The Cold Room Page 21

  I sipped at a container of coffee, then got on my cell phone and called Drew Millard. I wanted to locate a detective named Ralph Scott, the arresting officer on Margaret’s second bust, the felony assault.

  Millard didn’t seem all that happy to hear from me. Most likely, he wanted to tell me that I could take my connections and shove them. Instead, he went to his computer and ran the name. Detective Ralph Scott, he told me, now a lieutenant, commanded the squad room at Manhattan North. He was on duty.

  I dropped the phone to my lap as the door to the apartment building opened and Zashka Ochirov emerged. She was a hundred yards away, at the opposite end of the block, but I slid down in the seat and stayed there until she disappeared around the corner. Then I called Manhattan North and asked for Lieutenant Scott. He answered his phone on the second ring.

  ‘Lieutenant Scott.’

  ‘Detective Harry Corbin here. I’m calling about a case you handled in 1995.’

  ‘Really? 1995? I can barely remember what I did last week. What’s it about?’

  ‘A felony assault. The suspect’s name was Margaret Portola.’

  ‘Holy shit. That bitch. I shoulda fuckin’ killed her when I had the chance.’

  ‘That bad?’

  ‘You wouldn’t fuckin’ believe it. When she finds out I’m gonna arrest her, she attacks me. Kickin’, punchin’, scratchin’ at my eyes. The bitch went all out.’ He paused, then said, ‘What’d ya say your name was?’

  ‘Harry Corbin.’

  ‘Alright, Harry, lemme just say this. I knew I was in the home of the rich, if not the famous. So I didn’t go nuts when she came at me, not even when she spit in my face. All I did was bring her to the ground and put on the cuffs. Meantime, she sues me for police brutality two months later. I still haven’t heard the end of it.’

  I gave it a few beats, then changed the flow of the conversation. ‘This happened inside her house?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘What brought her to your attention in the first place?’

  ‘She kicked the crap out of a window washer named Pedro Guiterrez for leaving the windows streaked. Clocked him from behind, then beat him until her older son pulled her off. A neighbor heard the guy screaming and called nine-one-one.’

  ‘How bad was he hurt?’

  ‘Busted arm, busted ribs, cracked skull. He was lucky she didn’t kill him.’

  ‘So, how come the charge was dismissed?’

  ‘C’mon, Harry, I’m sure you figured it out by now. The Portola family and Pedro Guiterrez reached a settlement on the lawsuit he filed against her, whereupon Pedro went back to Ecuador.’

  Under ideal conditions, I would have maintained the surveillance throughout the night, just in case Tynia called Aslan Khalid and he tried to remove the children. But under ideal conditions, I’d have a team behind me and the use of a van designed for surveillance. As it was, I had other work to do and I broke the stake-out a few hours later, at nine o’clock.

  I drove directly from Astoria to a section of Williamsburg called the Northside (where I’d almost witnessed the dance of the Giglio). Throughout the 1960s and 1970s, while other white folk, including thousands from surrounding blocks, were retreating to the suburbs, the Northside had maintained its ethnic identity, in this case Italian. The residents’ vigilance was the stuff of legend, yet somehow they’d failed to protect their flanks and now were rapidly losing ground to a mixed band of artists, bohemians and yuppies. The end result was much in evidence at 121 North Third Street, a two-story brick building that had once been an automobile repair shop. I only knew about the shop because its name, Elio’s Body Repair, was etched into a concrete ledge that separated the upper and lower floors. Otherwise, Dark Passions, the high-end lingerie shop now operating on the first floor, might have been plucked out of SoHo. But I wasn’t interested in the lower floor, which was dark in any event. The upper floor, separated from its neighbor by a narrow alley, was obviously residential. This was the address listed on Zashka Ochirov’s driver’s license and registration.

  I drove around the corner, parked, then sat for a few minutes with my hands resting on the steering wheel. As far as I could tell, Zashka lived full-time with the women and their children, first in Greenpoint, now in Astoria. So what need did she have for a second apartment that rented for at least $1500 a month? Was she independently wealthy? I didn’t think so. Was she subletting? That was entirely possible. As it was entirely possible that her tenant was Aslan Khalid. After all, he had to live somewhere.

