The Cold Room Page 14

  I turned to look at the priest, hoping this damaging admission would lead to a flood. No such luck. Father Stan’s mouth was tight, his jaw locked down, and I had the impression that he’d cut a deal with his good angel. He would give me this much, I would leave, then he’d feel better about himself. And perhaps he would, right up until I returned on the following day, and the day after that, until he realized I might return one day bearing another set of crime scene photos, these of a victim he might have saved.

  TWENTY

  When I finally got to my cubicle at the Nine-Two, I found Detective Hansen Linde, my new partner, sitting at the front desk. I squeezed by him to get to my own desk at the rear, not even glancing in his direction until I was seated and facing him. Under other circumstances, I would have introduced myself and offered my hand. Instead, I looked him over carefully while he returned the compliment.

  Linde was a big man. His face was all forehead, cheekbones and jaw, his narrow smile a tight line, his neck thicker than his skull, his knuckles the size of walnuts. Yet for all his rugged appearance, his skin was almost porcelain white and his stomach curled gently outward to form a little pouch above his belt.

  ‘Hansen Linde,’ he finally said, leaning forward to extend one of those hands. ‘I’m from Minnesota, ya know.’

  As I took Linde’s hand, I imagined Sarney chuckling away. Though Linde made no effort to impress me with the power of his grip, his physical strength was obvious enough.

  ‘Harry Corbin,’ I said, ‘from Manhattan.’

  Linde settled back in his chair. ‘I tell my partners I’m from Minnesota because they always ask where I’m from anyway. It’s the accent, ya know. And the Ole and Lena jokes. I’m an expert on Ole and Lena jokes. I collect ’em.’

  I took a moment to consider this, having no idea what he was talking about, and no patience, either. ‘What’s an OLE-ee?’ I finally asked.

  ‘The Prairie Home Companion? On National Public Radio?’

  I shrugged.

  ‘See, that’s the problem with New Yorkers. That’s why people don’t like ’em. They think the world begins and ends on their little island.’

  The statement was too obviously true to merit a response and I abruptly shifted gears, gesturing to the case file, which was open on his desk. ‘That’s my case,’ I told him. ‘You wanna come along for the ride, fine. But you don’t get to drive. If that’s not okay with you, tell me now.’

  He leaned back in his chair, the blood rushing into his cheeks, his mouth curling down at the corners. ‘Damn,’ he said, ‘I just got here. Stealing your case is the last thing I want to do.’ He closed the file and pushed it toward me. ‘But this Aslan Khalid, he’s probably in the wind, if ya get my drift.’

  ‘Wanna bet?’

  ‘Bet what?’

  ‘How about two cows and a corn field?’

  He stared at me through a pair of cornflower blue eyes for a moment, then blinked twice before bursting into laughter. ‘That’s a good one,’ he declared between guffaws. ‘That’s one on me.’

  I rose without further explanation and led Hansen through the squad room, down the stairs and out the front door. I made a show of it, nodding hello to every cop we passed, especially those cops who loathed Harry Corbin. Linde was several inches taller than me and a good fifty pounds heavier. Together, we amounted to five hundred pounds of cop, enough bulk to capture the attention of a desk lieutenant named Torres who’d been on the job long enough to remember the Knapp Commission.

  ‘Christ,’ he said as we passed. ‘I think I climbed the fuckin’ bean stalk.’

  Behind me, I heard Linde chuckle.

  I stopped at Domestic Solutions first, to check for newly-delivered mail. There was none, which didn’t surprise me. Then I drove to the Post Office on Meserole Avenue where I cornered the manager, a petite woman named Alfaro. Linde was standing just to my left, his eager, country-boy grin firmly in place.

  Alfaro didn’t fight me when I asked if a change-of-address card had been filed for 532 Eagle Street. ‘Give me a minute,’ she said, ‘and I’ll check it out.’

  The minute stretched into five, during which time Linde asked, politely, if he might tell me a joke. I refused the offer, not out of resentment, but because I wanted to see if he could be provoked. He wasn’t.

  When Alfaro returned, she was shaking hear head. ‘Sorry,’ she told us, ‘no one’s been in to have the mail forwarded. Mail to that address is still being delivered.’

