The Cold Room Read online

  Ronald’s only prominent feature was the long, straight nose he’d clearly inherited from his father. He gave the tip of that nose a series of quick strokes, as if searching for a pimple. ‘I just know there’s more to this story,’ he said.

  ‘How about you and me all alone in an interrogation room? There probably won’t be anybody else around, not on a Sunday night. That means nobody to overhear our conversation, nobody to misinterpret the direction it might take.’ I put my arm around his shoulders and led him toward the car. He went more or less willingly, ducking his head as he slid onto the back seat. ‘I promise, Ronald, I’ll show you a good time. I promise.’

  I walked around the car to get in on the other side. When I closed the door, I found Adele and Ronald locked eyeball to eyeball. Adele wore a half smile poised mid way between amused and sneering, her eyes so laid back she might have been looking at a freshly killed insect pinned to a specimen board.

  ‘Tell me,’ Adele asked, ‘because I’m dyin’ to know. How old were you when your mother started callin’ you “La Bamba”?’

  Ronald’s eyes jerked open. He’d been blindsided, not only by Adele knowing his pet name, but also because she was a woman. In his world, a woman had always held the whip.

  ‘Ya know,’ Adele continued, ‘I just don’t get it. If you’d knock her on her ass, just once, she’d respect you. Just once, La Bamba. Just one fucking time. Then you’d be a man.’

  ‘I want a lawyer.’ Ronald’s head began to rotate in my direction, only to stop abruptly when Adele corrected him.

  ‘Don’t you dare turn away from me when I’m talking to you.’ She reached over the back seat to grab him by the chin, forcing his head back until their eyes were again locked. ‘First, you’re not a suspect, so you don’t get a lawyer. Second, you’re not goin’ anywhere until we’re finished with you. Do we understand each other?’

  Ronald jerked his chin out of Adele’s grip, but didn’t look away. I could almost see the little gears turning in his mind as Adele regained both her contemptuous smile and her equally contemptuous tone.

  ‘See, here’s what I don’t get. My father liked to slap me and my brothers around when he was in a bad mood, which was mostly all the time. And I’m tellin’ ya, Ronnie, when you got beat up by my dad, you really got beat up. Now, when I was kid, what could I do? I hadda take it. But the day I graduated high school, I left his house. You hearin’ this? I didn’t have ten dollars in my purse, but I packed my things and left. Now here you are – twenty-four years old with a freakin’ trust fund – and you’re still livin’ with a crazy bitch who calls you La Bamba. How is that possible?’

  ‘Are you suggesting that I’m a faggot?’

  ‘Please, don’t hide behind that one. Gay has nothing to do with your spineless attitude, not a fucking thing.’

  Suddenly, Ronald’s face lit up. ‘Of course,’ he said, ‘you’ve gotten your hands on Toad.’

  ‘Toad?’

  ‘Toad. That’s the name we have for the little creatures who hippity-hop through the house doing all those nasty chores the rich don’t have to do.’

  ‘So, you’re referring to Tynia Cernek?’

  ‘I’m referring to them all. They were all Toad.’

  ‘Does that include Mynka Chechowski?’

  ‘Toad, I’m afraid. Toad, Toad, Toad.’

  Adele leaned over the seat and backhanded Ronald across the face, a really nice shot that spun his head around. I waited a few seconds, then kicked the back of Adele’s seat.

  ‘That’s enough. Start driving.’

  Adele complied meekly, which brought a smile to Ronald’s fleshy mouth, a smile that revealed several blood-stained teeth. I gave him a little poke.

  ‘Hey,’ I said, ‘didn’t I promise to show you a good time?’

  The squad room at the Nine-Two was deserted when I led Ronald though the maze of corridors that fronted the little cubbyholes we called home. As I’d worked on Sundays in the past, I knew that only one pair of detectives was on duty. Who they were and what they were doing, I couldn’t say. I was just glad they weren’t at their desks, counting the minutes until they clocked out. Their presence wouldn’t have changed the outcome, but it would have ruined the atmosphere.

  ‘In here, Ronnie.’ I opened the door to a small interrogation room, waited for him to enter, then followed, closing the door behind me.