  If Aslan was living in that apartment, I needed to know it. One obvious strategy was to establish surveillance, but that was impossible. Not only was Aslan as wary as a three-legged fox, the Portolas’ townhouse had a prior claim on my time.

  As I weighed my options, I got out of the Nissan and took a walk around the block. It was past ten on a Wednesday night, but the trendy restaurants and bars were still open and there were people on the street. All were young, the oldest appearing no more than thirty, and a number were pierced and tattooed. Their very presence was an affront to the Northside’s century-long commitment to hard work and discipline. It was as if the damned hippies had won after all.

  My intention was to walk past Dark Passions and the four-story tenement to the east without slowing down, but I hesitated for a few seconds at the mouth of an alley separating the two. In other parts of town, alleys are impromptu garbage dumps peopled by rats and feral cats, by junkies and crack-heads, by whores servicing tricks, by homeless men and women in search of a secluded patch of concrete on which to lay their heads. But that wasn’t the case in gentrified Williamsburg. As far as I could tell, there wasn’t enough trash in the alley to support an anorexic cockroach.

  I continued on to Bedford Avenue, strolling north toward the subway station where I found an open cafe with outdoor seating. The cafe’s tables were the size of trivets, the chairs rickety and the staff none too friendly when I ordered a double espresso and a slice of banana cake from the cafe’s all-organic menu. The place was deserted, inside and out, and the workers were cleaning up. But I held my ground for an hour, until Bedford Avenue finally grew quiet at eleven thirty.

  When I came back to North Third Street, I again took careful note of the human activity on either side of the road, including the upper windows of several apartment buildings. I didn’t see anyone in the windows, or in the parked cars, and the only people outside at that moment were a trio of men smoking in front of a bar at the corner. As far as I could tell, they didn’t so much as glance in my direction when I ducked into the alley.

  I made my way to the end of the alley and turned the corner before squatting down. Across a gap of about fifty feet, the rear walls of the buildings facing North Fourth Street all had multiple windows looking out in my general direction. Two of the buildings were commercial and their windows were dark, but the rest were residential and I knew I couldn’t stay where I was for long, much less climb the drainpipe to my left, without risking discovery. I had a strong interest in that drainpipe because it ran past a lighted window on Dark Passions’ second floor. There was even a toehold on the lip of the concrete ledge separating the two floors, and handholds on the steel bars protecting the window from invaders. I gave the pipe a little tug. Secured to the side of the building by clamps screwed into the brick, it moved just far enough for me to get my fingers behind it.

  In a combat situation, any decision, even the wrong decision, is better than no decision. Climb or retreat. Risk discovery or leave without knowing who resided in the apartment. I think I might have chosen the latter course, if only I could have imagined another way to accomplish my primary goal. I had to know who was living in that apartment and I’d never have a better chance to find out.

  After another quick check of the windows across the way, I stood and reached above my head to get both hands around the pipe. Then I began to walk up the side of the wall, digging my toes into the recessed grouting between the rows of bricks, pushing off on my legs, r
aising my arms, one at a time, to pull myself up. I was enough of a narcissist to be flattered by the ease of my progress; all those hours in the pool were paying off. But the fact that I was able to climb quietly – and that the pipe readily supported my weight – was far more important. Within a few minutes, my head was alongside the closed window.

  I shifted my head and shoulders to the right and brought one eye to a corner of the window. When I was certain there was no one in my field of vision, I leaned further in and took a closer look at the small bedroom in front of me. Two things struck me. The place was an absolute mess, with clothing scattered over the floor, and all the clothing belonged to a man.

  Was that man Aslan Khalid? When I finally looked through the open door on the other side of the room, the answer was staring back at me. The green flag of Chechnya, with its red and white stripes, hung on the wall overlooking North Third Street. At dead center, the Chechen wolf rested on his pedestal, his head still turned out, ears sharp as knives, white eyes arrogant and dismissive.