  Linde waited until we were back on the street, then asked, ‘What do you make of that, Harry?’

  ‘You’re asking why we didn’t find mail at Domestic Solutions?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Mobility.’

  ‘You wanna explain? Or you just wanna bust my chops?’

  I smiled. The priest had blown me off, despite my brilliantly constructed interview, and time was marching on. I was pissed, not least because I’d yet to formulate a Plan B, and I was taking it out on Hansen.

  ‘My best guess, Aslan conducts Domestic Solutions’ business on a cell phone and his workers are paid directly by their employers. Maybe there’s a bank account somewhere, a place to deposit the checks, but it’s more likely that the checks are cashed and the money handed over to Aslan. That would allow him to pick up on a minute’s notice without leaving a paper trail, and without jeopardizing his business interests. Which is exactly what he did.’

  ‘But why kill Barsakov? Why not just send him away? That would eliminate any connection between Aslan and your vic.’

  ‘Maybe he asked Barsakov to flee and Barsakov refused. Maybe there’s a reason why Barsakov can’t return to Russia. Maybe Aslan punished Barsakov for not getting the victim in the water, despite Clyde Kelly’s appearance. I don’t know how close you read the file, but Kelly didn’t call nine-one-one for several hours, so Barsakov had plenty of time to finish the job. Instead, he panicked and left the victim where she was. Two weeks later, as a direct result, I show up and drag Barsakov away on a trumped-up charge. Aslan couldn’t have been real happy about that. He had to figure, if Barsakov panicked once, he’d panic again.’

  I went on to tell Linde what I knew about Domestic Solutions and its employees and their children, repeating much of what Dominick Capra told me.

  ‘Aslan has to separate himself from those women,’ I insisted. ‘He has no other choice. First, there are potential charges of involuntary servitude out there. Then there’s the issue of what these women know about Jane’s murder. I have good reason to believe that Jane was killed at work, but I have no way to find her employer. The other women could fill that gap and many others. They have to go.’

  With nothing better to do, Linde and I decided to drive back to Domestic Solutions, to sit on the building in the hope that somebody would show up. We were on route when Lieutenant Millard hailed us on the radio.

  ‘You might wanna check out a van fire on Kent Avenue and South Fifth Street, if you remember that intersection. According to the uniforms on the scene, the blaze was deliberately set.’

  Although the fire was out, the Econoline was still pouring smoke when I pulled up behind a Fire Department pumper. The van itself was a charred shell, its interior, front and back, utterly destroyed. But the license plate was still attached to the rear bumper, and still readable.

  ‘I ran the tags,’ one of the uniformed officers on the scene told me a few minutes later. ‘The vehicle is registered to a company called Domestic Solutions.’

  I thanked him for the information, just as if I didn’t already know it, before I led my new partner off to the side and explained that we were standing less than two hundred yards from where the body of Jane Doe was originally discovered. Then I took him on a tour of South Fifth Street, down to the mound of rubble. The pothole was still there and the taller weeds still flattened, but someone had gotten to the chain link fence, prying it away from its supports. It was now possible to squeeze through and approach the East River.

  I did jus
t that, but I didn’t stop at the river. Instead, I climbed onto the rickety pier behind the Gambrelli warehouse, then walked its length, stepping carefully over broken boards and exposed nails, until I was left gazing out over the waters of the East River. The tide was pulling hard toward the harbor and the surface of the river was deeply furrowed by the five-knot current. Around the footings of the Williamsburg Bridge, patches of white-water threw up a dancing spray that caught the angled rays of the evening sun. Linde was standing next to me, his silky-straight hair fluttering in a steady breeze that smelled of all the lives and deaths concealed beneath the gray waters before us.

  ‘This is where Jane was meant to go,’ I explained. ‘Good-bye and good riddance.’

  ‘For whatever it’s worth,’ Linde said, ‘I hear you.’

  ‘That’s good, Hansen, because there are quite a few things that need doing, and I think you’re the kinda guy who can get them done.’

  ‘Oh, yeah,’ he answered, ‘I’m your fella. What’d you have in mind?’

