too complicated,” Voronets replied uncertainly. “So much effort, and what if it’s in vain?”

“There’s nothing to discuss,” Esipov cut him off. “There it is, and it has to be done. At whatever cost.”

Easy to tell who’s the boss, thought Nastya, deftly unlocking the front door.

* * *

Alexei Chistyakov lay on the couch watching a mystery on TV. On the floor next to the couch was a tray with empty dishes and a cup with dregs of tea. Nastya could tell that her husband had been in front of the TV for a long time, since lunch.

“What’s the matter, Lyoshka?” she asked in concern “Are you sick?”

“Uh-uh.” He shook his head of red hair. “I’m on strike.”

“Why?”

“Those bastards at the college aren’t paying for my course. They said they would pay after exams. In other words, they want to see how I taught the course and what the students learned.”

“When are the exams?”

“May.”

“Great!” Nastya whistled. “We’ll be short again? That puts a damper on our anniversary trip.”

“Nice euphemism for coffin lid,” her husband commented.

They had gotten married last year on May 13. On the same day Nastya’s half-brother, her father’s son by a second marriage, got married too. Her brother was very happy, getting ready for a double wedding, and he made joking plans for joint celebrations of their first and all subsequent anniversaries. Alexander Kamensky insisted that all four of them go to Paris for the first anniversary, to Vienna for the second, and Rome for the third. Nastya paid no attention, knowing that she wouldn’t go anywhere on her brother’s money, and that they couldn’t afford such a trip on their own. Lyoshka could make a good salary if he accepted offers from universities abroad and signed contracts to work there. But he refused to move without Nastya, and Nastya refused to leave her job. And so they had to deal with holes in their budget almost every day.

“Are you going to have dinner?” Alexei asked, getting out from under the plaid blanket and feeling around with his feet for the slippers that always manage to escape.

“No thanks.”

“Where did you get fed? Didn’t you come straight from work?”

She no longer worried about whether she should lie or not when it came to her husband. The answer was always: don’t lie. First of all, Lyoshka had known her since she was fifteen, he knew her through and through, and he grew suspicious the moment she did anything out of character. Second, he was a truly gifted mathematician, a major scientist, and had a mind that was precise and unemotional, which made it very easy for him to see falsehood. And third, he knew what had happened between Nastya and Solovyov many years ago. He courageously hung on through it, but the suffering and fear he went through for a year and a half when it looked that he would lose the only woman he loved had left an ineradicable mark on his heart. With the slightest cause for suspicion, he became insanely jealous, everything inside him boiling and aching with the fear of losing the unpredictable, uncontrollable, and willful Anastasia, the only woman he needed in his life. Therefore Nastya knew that she could not give Lyoshka any cause for jealousy, because he would go crazy.

“I was at someone’s house.”

“During working hours?” He looked at her in surprise. Nastya didn’t do that. She never took care of personal things during work.

“It was for work. Lyoshka, I was at Solovyov’s.”

She didn’t need to ask if her husband remembered Vladimir Solovyov. She knew perfectly well that he did.

“Really?”

He tried to appear calm, and Nastya appreciated the effort.

“He lives where we are searching for criminals. I needed an excuse to be there. Moreover, I need an excuse to be there frequently until we clean up our case, and Solovyov is perfect for that. We had an affair which ended badly, but now he is a widower and it is quite natural for me to try to pick up where we left off. You do understand?”

“Yes, of course. It is completely natural. Shall I prepare for a divorce?”

“Lyoshka, shame on you!”

She sat down next to him on the couch, put her arms around his neck, and pressed her cheek on his shoulder.

“It’s work, Lyoshka. And nothing more. After so many years, Solovyov has no effect on me. I’m a big girl now. And I’m asking you – please, don’t worry about this. I could have hidden it from you, you know. You would have never learned. But I don’t see why I shouldn’t tell you. Solovyov means nothing to me now. Not a thing. The owner of a house where I must be regularly.”

Alexei said nothing, gently caressing his wife’s head.

“What about him? Does he know that your visits are just work?”

He went to the heart of it. Nastya snuggled closer. Try fooling someone like him. Of course, if Chistyakov hadn’t been so smart, she would not have married him.

“No, sweetheart, he doesn’t know.”

“So, he sees you as a former lover?”

“Lyoshka!”

“Nastya, we’ve known each other for twenty years, so let’s not kid each other and pick our words when we’re discussing important things. How did you explain your re-appearance to Solovyov?”

“Just as you think. I said that I wanted to make sure that I was over him. It was his birthday. I used that as an excuse to visit.”

“And, are you sure?”