  My heart literally jumped in my chest, my joy so overwhelming my cheeks reddened as if they’d been slapped. I felt the hairs rise on the back of my neck and my fingers lock onto the pipe. If I’d had a tail, it would have twitched. Then, from somewhere inside the apartment, I heard a toilet flush. Time to go. I hesitated just long enough to give the bars a tug, hoping to discover them loose, but they didn’t move by so much as a millimeter. Then I began to work my way back down, finding the descent as easy as the climb.

  I was in front of the building, taking note of the lock on the door leading upstairs, when a cruiser turned onto North Third Street. I straightened quickly, easing the billfold containing my shield and ID out of my pocket. Hoping the cops inside the cruiser were simply patrolling their sector, I pressed the billfold against my hip. No such luck. As the cruiser approached, the driver trained his six-cell flashlight on my face. I reacted immediately, altering my path until I was walking toward the vehicle, my billfold raised to expose my shield. But the light didn’t drop to my chest until I came within a few feet of the door. Now I could see the face of the cop holding the flashlight, Officer Frank Gerhaty, the PBA delegate at the very center of the rumors that swirled around me in the Nine-Two. Beside him, in the jump seat, a female officer unknown to me had her arms folded beneath her breasts.

  ‘I hope it wasn’t you creepin’ that alley, detective,’ Gerhaty said.

  I responded by snatching the flashlight out of his hand, unscrewing the head, dumping the batteries into the street, finally tossing the pieces back through the window. I would have taken it further if there hadn’t been a witness. As it was, I satisfied myself with a cryptic remark before walking away.

  ‘The door you’re knockin’ on, you better pray it doesn’t open, Frank, because what’s inside will swallow you whole.’

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  There was no good reason to get out early on the following morning. The Portolas wouldn’t be leaving their home until noon. But I was too restless to sit still. I was up at eight o’clock, scrambling a couple of eggs, washing them down with coffee. Then I dragged the vacuum cleaner out of the closet and went to work. I needed to keep busy.

  I was in my office, the vacuum cleaner so loud I failed to hear the house phone until the answering machine kicked on, then off. A second later, the cell phone in my pocket began to ring.

  ‘Corbin, it’s me.’

  I glanced at my watch. It was a quarter to nine.

  ‘Adele, I was gonna call you later.’

  When she hesitated, I felt my stomach churn. I was sure she’d challenge me, that she’d claim I was avoiding her. The accusation would be ironic, of course, since she was the one who had left town. But it would also be true.

  Instead, she changed the subject. ‘Did you make contact with the maid?’ she asked.

  I smothered a sigh of relief. ‘Tynia Cernek. That’s her name. Sister Kassia and I spoke to her on the street for a few minutes. We’ll have a longer session today around noon while the family’s out of the house.’

  ‘You think she can help?’

  ‘Not with the murder investigation, not directly. She didn’t even know that Mynka was dead.’

  ‘What about indirectly?’

  ‘Once I put this business with Sister Kassia behind me, I’m going to take a shot at one of the Portolas. If I pick the wrong one, I’m in big trouble. So, the more I know about them, the better.’ I went on to describe the family, each of them, in detail. ‘Margaret’s out of the question,’ I concluded. ‘She’ll lawyer up right away. It’s between the two kids.’

  ‘Do you think Margaret killed Mynka?’

  ‘It’s too early for that. Plus, right now, I’m trying to concentrate on the deal I made with Sister Kassia and Father Stan.’

  ‘Actually, that’s why I called. I can’t stop thinking about what you said yesterday.’

  I glanced through the window, at a wall of brick across the way. I told myself not to be distracted, no matter what came next. ‘Correct me if I’m wrong, Corbin. You plan to wait until Saturday night, when the women and their children are together, then force an entry in order to pull them out.’

  ‘If there’s another option that accounts for them, I don’t know it.’

  ‘That’s not the point.’ Adele gave it a few beats, then said, ‘The point is that you’re going in alone. And don’t deny it.’

  ‘Well, I definitely deny it. I’m not going in alone. I’m going in with Sister Kassia.’

  Adele laughed, in spite of herself. ‘That’s good. That’s you. But what about Hansen?’