  About the size of a prison cell, the eight-by-ten room was everything Ronald could have wished for. Cracked floor tiles, tan walls, a recessed fluorescent fixture, a small table, three plastic chairs. There was even a sprinkling of dark stains on the wall. The stains resembled blood spatter, but were actually marinara sauce from a carelessly handled meatball hero.

  Ronnie took the chair behind the table without prompting. He slumped down in the seat of his chair and crossed his legs. One arm dangled in his lap, the other played with his skimpy beard. I followed him around the table and dropped to one knee slightly behind him. Across the room, a one-way mirror reflected our images. Adele was on the other side of the mirror, watching carefully. Her role in the performance was not yet over.

  I stared at Ronald for a long moment, allowing a half smile to play across my face. Despite the air of indifference, Ronald’s eyes, when I found them, were jittery. And why not? Adele had spoken Mynka Chechowski’s name aloud, so there was no doubting our ultimate purpose. A murder had been committed, Ronald knew the identity of the killer, we were here to make an arrest. For Ronald Portola, those were the only certainties. He couldn’t know, for instance, despite our assurances, that he was not the prime suspect, that ten minutes from now I wouldn’t put him on a bus headed for Rikers Island.

  THIRTY-TWO

  ‘Didn’t work, right?’ I began.

  ‘What?’

  ‘The bit with my associate. She was supposed to soften you up.’

  ‘No, it didn’t work. But she was very good.’

  ‘Wasn’t she?’

  ‘She was.’ In lieu of applause, he raised a languid finger to his swollen lower lip.

  ‘That’s why I like usin’ her. She’s such a piece of work. Still, she was in over her head, which was what I told her in the first place. I said, “This kid’s been smacked around by a woman who makes you look like Mother Theresa. You won’t lay a glove on him.” ’

  ‘Then why did you go through with it?’

  ‘Hey, nothing ventured, nothing gained. Besides, I knew you’d appreciate the gesture.’

  I stood at that point, then picked up the nearly weightless plastic table and carried it to the wall. As I set it down, I suddenly grabbed my left side and dropped to one knee, my eyes squeezing shut as I gasped in pain.

  Adele opened the door and looked inside, but I shook my head and waved her away.

  ‘I’m alright.’

  ‘You sure?’

  ‘Yeah.’ I waited for her to leave, then struggled to my feet and offered Ronald an apologetic smile. ‘Ya gotta cut me some slack, Ronnie. I got shot yesterday.’

  ‘Shot?’

  ‘By Aslan Khalid. You wanna check it out?’

  Ronald’s quizzical smile expanded at the mention of Aslan’s name. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘I would.’

  I took off the vest and laid it in his lap. ‘See here? This gouge? That’s where the bullet hit me’ I pointed to a tear in the vest where the fabric was blackened. ‘The doctors tell me that if I hadn’t been wearing my vest, I wouldn’t be talking to you now. You or anybody else.’

  Very slowly, very softly, Ronald slid the fingertips of his right hand over the hole in the vest, tracing its edges first, then easing his pinky into the opening. Prurient is the first word that came to my mind as I watched. Perverted was the next. Ronald Portola was a sick puppy and he didn’t care who knew it.

  Clutching my side, I re-positioned myself behind him, then waited patiently until he dropped the vest to the floor.

  ‘Can we talk about Mynka?’ I whispered in his ear.

  ‘Toad?’

>   ‘Think twice, Ronnie. That mirror over there, it’s a window for anybody standing on the other side. Getting your face slapped once might be a thrill, but I guarantee it’s an activity that wears thin pretty fast.’

  Ronnie put his hand on his heart. He was staring at the mirror now, clearly fascinated. ‘My sincere apologies,’ he said, ‘but I’m afraid I didn’t keep track of their given names. Which one was Mynka?’

  ‘Mynka was the one who got murdered in your kitchen.’

  I put my right hand on his shoulder, my fingers reaching around just far enough to sense, very faintly, the pulse at his throat. Ronald’s heart was racing.

  ‘I was just wondering if you’d like to hear a story, Ronald, a kind of travelogue that begins with Mynka Chechowski’s body, then follows a trail to Margaret Portola and her children. It’s a very entertaining story.’