“I am. Lyoshka, please, stop tormenting yourself. I knew that Solovyov was nothing to me a few years ago. I certainly didn’t need to go to his house for that. But I needed an excuse.”

“Aren’t you worried that now that he isn’t married, he might explode with passion for you?”

“No, I’m not. If he couldn’t love me then, he can’t love me now. The world knows that the existence or absence of spouses has nothing to do with it. And then, I haven’t told you this yet. He’s an invalid. A cripple. He’s in a wheelchair.”

“An accident?”

“I don’t know yet. He didn’t want to talk about it, and I didn’t push it. But I can find out without him, that’s no problem. Lyoshka, let’s forget it, what do you say? Don’t make a mountain out of a molehill. You asked me why I didn’t want dinner, and I told you that I had been at Solovyov’s. Fine, let’s move on. I could have told you I had been visiting somebody else, and you would have slept well. Don’t think about Solovyov. I love you, I married you, and I plan to go on living with you until we’re little old people. Let’s have some tea.”

She got up and pulled her husband by the arm. Looking at his disheveled hair, she involuntarily compared him with Solovyov. Yes, Volodya was handsomer. And Lyoshka’s eyes were never as warm and enchanting. His hazel eyes could be serious, sarcastic, mocking, openly ridiculing, or tenderly concerned. But Chistyakov didn’t have that male sexuality in his gaze that made your knees turn to jelly and your head spin. Maybe that’s why Nastya loved him, her red-haired mathematical genius. She couldn’t stand studs – men who were so sure that their sex appeal conquered all women, bending them to their will. Men who were certain that women were destined to have orgasms and bear children and that she had to obey the man who helped her or allowed her to fulfill her destiny.

* * *

The guests had left, but Solovyov was still in his study. He had sent away Andrei, saying that he would put himself to bed. Anastasia’s visit had disconcerted him. He was ashamed of what had happened between them, and it was always unpleasant remembering it. And since it was so unpleasant, he didn’t think about it.

He had never been a fighter, able to insist on what he thought was right and necessary. He always took the easy way, accepting circumstances rather than trying to change them to suit his desires and needs. Let things happen. Let things be. When he realized that the daughter of his advisor was madly in love with him, it was easier to let it happen, to have an unnecessary and burdensome affair with her, rather than take the trouble to gently move their relationship to friendship without hurting or wounding the young girl. He went with the flow, rather than against it.

Solovyov saw that she was suffering and he knew that he was the cause of her pain, first by letting her believe that he returned her love and then by not hiding the truth. But the consciousness of his guilt was a weight he preferred not to feel. Or remember. He managed to forget quite well.

Why was she here? To mock him? To enjoy the sight of his helplessness? But she no longer loved him, that was perfectly clear. However… who knew. Just because she didn’t get turned on from a single caress, didn’t mean anything. She was older. How old did she say? Almost thirty-six. She had grown cold and rational. Even a bit cynical, he thought. And very lovely. She was better-looking now than she had been twelve years ago. She was still colorless and not very striking, using no make-up, but Solovyov appreciated the purity of lines of her face and figure. Long slender legs, a thin waist, high breasts, luxuriant hair, long and thick, graceful hands, strong cheekbones, straight nose. Women like that are for connoisseurs. You don’t notice them, you could walk past them ten times and never see them, and only a sophisticated and discerning eye could appreciate their charms.

She was coming tomorrow. Did that make him happy or would he prefer that she not come again? Solovyov tried to understand his own feelings, but as usual, he did not have the persistence. It was so nice just going with the flow, let Anastasia come, let her love him again. It wouldn’t be a burden this time, for his status as an invalid freed Solovyov of any obligations toward women. He was lonely, and a woman in love with him would not be amiss. Especially since he lived so far away that she couldn’t come visit every day. Plus she was married. Well then,     he thought, it was all for the best.

Chapter 3

Nastya patiently waited for a moment when Solovyov would be out. It was two days after her last visit, and as soon as she saw Andrei take the wheelchair outside and go off on a walk with Vladimir, she rang the doorbell of cottage number 12. Children’s voices responded instantly, the door was flung open, and a girl of about eight, covered with paints, appeared at the door.

“Here to see us?” the child demanded.

“Yes, if you’ll let me in,” Nastya replied with a smile.

Zhenya Yakimov appeared behind the young artist.

“Is that you?” he said in amazement. “To see me?” “Actually, to see Solovyov, but he’s not in and I thought you might give me shelter until he returns.”

“They’re probably out for a walk,” the long-mustached neighbor volunteered.

Nastya realized that he was about to suggest she go find them, even give her directions, since such walks couldn’t be far-ranging.

