THIRTY

Adele and I spent a good part of Saturday on a little tour. I took her first to Aslan’s place on North Third Street in Williamsburg, then out to the apartment building in Astoria, finally to Riverside Drive and the Portolas’ townhouse. Margaret and David made an appearance shortly after we settled down in the park. She and her son stood in front of the house for a several minutes, their conversation entirely one-sided. Margaret’s lips moved in rapid bursts. David endured the barrage. He stared off into the distance, a small act of defiance, perhaps, but he didn’t move until she was done. Then, like a dog let off the leash, he dashed across Riverside Drive and headed south. Margaret watched him for a moment before stepping into the street to hail a cab.

Adele watched it all, her attention locked on the encounter. When she finally turned back to me, her eyes were sparkling. The case had grabbed her. She was fully engaged.

Ronald came out a short time later. He posed in front of the building for a few seconds, looking up and down the block as though in search of an audience. His eyes were lidded, his movements slow, almost dreamy, and it was obvious, to both of us, that he was stoned.

‘He’s the one,’ Adele said.

‘You think so?’

‘Yes, I do. But he’s soft, Corbin. We have to remember that. Soft people don’t break, they bend. If we put too much pressure on Ronald, he’s likely to withdraw.’

We returned to the apartment a short time later. Adele went off to give her weapon a quick cleaning, while I phoned Sister Kassia to make sure things were proceeding smoothly on her end. She assured me that she’d meet her obligations, though the tension in her voice was obvious. Taking a civilian into an inherently dangerous situation is a big-time no-no, but it couldn’t be avoided. I’d used Sister Kassia to gain Tynia’s confidence, used her well. Now I was stuck with her.

But the job could only hang me once. Taking a DA’s investigator (currently on a leave of absence) into a potentially life-threatening encounter isn’t encouraged either. If things went wrong . . . Well, if things went wrong, I’d just have to blackmail Inspector Sarney into protecting me. All that bullshit about denying any knowledge of Harry Corbin’s activities? Harry knew where the bodies were buried and he didn’t intend to become one of them. After a light supper at seven o’clock, Adele and I headed into the bedroom to dress. I saw Adele glance into the office as she passed the open door, then stop suddenly.

‘What’s that for?’

I followed her eyes to the snap gun lying next to my computer. ‘That’s a snap gun.’

‘I know what it is. I want to know what you plan to do with it.’

‘Simple. If I confront Aslan in a public place, there’s a good chance that civilians will be endangered, if not injured or killed. I’m hoping the snap gun will get me into his apartment.’

Adele folded her arms across her chest, her expression bordering on grim. ‘Simple? Corbin, we’ve been together too long. I know simple isn’t part of your game plan. There’s more to this than a threat to public safety.’

‘I want a few minutes alone with Aslan. A polite conversation that might include the odd damaging admission, or even a full disclosure of the facts.’ I winked. ‘And I also want to control the situation, which is why I plan to be waiting inside the apartment when he enters.’

I was hoping the last part would get me off the hook, but Adele continued to study me for a long moment before leading me into the bedroom. I watched her rummage in the closet, sliding hangers back and forth. Finally, she emerged bearing a pair of Grade III-A Kevlar vests. Thick and heavy, III-A body armor is designed to stop any handgun round and most rifle rounds, and to minimize the blunt force trauma associated with bullet impacts, even when there’s no penetration. Myself, I would have been content with something lighter, something less confining, but this decision was clearly out of my hands. I pulled the vest over my head, fastened the straps, stared at myself in the mirror. I’d acquired the vests long ago, while assigned to the Manhattan North SWAT Team. Now I felt like a posturing fool.

Adele and I arrived at Blessed Virgin to find Sister Kassia standing next to an elderly Latino. I introduced Adele before turning to the old man whose job was to drive the small yellow bus parked at the curb. I told him that under no circumstances was he to leave that bus.

‘I don’t care what happens, don’t be a hero. Stay in the bus.’

‘Hey, man, I’m just . . .’

‘Listen to me, the only thing I want you to say is yes.’

‘Si.’

The issue settled, I led the bus through south-eastern Queens. We took the scenic route, along surface streets lined with storefront businesses, Maurice Avenue, 69th Street, Broadway. It was raining just hard enough to loosen the oil and grit on the asphalt, to transform the roads into shiny black sheets that reflected the rainbow of neon to either side.