  ‘Certainly.’ He sounded relieved, almost grateful. I’d turned up the pressure, then eased back. Maybe everything would be all right. I began with the forensic details, the pink lividity, the foreign dentistry, and especially the evisceration. Then I told him about the witness who’d happened on the scene a moment before Mynka’s body was to be consigned to the sea, and about the advertisement in Gazeta Warszawa that broke the case open, and about my consultation with Aslan Khalid in the Eagle Street warehouse. Finally, I described Barsakov in the chair behind Aslan’s desk with half his head blown away and the flag of Chechnya pinned to the wall behind him.

  ‘Swear to God, Ronnie, when I looked into the wolf’s eyes, it was like he did it. I’m talkin’ about the wolf. It was like the wolf came down off the flag and drilled his fangs into Konstantine’s skull.’

  Ronald and I were both staring at the mirror on the other side of the room when I finished the tale. I was watching him, watching him closely, but Ronald was gazing directly into his own eyes.

  ‘It’s your turn, now,’ I finally said, my voice a whisper, ‘to tell me a story.’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘Start with the cold room. Tell me what it was like.’

  Ronald tilted his chin up, his eyes shifting slightly to meet mine. Did he want to play this game?

  ‘Did you ever tell anyone, Ronnie, anyone at all? A friend, a teacher, a therapist?’

  ‘I had no friends as a child. I hated my tutors. Margaret would never allow me to see a therapist.’

  ‘Then it was a family secret.’

  ‘Yes, a secret.’

  ‘Well, I’ve been there, Ronnie, in the cold room. I already know.’

  ‘The trick is to make yourself little. I used to imagine that I was a ball of cheese, all folded on itself, with a thick, waxy skin for a blanket.’ Ronald’s tongue appeared between his lips and he sucked in a deep breath as his shoulders relaxed. ‘But the cold room was only for special occasions. Usually, Margaret was more hands-on. Besides, you can get used to anything if you have to.’

  ‘Don’t bullshit a bullshitter, Ronnie. I was in the cold room with the door closed for five minutes and I nearly panicked.’

  ‘Panic? Yes, of course, at first. But panic only excited Margaret. Begging, too. No, you had to make yourself infinitely small, so tiny there was no self for the cold to penetrate. Jerk never understood that.’

  ‘Jerk?’

  ‘My brother.’

  ‘Can you say his name?’

  ‘Jerk.’

  ‘And what didn’t he understand?’

  Ronald’s hands began to wash over each other. He was breathing through his mouth now. ‘Do you know why the cold room is there in the first place? Were you clever enough to find out?’

  ‘Actually, that was one of the things I was going to ask you.’ I was encouraged by Ronald’s attitude. He was now volunteering information. ‘Why have a refrigerator that big in a private home?’

  ‘The cold room is there because in the nineteen twenties, the house was a speakeasy, with an upstairs brothel, owned by Dutch Schultz. In nineteen twenty-eight, two gangsters were killed in the cellar, Blintzy Reznick and Little Moe Cohen. Margaret has newspaper clippings documenting the whole episode. According to the Herald Tribune, Little Moe and Blintzy were refrigerated for three days after the actual murders. I think that’s where Margaret got the idea. Otherwise, who would even think about putting a child in a . . .’

  ‘In a refrigerator?’

  Ronald’s laugh was soft and dry. ‘Jerk was a fighter,’ he added, ‘and what did it get him? I was a ball of cheese, and look at me now.’

  ‘What about your father. Why didn’t he protect you?’

  Once he got started, Ronald couldn’t stop, and bit by bit, I assembled a portrait of the Portola household. The only child of a prominent, Brazilian family, Guillermo Portola had used up three wives, along with innumerable mistresses, in an effort to produce an heir. His marriage to the secretary he’d occasionally boffed was motivated solely by the need to legitimize that heir. According to Ronald, aside from impregnating Margaret a second time, Guillermo had very little to do with his wife and children. His life was lived in a suite at the Pierre Hotel, where he passed his nights with the high-end call girls he preferred to his psycho spouse. Nevertheless, Guillermo supported his family in style, which left Margaret to do as she pleased, the absolute master of the house.

  And what a master she was, given both to sudden rages and calculated cruelty. Her children were initially cared for by nannies, then privately tutored through high school. Subject to Margaret’s temper, the nannies and tutors came and went, leaving in their wake a montage of faces and names that Ronald chose not to remember. As they, the nannies and the tutors, chose not to remember, or even recognize, the obvious bruises on the frail bodies of the children.