“Probably,” she agreed. “But my foot is killing me. I wore new shoes, and they hurt. May I come in?”

“Of course, of course,” Zhenya said. “Come on in.”

This cottage was laid out in a completely different way. The kitchen was much larger and the rest of the first floor was taken up by a huge living room, where all three offspring were located – twelve-year-old Mitya, who didn’t resemble Zhenya in the least; the young art lover Lera; and a tiny creature with long reddish curls who upon closer examination turned out to be a boy named Fedya. Mitya was engrossed in a fascinating game with a computer opponent, while Lera, lying on the floor was trying to depict a Crocosaurus under the sensitive supervision of Fedya, serious beyond his years. This creature was the fruit of the boy’s boundless imagination, and he was explaining to his sister how it looked, using mimicry, gestures, and a wealth of noises from bellowing to squeaking. The computer was making a lot of noise, too, and Mitya played with a running commentary and exclamations. The living room was a bedlam. Zhenya introduced the children to Nastya and led her away to the kitchen, which thanks to its size and European design could easily function as a dining room.

“You don’t mind if I start cooking?” Yakimov asked shyly. “I have to feed the kids in an hour, and I haven’t even started.” They chatted peaceably about nothing, seemingly. What kind of people lived in the cottages? What did they do? Who did you have to be to be able to afford it? It wasn’t very convenient without municipal transport, of course, but everyone here had a car, and sometimes more than one. The Yakimovs, for example, had two, one for the wife, the other for Zhenya – you never knew what could happen during the day, say, if he had to take one of the children to the doctor or make a quick trip to the store.

Nastya smoothly switched the conversation to Neighborhood Watch, which was used widely in many countries to prevent crime.

“Yes,” Zhenya agreed, “in apartment houses that would hardly work, but in districts of individual houses there’s a point to it. You can see the neighbors’ houses well. And then, if you know the residents, a stranger stands out. Especially during the day when you know no one is home.”

Five minutes later he told her that he rarely saw strangers in Daydream Estates, at least in the daytime. He couldn’t say about the nights because it was dark and because even though they lived far from midtown Moscow, there were plenty of visitors, sometimes whole groups. No, he had never seen a stranger lurking with no apparent reason. Nastya explained her interest by saying she worked for an insurance company that planned to offer coverage to individual homes, including theft and robbery.

Suddenly Zhenya started listening warily. The sound coming from the living room had changed. There were no computer game noises anymore.

“Excuse me,” he muttered and quickly left the kitchen.

He was back soon enough, but the reproach had not left his mobile features.

“Is something wrong?” Nastya inquired.

“Nothing special. Mitya was playing computer chess again.”

“And that upset you? Is that bad?” she asked in surprise.

“It’s too early for him to play chess,” Yakimov announced firmly. “He must play games that develop and instruct, building his attention span, reflexes, and small motor movements and coordination.”

Nastya was going to point out that if the boy played computer chess, that was proof that he was developed and instructed, but she held her tongue. After all, it was no business of hers. He was the father and he knew how to bring up his child. She should stay out of it with her views on intellectual development.

“Zhenya, what was your profession?” she asked.

“Engineer. I graduated from the Construction Engineering Institute.”

“And what do you plan for your children?”

“Whatever they want,” he replied, somehow reluctantly. “They haven’t demonstrated any special talents. You know, the apples don’t fall far from the oak.”

“What did you say?” She laughed. “I never heard that expression. Is that a proverb?”

He smiled, as he went on mixing the meatloaf ingredients.

“At college we used to transform traditional sayings and proverbs. We even had competitions. For instance, ‘Don’t spit in the well, it won’t learn new tricks.’”

“Cute. Any others?”

“Wednesday’s child fell on its face.”

It took Nastya a second to remember the verse: “Wednesday’s child is full of grace.”

“I like it!”

She could see Andrei pushing the wheelchair with Vladimir on the other side of the road. Yakimov had his back to the window, and didn’t see them, so if she needed to, she could pretend not to have noticed and go on asking the father of the three sweet children about the residents of the cottages. But Nastya decided not to push it. All in good time.

“There they are,” she said, getting up. “Thanks for taking me in, Zhenya.”

* * *

She could not tell whether or not Solovyov was pleased by her arrival. But it was quite clear that his assistant Andrei definitely did not like it. Naturally, the young man did not say or do anything hostile, but Nastya could feel his displeasure the way young brides feel the dislike of even very polite and friendly mothers-in-law.