The districts we passed through were commercial and there were traffic lights on every block, with no apparent effort made to synchronize them. As often as not, the light ahead turned red just as the one in front of us turned green. Meanwhile, I wanted nothing more than to jam the gas pedal to the floor even though I knew the four-cylinder Nissan was more likely to stall than accelerate.

At Roosevelt Avenue, I was brought to a stop by a screaming fire engine double-timing beneath the elevated tracks that carry the 7 Train. Roosevelt Avenue was never designed for traffic. The el’s girders come down almost in the middle of the street, narrowing the road into a pair of lanes, and it’s always slow going. But the ladder truck’s driver seemed not to notice. He continued to run the siren full blast as he shifted into the left lane, effectively blocking oncoming traffic. When that traffic came to a screeching halt, everything stopped, including Harry Corbin. Hurry up and wait. The city demands activity. You can sense its frantic pace in the foul air you breathe as you hustle down the street. But at the same time it puts an endless series of obstacles in your way. The ladder truck, with its driving-challenged pilot, was just another example.

Or so Adele explained. ‘Get used to it, Corbin,’ she said. ‘You’re looking at your heritage.’

I nodded agreeably, but didn’t fail to note the gleam in her eye or the flush in her cheeks.

‘Feel good to be a cop again?’ I asked.

‘Yeah,’ she admitted, ‘it feels great.’

As Adele and I walked toward the brick apartment building on 38th Street, I pulled out the chain concealed beneath my shirt and let it fall against my chest. What with the shield dangling at the bottom of that chain, and the Kevlar body armor, my status must have been obvious to the superintendent, who opened the lobby door after I rang his bell. The super was a wizened man from the Middle East who might have hailed from any of a dozen countries. For just a moment, when I told him to return to his apartment, I thought he was going to become difficult. But then Adele flashed her billfold, revealing her Investigator’s shield, and said the magic word, ‘Immigration.’ Seconds later, we were alone.

Ignoring the elevator, we climbed the stairs to a featureless second floor hallway – cracked tile floor, brown walls, yellow ceiling, green doors. I paused for a moment to get my bearings, then followed the corridor to apartment 2B where Adele and I drew our weapons.

‘You ready?’ she asked.

‘Yeah.’

As I’d driven past the building in search of a parking space, I’d noted the closed window on the second floor. That meant there was somebody else in the apartment besides Zashka and the women, but that Tynia would open the door when I knocked. Though we’d have to go in hard, we’d have the advantage of surprise. Still, my heart was pounding away. And drawing my Glock didn’t slow it down, either.

I took a deep breath, glanced at Adele, then tapped on the door. It opened immediately and I stepped into a large room, shouting, ‘Police, police, police.’

Zashka Ochirov was sitting on a chair at the far end of the room, her mouth hanging open. Tynia was standing to my right, still holding the door as Adele made her entrance. To my left, two male Caucasians were perched on opposite ends of a couch. They seemed to levitate, eyebrows shooting up, hands rising as though yanked by a string.

‘Anybody else in the apartment I should know about?’ I asked Tynia.

‘No.’

‘Then get moving.’

Tynia disappeared into a rear bedroom and I focused my attention on the two men. Wary now, their eyes reflected a measure of calculation that required my immediate attention. I didn’t know them or what they might do. Better to take precautions early on.

‘Get on the floor.’

I grabbed the first man by the shoulder and yanked him off the couch. Tall, wiry, and much the younger of the pair, he was most likely to resist. When he did, reaching out to grab my arm, I slammed the Glock into the back of his head and he went down hard.

‘Now you,’ I told the older man. ‘Get on the floor.’

‘We have not done nothing,’ he said as he complied. ‘We are abiding the laws.’

I searched both men for weapons. They were clean. Then I pulled the cushions off the couch, discovering a manila envelope where the older man had been sitting. The envelope was stuffed with cash.

I wanted to kill them, right there, and I might have done it if Adele hadn’t laid a hand on my shoulder. Tynia had come into the room, along with the rest of the women and two children, an infant and a toddler. The toddler’s eyes were wide with fear. His hands were balled into fists and his jaw was quivering. Suddenly, he turned away from his mother and flew into Zashka’s arms. She stroked his head and kissed him.