  ‘What about friends?’ I asked.

  ‘I went to birthday parties sometimes, and sometime a luckless child would be sentenced to pass an afternoon in my company. Needless to say, they rarely came back. I belonged to clubs, too. A chess club on the East Side and a gem club at the Metropolitan Museum. I have friends now, a collection of oddities who share my interests, but my early years were passed in solitude.’

  Ronald paused, gave his head a tiny shake, then abruptly changed the subject. ‘For Margaret,’ he said, partitioning the syllables of his mother’s name as if sounding out a word in a foreign language, ‘Father’s stroke was a stroke of luck.’

  I wasn’t expecting much to come from the revelations that followed, though I listened attentively for any mention of the circumstances surrounding Guillermo’s death. But Ronald wasn’t going there. This was all about a will Guillermo had somehow created, despite being completely disabled, a man whose speech was limited to a series of unintelligible gurgles. That the will would eventually be challenged was inevitable; that Margaret would be up to the challenge was also inevitable. At the first hint of a lawsuit, she’d produced an impeccably credentialed attorney named Mason Livingston. A direct descendant of the Livingstons so prominent during the revolution, Mason swore, under oath, that he’d read the document aloud to Guillermo, clause by clause, and that Guillermo had indicated consent with a series of nods confirmed by eye-blinks. Three other witnesses, attorneys all, then leaped forward to confirm Mason’s account. The will was unbreakable.

  ‘And now she runs your life,’ I said. It was time to make the turn.

  ‘And now she runs my life.’

  I leaned even closer, until my chest brushed Ronald’s back. ‘Remember what my partner said, about you being afraid to stand up to Margaret? I know it isn’t true. I know you stopped being afraid of your mother years ago. Like I know you would have left home years ago . . . except for the money. I’m talking about the forty million dollars, and the will, and the trust fund. Margaret knew exactly what she was doing when she made herself executor of a fund that ties you up until you reach the age of forty.’

  ‘How can a person,’ Ronald asked, ‘be so crazy and so crafty at the same time? Margaret’s fucking Mason Livingston, who administers the trust. If I
displease her, Mason will invoke the will’s morality clause. I’ve got a record, which I’m sure you already know, a record that brands me a cocksucker and a pervert. My claim to any part of my father’s estate hangs by a thread.’

  ‘And Margaret’s standing right there with a pair of scissors?’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘Well, it seems pretty obvious to me that you have to take those scissors out of her hand.’

  I stared for a moment at the sheen of perspiration on the back of Ronald’s neck, at tiny drops of moisture no bigger than grains of sand that clung to the black hairs fanning out from a natural parting. ‘What would you do, Ronald, if you got control of the estate? How would you live your life?’

  Ronald answered without hesitation. ‘My favorite word is debauchery, followed closely by depravity. I want to drown myself in sensation. I want to use every drug there is to use. I want to have sex on three-masted yachts, and in filthy alleyways. I want to keep going until I’m dead.’

  I rose to my feet at that point and gripped my side. No more whispering. Time for business. ‘I can’t kneel anymore,’ I told him. ‘My wound is killing me.’ I set a chair in front of him and sat down. ‘Now, the sex part you can keep to yourself, but tell me, is heroin your drug of choice?’

  ‘It’s that obvious?’ he asked.

  ‘I’m afraid it is, Ronnie, but we can forget about that. For now, anyway.’ I leaned back in the chair. ‘Ya know, there’s a way out for you. A way to make all those fantasies come true.’

  ‘Tell me.’

  ‘Mynka Chechowski died in your mother’s kitchen. The cause of death was a blow to the top of her skull with a blunt object, a blow universally associated with an enraged perpetrator. That perpetrator can’t be you, Ronald, because blind rages are beyond you. And it can’t be your brother, either, because he was the father of Mynka’s child and he loved her. That leaves Margaret holding the bag, and her elder son to put her in it.’

  Ronald rocked back and forth, his eyes still closed. He was breathing through his nose again. ‘Dreams are the best things about dope,’ he told me. ‘Evil dreams that fly around your mind like cobwebs in a breeze. I believe I’ve dispatched Margaret in every way there is to dispatch a human being. In my dreams, I’ve skinned her alive.’