After the first visit to her former lover, Nastya tried to learn what disaster had befallen him, but she could not find out in two days. It was not the result of criminal violence: all information on murders and serious bodily harm in the Moscow region ended up on her desk and from there into various reports, tables, files, and eventually her home computer. She would not have missed the name Solovyov, even if she had wanted to. Her memory was always good, and she would certainly remember Volodya Solovyov as long as she lived. He had left too painful a mark to forget. Well then, his legs must have lost their mobility as the result of some illness. Could the illness be related to the death of his wife, Svetlana? What did she die of? As far as Nastya knew, Vladimir and his wife were the same age, and therefore, she had died quite young, still in her thirties.

“You promised to come on Saturday,” Solovyov noted. “Have you become irresponsible?”

“I warned you that I had changed. I guess in some ways, for the worse. Did you wait for me?”

“I did.”

He smiled so warmly and tenderly that for a second she forgot all about everything else.

“Your boy doesn’t seem to share your feelings,” she said evasively. “Do you think he’s jealous?”

“What does he have to be jealous about?” Solovyov said in amazement. “He’s not a son who gets upset when his widowed father brings home a new woman.”

“He’s not a son,” Nastya thought. “But he could be homosexual. Just as you could be, my once passionately beloved Solovyov.” But out loud she said something completely different.

“You know, when a man does woman’s work, he develops a woman’s psychology. Your Andrei feels like the lady of the house, he cooks and cleans and takes care of you, and suddenly some female shows up. She tracks in dirt, keeps you from your work, and he has to serve her coffee, yet.”

“Don’t be silly,” Solovyov shrugged off the idea. “Why don’t you tell me about yourself instead. How have you lived all these years, what have you been doing.”

“That’s not interesting. I had a boring life, did the same old things, and in breaks moonlighted as a translator. How about you?”

“I…” He laughed strangely. “I led a frustrated life.”

“What do you mean?”

“My life could have been completely different, but as a result became what it is.”

“As a result of what?”

“Various events. I planned to move abroad twice, and twice I couldn’t do it. There’s a bad sign hanging over me. As a result I became an invalid and now I most certainly will never leave Moscow, much less Russia.”

“And how did it happen? Did something stop you?” “Something?” he repeated sarcastically. “Fate. Fate stopped me. I wanted to get a divorce, marry another woman, and leave with her. Just then Svetlana died, and I could not leave my son here alone. The woman left as she had planned, and I remained.”

“And the second time?”

“The second… My legs let me down. Where could I go in this condition?”

Nastya saw that he did not want to get into detail. All right, she could find out what she needed without him. But it was strange that he didn’t want to share with her. As far as she knew Solovyov, he had always enjoyed whining and complaining, telling how miserable he was in great detail and how he had been hurt. He had always needed sympathy. Of course, that was twelve years ago. He was different now. As was she.

“What did you tell your husband when you came here?” Solovyov abruptly changed the subject.

“Some lie. It doesn’t matter. He knows that I’m busy for days at a time with work and he docs not try to control my time.”

“You mean he’s not the jealous type?”

“Absolutely not,” Nastya lied without blinking an eye.

Poor Lyoshka! He was going crazy with jealousy, despite all her assurances and explanations. She was being forced to make him suffer so that she could solve the mystery of the missing teenagers. Was the answer worth his pain? Was there anything at all in the world worth hurting the person she loved most? Of course, Lyoshka would never say another word to her about it, and he would be angry and upset in silence. But did that make it any easier?

Nastya spent almost two hours with Solovyov. They talked, dined, reminisced about old friends, studiously avoiding topics that touched on their old relationship and possible relations today. Nastya noticed the assistant’s wary looks, but tried to pay no attention. They parted amicably.

She got home late and rushed to call her mother.

“Mama, do you remember your graduate student Volodya Solovyov?”

Nadezhda’s voice grew cold and tense. She knew all about their affair.

“I remember. But not as well as you do,” she replied coolly.

“All right, all right, mother,” Nastya said with a laugh. “It’s not my fault that I have such a good memory, I don’t forget anything.”

“In what connection has he come up?” her mother persisted.

“I ran into him in connection with work. It turns out his wife recently died and he is an invalid now, unable to walk. Have you heard anything about it?”

“No.”

“Could you find out? He’s in your field, a linguist. Surely one of your colleagues must know the story. ”

“Why don’t you ask him yourself?”

“I tried, but he’s avoiding an answer. I don’t want to push him. Come on, Mother.”

“All right,” Nadezhda said. “I’ll try to find out. Has he been up to something?”

“No, not at all! What could Solovyov be up to? Before taking a step, he thinks for a century or so, and then doesn’t do anything. It’s just that I need the details so that I act accordingly. Otherwise I might say something that will upset him, and we won’t make contact.”