‘Little Teddy,’ she said, speaking without an accent, ‘you have to be a brave boy now. You have to help your mother. She needs you.’

‘Why can’t you come, too?’

Zashka looked up at me, her dark eyes beseeching. I stared at her for a moment, then glanced at Tynia. Tynia nodded once. I couldn’t have asked for more.

‘Go.’

As Zashka came abreast of me, she stopped momentarily. ‘Aslan’s on his way over,’ she said. ‘He’s going to kill you if he gets the chance.’ Then she followed the other women out the door.

I watched from the window until the bus pulled away, feeling instantly lighter. If an unsuspecting Aslan walked through the door, now that I’d done what I’d come to do, it was odds-on that he wouldn’t walk out.

‘What were you going to buy with this money? A few slaves?’

I turned to find Adele standing over the older man. Though still prone, he’d turned his head far enough to fix her with a pale blue eye. ‘I have not done nothing wrong. You cannot do nothing to me.’

‘No?’ Adele crossed the room, opened the window, tossed the money out into the rain. The old man groaned, but kept his mouth shut. He was being treated to a dose of curbside justice and there was nothing more to be said.

It was raining hard when Adele and I came out of the building and the streets were deserted. There were bills plastered to the roofs and windshields of the cars parked on the block, more bills on the sidewalk. I had a crazy urge to pick them up, but then Adele tapped me on the shoulder and I saw the SUV as it turned onto the block and began to accelerate. The vehicle was running with its brights on. Magnified by the wet streets and the falling rain, the glare stretched from curb to curb.

My universe contracted into a single frame encompassing only this street at this moment in time. I reached for the Glock tucked behind my hip, knowing I didn’t have a chance. A bare fifty feet away, the truck was closing fast. We were going to come out second best here. The window was already sliding down. Behind the glare of the headlights, Aslan’s face and the gun he held leaped into focus. The pounding rain effectively drowned out the blasts when Aslan opened up, reducing the gunshots to barely audible thuds. But I saw the gunfire, a trio of muzzle flashes so distinct they might have been separated by light-years. And I saw Adele drop to the pavement and the truck’s brake lights come on as the SUV flew past me, then skidded to a halt thirty yards away.

As I raised my weapon, I fought a surge of adrenaline. I wanted to help Adele. I wanted to kill Aslan. I wanted to fly to the fucking moon.

The truck’s door opened, a foot dropped to the asphalt, a shoulder emerged. I was aiming for the head that followed when I pulled the trigger, but the round missed by a few inches, slamming through the truck’s side mirror. That was enough for Aslan. He jumped back inside and shot off toward the far corner.

I waited until the truck was out of sight before turning to Adele. She was lying on the pavement, clutching her abdomen, her breath coming in short quick gasps. I dropped to one knee beside her, remembering her Kevlar vest only when I actually touched it. The hollow-point bullet was right there, caught in the fabric and severely deformed. I pulled it out as though withdrawing a tumor.

Cradling the bullet in the palm of my hand, I offered it to Adele. I wanted to say something, but couldn’t seem to get the words past the constriction in my throat. Adele stared at the flattened chunk of lead, her face reddening as she fought for breath. Then her lungs suddenly emptied, the whoosh of air loud enough to be heard above the steady slap of rain on the sidewalk. Slowly, her breathing became more regular and she stopped gasping.

‘I’m okay,’ she said. ‘I had the wind knocked out of me. That’s all.’

‘Can you walk?’ I asked. ‘If you can’t, I’ll carry you. But we really need to get out of here.’

She started to rise, then slid back onto her butt, finally made it on the second try with a little help. I took her arm and we started down the street. We were soaked to the bone long before we reached the car, but Adele was moving freely by then. I slid behind the wheel, started the Nissan and turned on the heat.

‘I’m not shivering because I’m cold,’ Adele explained. ‘I’m shaking because I was frightened.’

I glanced at my left leg. It was going up and down like a piston. Alongside me, Adele removed her vest. She patted her stomach gingerly.

‘How do you feel?’ I asked.

‘A little bruised. That’s about it. Let’s just do what we have to do.’