  I turned from the river and began to make my way back to the Caprice. ‘I want you to track all the evidence taken from the Eagle Street scene, the blood, the tire impressions, any fingerprints that turn up, any trace evidence found on Barsakov’s clothing or his body. And I want you to secure Domestic Solutions’ phone records. Personally, I don’t think they’ll help us, but we gotta look’

  ‘Is that it?’ Linde was grinning.

  ‘No. Find out the name of Barsakov’s lawyer and give him a call. See if you can track Barsakov’s movements after he left the Nine-Two. And one more thing. I want the name of Aslan Khalid’s sponsor, Konstantine Barsakov’s, too. They couldn’t have gotten into the country legally without sponsors. Now, your boss has the juice to get the names, Hansen. Let him make a personal phone call.’

  I lapsed into silence as we picked our way between the fire department and police vehicles surrounding the Econoline. There was nothing to be gained by talking to the fire marshals, or to anyone else. The fire had begun in the van’s interior, which could not have happened unless it was deliberately set.

  ‘You understand,’ I said as I started the Caprice, ‘I’m counting on you to expedite these matters.’

  He nodded once, then broke into a huge grin, revealing a pair of deep grooves in either cheek. ‘Okay,’ he said, ‘stop me if you’ve heard this one. Ole is sitting in his back yard one Sunday, in a religious mood after coming back from church. So he looks up at the sky and asks God why He made Lena so soft and round and cuddly. “I did that so you’d love her,” a voice rumbles from on high. For a moment, Ole is overcome with awe, but he finally says, “Then why, Lord, did you have to make her so stupid?” A second later, God’s voice again rings in Ole’s ears. “I made her dumb, Ole,” God explains, “so she’d love you.”’

  Hansen told the joke well, rendering Ole’s dialogue in a thick, Scandinavian accent, but I didn’t laugh. I didn’t have to. Linde was roaring with delight. He didn’t need my help.

  New York was enjoying a second day of sunny skies and cool temperatures when I pulled to a stop in front of Blessed Virgin on the following morning. My intention was to take another shot at Father Stan, playing up the institutional aspect of the confessional seal. There’s nothing in the gospels, I would argue, about secrecy, or even the ritual of confession. The confessional seal comes not from Jesus, but from men whose greater aim was to preserve the Church. Surely, God’s judgment is more sophisticated, less absolute. How could it not be so when the great Commandments, themselves, are open to interpretation? The fifth commandment says, Thou shalt not kill. The seventh says, Thou shalt not steal. There’s no wiggle room in either one, yet the Catholic Church finds killing and stealing, under certain conditions, to be without sin.

  It was a decent argument, exactly what was needed to move Father Stan, if he could be moved. Or so I thought as I walked into the crowded outreach center. Sister Kassia was seated in a chair to my left, holding a toddler on her lap, a girl. The nun whispered a few words into the girl’s ear, then put her down before leading me outside.

  ‘Have you found them?’

  The question surprised me, though it was the obvious question to ask. ‘No, I haven’t. I’m here to see Father Manicki.’

  Sister Kassia smiled, a smile that must, at one time, have struck terror into the hearts of fourth graders. ‘Father Stan isn’t here, detective. He’s at a retreat house on Staten Island. I don’t know what you said to him, but he packed up shortly after you left yesterday.’

  ‘Well, that’s the problem with having a conscience, Sister. He knew I’d come back and he didn’t want to face me.’

  Sister Kassia shook her head, then walked me into the deep shadows cast by a towering maple tree. As it was twenty degrees cooler in the shade, I didn’t complain.

  ‘Your outlook is typical of the irreligious,’ she told me. ‘In your view, Catholicism is just another set of arbitrary beliefs.’

  ‘It’s not that . . .’

  ‘Oh, yes it is.’ She brought her hands together and folded them at her waist. ‘When Father Stan took his vows, after years of prayer, meditation and study, he embraced the doctrines of the Roman Catholic Church, one of which is the seal of the confessional. And you should keep in mind that among the vows he took was a vow of obedience. Tell me, have you ever taken a vow?’