“Strange that you need additional terms for contact with him,” her mother noted dryly. “It seems to me you used to have excellent contact.”

“Mama!”

“All right, all right, don’t be mad. I’ll do what I can. Does Alexei know?”

“Of course.”

“God, what a child I brought into this world!” Her mother sighed. “You never had any tact. Why are you tormenting him?”

“I’m working, Mother. I’m not enjoying myself with a former lover,” Nastya said wearily.

She loved her mother. But in recent years, Nadezhda had stopped understanding her completely. Especially after the several years abroad. Nastya felt much more comfortable with her stepfather, who had been on the force all his life and understood her problems right off the bat.

* * *

Her mother called her at work late the next evening, just as Nastya was getting ready to leave.

“Do you know, it’s a horrible story,” Nadezhda announced in agitation. “It turns out, Volodya’s wife went to a resort and vanished. They searched for almost a month and then found her body in the woods. Some creep wanted her camera. To be killed over some stupid camera! I can’t accept that.”

“Where did it happen?”

“I don’t know, somewhere in Central Russia. On the Volga, that’s for sure.”

“What happened to his legs?”

“That’s not clear. No one knows what’s ailing him. He hasn’t told anyone. One man said that Volodya had been beaten viciously.”

“Who’s the man?”

“You don’t know him.”

“That means I’ll get to know him,” Nastya insisted. “Who is he?”

“Malyshev. Artur Malyshev. He’s a docent at the Institute of Foreign Languages. Arc you going to get in touch with him?” “Absolutely.”

“Why?”

“Because. It has to be done, Mother. If he was beaten, I want to know why the police have no record of it. And if he wasn’t, I need to know why your Malyshev thinks he was.” “What difference does it make why he thinks so if it’s not true?”

“A big difference,” Nastya explained patiently. “Even the wildest rumor starts somewhere. Someone made it up for some reason and told it to someone else. Even if there is no truth in it, somebody’s idea was behind it. And if there is some truth, then it is always necessary to find out just what truth it is.” “Well I hope that there won’t be any problems for Malyshev if it turns out that the mugging was just a lie,” her mother asked in concern.

“Relax, nothing will happen to him, to your precious Malyshev. Unless of course, he made it up himself. Are you going to give me his phone number or do I have to find it?’

Nadezhda sighed and dictated the address and telephone number. After she hung up, Nastya began getting ready to leave and was putting on her jacket when Yura Korotkov rushed into her office.

“Nastya, I think we’ve got a lead!” he burst out. “Oh, man, I’m exhausted, I’ve been running around all day. Make some coffee, be a pal.”

He plopped down on a chair and stretched out his legs blissfully. Nastya hung her jacket back in the closet and turned on the teapot. That meant her trip home was put off by at least an hour.

“Let me tell you,” Korotkov began triumphantly. “A week ago someone wiped out a video kiosk. Lots of fingerprints, but no match. The thief is new to us. The kiosk owner went through the inventory and said that what was stolen came from various sections. The tapes were selected. He made a list of the stolen tapes, but the principle of selection is not clear. Not all mysteries, or thrillers, or adventure, or science fiction, or erotica. A little bit of everything. Fourteen in all. And there was a clever cop on the team who said that naturally there wasn’t enough time to watch all fourteen films to find out what they had in common, but it was possible to look through the opening credits. They found a smart computer that can print stills from video, they looked and found that there was one actor in all the films. Not a star, of course, a bit player, unknown, and he’s on screen only five or seven minutes in each film. But his looks!” “You’re kidding,” Nastya said softly. “Docs he really look like them?”

“Peas in a pod,” Korotkov said, sipping the steaming coffee. “I compared it to the photographs of the dead boys. He and Oleg Butenko have the same face.”

Oleg Butenko was the first of the missing boys. September 1995. Found dead in December. That meant it was a homosexual maniac. Nothing worse than a serial killer. Catching serial killers is hard, relentless work. There’s usually nothing to connect the maniac with the victims, often they did not know each other and there was no personal motive. How do you catch them? How do you prove it, if he doesn’t confess?

Of course, there were a few things in this case. First of all, the prints that the perpetrator left at the scene of the videotape theft. Second, he had to have a place where he kept the wretched boys until they died. And third, the thin, wavering track leading to the Daydream Estates.

Jostling in the empty metro car, Nastya mentally drew a chart of next steps. First: clear up the question of the kiosk’s security. Why was it so vulnerable that night? Did none of the kiosks there have an alarm system or just that one? Who could have known that the kiosk would be unprotected that night?

Second: why was that particular kiosk robbed? Not another in another part of town on another street? Because no one was guarding it or because the thief lived nearby?