What we had to do was drive into upper Manhattan, to a school on Amsterdam Avenue that’d been converted to a shelter for battered women. On an upper floor, in what had once been a gym, we found the women of Domestic Solutions. The setting was grim – floors, walls, cots, a pair of cribs – but the women seemed in fine spirits as they unpacked their few possessions and discussed the sleeping arrangements. Zashka was with them and she appeared comfortable.

‘Zashka?’ I said.

She turned to look at me, wary now. ‘Yes?’

I crooked a finger. ‘We need to talk.’

I led a resigned Zashka to a small office on the first floor. Adele remained behind. She was going to speak to the women, just in case they knew anything about Barsakov or Mynka. It was a long shot, but we were covering all the bases.

‘Sit down, Zashka.’

I pointed to a chair on the far side of a desk, waited for her to sit, then sat down myself. Though my fingers were still trembling, I made an effort to appear casual. I crossed my legs at the knee, dropped my hands to my lap, let my shoulders fall back.

Zashka held up a pack of cigarettes. ‘You mind?’

‘Knock yourself out.’

She closed her eyes when she inhaled, opened them when she blew the smoke out through her nose. ‘I got in trouble,’ she said, ‘with a Russian shylock out in Brighton Beach. I was working it off.’

‘With Aslan?’

‘Aslan needed somebody to stay twenty-four-seven with the kids and mind the ladies when they were at home. It wasn’t like he could advertise in the papers. The shy was a friend of his and they made a deal. Aslan got me for a year, me and my debt.’

She paused then, her chin coming up, mouth tightening. I waited patiently, certain she had something else to say. Finally, she cleared her throat and smiled.

‘I was good to them. To the kids. I didn’t think I would be, not havin’ kids myself, but they got to me right away. Their mothers were gone all the time. If I didn’t love them, nobody would. I know what’s that’s about, detective. I know what it is to be little and have no one to love you.’

‘Okay,’ I said, ‘but what about their mothers? What about Tynia? How could she leave her child in the care of stranger, even a nice stranger, for six days a week?’

Zashka thought it over, then looked at me, looked straight into my eyes. ‘Two reasons. First, poor women all over the world leave their children, sometimes for years, in order to provide for them. Second, Aslan Khalid is a frightening man. You fuck with him, he will definitely kill you. One time, when the girls staged a little revolt, he threatened to blow up the warehouse with everyone in it. Myself, after listening to all his bullshit about Chechnya, I believed him.’

The window behind Zashka was covered by a white shade. Someone had painted a picture in crayons on its smooth surface, a bunny rabbit hopping through a field of crudely drawn flowers. I stared at it for a minute, then got to the point.

‘I think you were in the house when Mynka was butchered. I think maybe you even know what happened to her organs, though I can’t prove it. But what I can prove, through independent witnesses, is that you were present when Konstantine Barsakov was murdered. So there’s no room for bullshit here. You know what happened that night. The only issue is whether or not you want to tell me.’

Zashka took another pull on her cigarette. In her forties, she was fairly attractive once you got past the red hair. Her cheekbones were high, her features small and regular.

‘God, I hate that prick,’ she said.

‘Aslan?’

‘Yeah, Aslan.’ She nibbled at her lower lip for a minute. ‘What’s the threat? There has to be a threat.’

‘If you don’t cooperate?’

‘If I don’t cooperate now. If I cooperate somewhere down the line, say after I get a lawyer.’

‘I need a statement tonight. If you don’t give it to me, I’ll charge you with extortion.’

‘Extortion?’

‘Any time you compel an individual to refrain from any lawful behavior, you commit the crime of extortion, a D felony. You’ll be charged with five counts and there’ll be a strong recommendation that you be held without bail.’ I ticked the items off on my fingers. ‘You’re a material witness in a homicide, you’re an extreme flight risk, you’ll almost certainly face charges in a federal court that could land you in prison for decades.’

Zashka looked at me for a minute, then laughed. ‘Know something? You’re a prick, too.’

I shrugged. I’d kept my tone matter-of-fact and Zashka seemed relaxed. ‘Zashka, you’re entirely too negative. Remember, you can cooperate now and lawyer-up later. There’s no law against it.’

‘Fine. And if I do cooperate? What then?’

‘If the written statement you give me is complete and truthful, you retain your liberty. That’s assuming you convince me that I’ll be able to find you again when I need you.’