  I reached out to run my hand over the trunk of the maple, the bark rough and cool against my fingers. ‘When I became a cop, I took an oath to uphold the laws of the State and the Constitution of the United States. Is an oath the same as a vow? I don’t know. But I can tell you this. For cops, it’s not about absolutes. We draw our own lines.’

  I went on to repeat the argument I’d made to Hansen Linde. Aslan had to put distance between himself and the women, even if he decided to stick around. No, I didn’t think he’d commit mass murder, but he would move them along at the earliest opportunity. Maybe he would send them back to Poland. Maybe he would sell them to somebody who ran a brothel in Bolivia.

  Ignoring the last part, Sister Kassia asked, ‘And how soon would that earliest opportunity be?’

  ‘Saturday afternoon, when Aslan picks them up at their jobs.’

  ‘In that case, Harry, you have a serious problem. Father Stan has already arranged to have his masses covered on Sunday. He won’t be back until Sunday night, at the earliest. But if it’s any comfort, I’ve no doubt that he’s examining his conscience right now.’

  ‘In the hope of finding a loophole?’

  Suddenly, the door to the outreach center opened and a woman exited, holding the hand of a small child, a little boy. The woman glanced at Sister Kassia, then immediately looked away. As she walked up the block, the boy turned to wave goodbye. The gesture was small, no more than a cupping of his fingers, and he seemed, to me, both confused and resigned. Sister Kassia returned the wave, her expression wistful.

  ‘When I became a nun,’ she said, ‘my intention was to submit to the will of God. I thought it would be easy. Just follow the rules. Now I know enough to look to my conscience for guidance. As for the rules, I obey the ones my conscience tells me to obey.’ She paused to smile the brightest smile I’d yet seen her display. ‘Father Stan, he thinks I’m incorrigible because I once proposed diverting a small sum of money from the general fund to the outreach center. Really, he was shocked. But I think he’s coming around now. I think he’s coming to understand that rules have consequences, too.’

  I leaned my back against the tree. ‘Let’s hope it’s not too late when he does, because I don’t have another way to go.’

  ‘What about finding Aslan?’

  ‘That’s not impossible, but it won’t do me any good. Aslan won’t talk unless I hurt him more than I’m willing to hurt him. And I don’t have enough evidence to charge him with the Barsakov homicide either.’

  ‘Well, you need to think of something, Harry, because it’s just as I told you on the first day you walked in here. The minute you d
iscovered their existence, you became responsible for the women and their children. You can’t blame Father Stan. They’re your burden now.’

  I called Adele shortly after leaving Blessed Virgin. I had a big decision to make, one that could easily backfire, and I needed to speak to someone I could trust. That wouldn’t be my new partner, Hansen Linde. Linde was Sarney’s boy and he would do Sarney’s bidding.

  Though a bit distracted at first – she was sitting with her mother in a doctor’s office – Adele seemed glad to hear from me. When I told her about the priest, she honed in on my dilemma. It was Thursday. Thirty-six hours from now, Aslan would pick up the women at their jobs. With Father Manicki out of play, at least until Sunday night, I had two choices. I could do nothing at all and hope for the best. Or I could find Aslan, put pressure on him and . . . and hope for the best.

  ‘Sitting around and hoping isn’t my strong point,’ I told her. ‘I’m taking plan B.’

  ‘What happens after you run him down? Assuming you do run him down.’

  ‘Ah, for a minute there I thought you were thinking positively.’

  Adele laughed. ‘Answer the question.’

  ‘What I’ll do, assuming I find Aslan, is make it personal.’

  ‘I think you went down that road when you arrested Barsakov.’

  ‘Then I’ll make it even more personal.’

  ‘And what do you hope to accomplish?’

  I took a minute before answering. I was sitting in my car outside the Nine-Two, an hour before I was due to report. I had no particular reasons for being early, but I was too restless to sit at home. ‘I’m hoping, if I press the right buttons, Aslan will take a swing at me. That’ll give me an excuse to hold him in custody over the weekend.’

  ‘And if he doesn’t rise to the bait?’

  ‘Then I’ll make up an excuse.’ I gave it a couple of beats, then said. ‘Dominick Capra, do you know anything about his personal life?’