  ‘First, I promised to keep the priest’s name out of it. Second, I have no idea what Bill Sarney will do if he gets his hands on those women before I do.’ I stopped for a moment as I collected my thoughts. ‘Look, I’m assuming that Aslan’s presence in this country, if it ever becomes public knowledge, would embarrass somebody high up on the food chain. But I don’t know why or who, and I don’t ever expect to know. This does not bother me, Adele. I can live with it. But there’s still a question. If I call in Sarney and Hansen, whose interests will they represent? A bunch of illegal immigrants and their snot-nosed brats? Or that top-feeder I just mentioned?’

  I paused long enough to catch a breath. ‘On the other hand, if I get them away from Aslan and if Sister Kassia supplies them with a lawyer before Sarney knows what’s happening, the potential for negative publicity will force the bosses to cooperate.’

  There was nothing more to be said on the subject and Adele remained silent for a moment before returning to her original point. ‘What you’ve said, Corbin, doesn’t affect the bottom line one bit. You plan to go in alone. How do you know that Aslan won’t be waiting for you?’

  ‘Aslan doesn’t live with his workers. Most of the time, they’re chaperoned by a woman named Zashka Ochirov, who also cares for the children. I’m going to arrange some sort of signal with Tynia – maybe a window up or down – to let me know if there’s anyone in the apartment besides Zashka. And I don’t plan to kick the door open. Tynia will open it when I knock.’

  Adele’s tone sharpened. ‘Have you bothered to count the number of things that can go wrong?’

  ‘I stopped when I ran out of fingers. But, hey, Tynia gave me the address of the apartment where she stayed last weekend. I went there yesterday and spotted Zashka Ochirov. Now, it just so happens that I have witnesses who can put Zashka at Domestic Solutions when Barsakov was killed. That gives me an excuse to detain her, to put her in the box. Adele, Zashka’s a petty con artist. If I was willing to let Tynia and the rest fend for themselves, I could break Zashka in an hour. You hear what I’m saying? If I forget about these women, I can put Aslan behind me in a couple of days without taking any serious risk. Remember, it was you, Sister Kassia and Father Stan who insisted that I protect their interests.’

  The outburst surprised both of us. I found myself carrying the phone into the bedroom, too wired to stand still.

  ‘I�
�m sorry,’ I finally said.

  ‘It’s my fault, Corbin. I should be there with you.’

  The words smacked into me, opening a hole through which Adele poured. I felt a rush of emotion, a longing deep enough to drown in, as though a floodwall had broken. It was the last thing I needed. I glanced at my watch as I pulled myself together. ‘I have to go,’ I said. ‘I have to meet Sister Kassia. This is a big day for us.’

  ‘I understand. It’s all right. I only wanted to catch up.’

  Sister Kassia and I found seats on a convenient bench in Riverside Park a little after ten. We proceeded to wash down a bag of cheese blintzes with large containers of coffee picked up at a nearby Starbucks. Sister Kassia had prepared the blintzes early that morning and they were incredibly soft and delicate.

  ‘I thought,’ she told me as she unwrapped them, ‘that we might do better than a bag of stale doughnuts.’

  She was right, and I showed my gratitude, once our breakfast was consumed and I’d cleaned my fingers, by reviewing the items I wanted our impending interview with Tynia Cernek to include. Sister Kassia was slated to conduct the interview, which meant she and Tynia would be speaking Polish. The point was to establish trust, to head off any last-minute resistance when I finally came knocking on that door in Astoria.

  This time around, I was unable to banish Adele, at least not entirely. She continued to work on me, an itch I couldn’t scratch. The worst part was that the dangers she’d described were very real. Aslan would kill me if he could.

  The nun and I were still at it when a stretch limo, a white Mercedes, rolled up to the townhouse across the street. Ten minutes later, the Portola family emerged. Margaret was dressed in a dark suit which she’d complemented with pearls at her throat and ears. Leonard also wore a suit, double-breasted, black and immaculately tailored, over a blood-red shirt. By contrast, David’s olive-green suit fitted him badly and his striped tie was poorly knotted and askew. Dress-up was not his favorite game and he was unable, or unwilling, to fake it.