Zashka thought it over, her mouth working as she weighed her options. ‘I have an aunt in the Bronx, in Kingsbridge. She’ll take me in.’

‘And after she does,’ I encouraged, ‘you’ll contact a lawyer and cut a deal.’ I spread my hands apart, palms up. What could be simpler? ‘Keep in mind, anything you tell me is useless without your testimony at trial. So, you can always back out if you don’t like the offer.’

In fact, once she committed herself in writing, the pressure from the DA, should Aslan be arrested, would only grow more intense. Zashka most likely knew that. But the fib I’d told was a social fib, the kind you might tell at a cocktail party. Oh, I just love that tie.

‘First thing,’ she said, ‘me and Aslan, we weren’t partners. I only worked for the guy.’

‘And now you work for me.’

About Mynka’s fate, Zashka knew little. On the night before Mynka’s body was discovered, she’d been roused from sleep by Aslan and Konstantine when they entered the warehouse around midnight. This was unusual since they didn’t live there, but it was none of her business. On the following morning, she was again awakened, this time by a loud argument. Aslan was clearly in a rage, Barsakov more defensive, but as they spoke Russian, she had no idea what they were fighting about. She had her suspicions, of course, because Mynka hadn’t returned from the Portolas on Saturday morning, but she wasn’t about to face off with Aslan. When he told her that Mynka had run away, she’d accepted the explanation and gone about her business.

I broke it off at that point, instructing Zashka to write everything down, then went upstairs to check on Adele. I found her sitting on a straight-backed chair next to Sister Kassia. They were leaning toward each other, engaged in a conversation that ended abruptly when I stepped into the room.

‘How are you feeling?’ I asked.

Adele probed her abdomen with the tips of her fingers. ‘A little sore. No big deal. You almost finished?’

‘Not even halfway. You wanna take the car, go back to the apartment, feel free. I can find a gypsy cab later on.’

‘No, I’ll wait. Sister Kassia and I are having a very interesting talk.’

‘Can I ask what about?’

‘About husbands and lovers.’

I smiled. ‘Well, let me know what you decide. Right now, I’m kinda focused on Konstantine Barsakov.’

As expected, Zashka was eager to distance herself from Barsakov’s fate. She’d been upstairs, she explained, when Barsakov entered the warehouse after his release. Aslan was upstairs as well, packing linen into a cardboard carton.

‘Wait here,’ he’d told her. ‘Don’t come down.’

A half hour later, a single shot was fired. Then Aslan came pounding up the stairs. He loaded her and the children into the van and they drove away. She never saw Barsakov again.

I was far from satisfied with a speech Zashka had obviously been composing for some time. I took her over the details. What was she doing when Barsakov arrived? Packing? What was she packing? Where were the children? What were they doing? How did they react to the move? To the shot? To Aslan’s appearance? Was Aslan composed? Agitated? Was there blood on his skin or his clothing? Do you know where Aslan is currently staying?

The last question, which came from left field, was a test of truth. I knew where Aslan was living. If Zashka lied, if she was still protecting him, I’d arrest her on the spot.

‘In Williamsburg,’ she said after a moment. ‘On North Third Street above a lingerie shop.’

I left with a hand-written statement ten pages long, each page signed and witnessed. That was enough to buy redemption. All I had to do was hand the statement and Aslan’s address to Bill Sarney. What happened next – whether or not Aslan agreed to deportation – was none of my business. Just pass on the information and become the bosses’ fair-haired boy.

But I didn’t call Sarney. I put Zashka’s statement in a manila envelope, then shoved it in a file when I got home. Aslan was for the future. For now, there was only Ronald Portola, a man who wore thousand-dollar blazers and paid to have men abuse him sexually. Earlier, I’d guessed that Ronald was the sort of guy who’d appreciate a bit of theater. When I explained this to Adele, then asked her if she was up to putting on a show, she replied with a grin. We were inside by then. Adele was holding an ice pack to a small bruise just above her navel.

‘What’s my role?’ she asked.

‘Bad cop.’

‘Do I get to slap him around?’

‘Sparingly. Remember, this guy likes a beating now and then. You hurt him bad, he’s liable to get a hard-on.’

‘And that would be counter-productive?’

‘Let’s just say, Ronald being attracted to men, not women, it would put me in a ticklish position. Being as my goal is to make him happy.’