The Cold Room (24 page)

Silence is a tool interrogators use to get under a suspect’s skin. Sarney and I both knew this. But rank does have its privileges and some tools are definitely bigger than others. I was first to speak.

‘This squad you’re running, does it have a name?’

Now Sarney was grinning again. ‘Not officially.’

‘How about unofficially?’

‘Unofficially, we call ourselves the Conditions Squad.’

I nodded in appreciation. At one time, there was a conditions squad in every high-crime precinct. The squad was designed to handle acute, short-term problems, from an open-air drug bazaar, to a ring of chop shops, to a crew on a robbery spree, to a serial rapist. Given wide latitude to conduct investigations, each of these squads maintained its own network of informants and was generally made up of the most talented cops in the precinct.

Conditions squads were already disappearing when I graduated from the Academy, replaced with specialized units subject to central control. But the concept had apparently remained alive at the highest levels. Sarney’s squad would respond whenever conditions demanded that the commissioner have an ear to the ground.

Sarney sipped at his drink, bourbon or scotch by the look of it, then smacked his lips in mock appreciation. ‘So, what did you think of Theobold and my little hideout in Far Rockaway?’

‘I was impressed. As I was supposed to be.’

‘Well, you’re nothing if not dutiful.’ Another little chuckle, followed by a searching look. ‘Power and the privileges that come with it, Harry. We can reach into any bureau. We can bend Chiefs to our will. I was wondering if that appealed to you.’

I thought it over for a moment, then said, ‘Are you trying to recruit me?’

‘With a bump to Detective First Grade. That would make your pay equal to a lieutenant’s. With overtime, you’ll knock down one hundred grand a year.’

The bartender took that moment to wander over. He looked at our glasses, then at Sarney. Finally, he walked away.

‘Why me?’ I asked. ‘Why recruit a man who’s been breaking your balls for years?’

‘Because I need a talented interrogator to complete the team and Harry Corbin is the best interrogator I know. You’ve got a gift, Harry. If you’d only use it to benefit yourself . . .’ Sarney’s expression hardened as he shoved his hands into the pocket of his nicely-tailored suit. ‘I’m gonna fix it for you. I’m gonna put you out there on your own. But one thing you need to consider: the bosses don’t trust you because they think you’re a boss-hater at heart. Are you? Do you even know? This is your last chance, Harry. You fuck it up and you’ll be lookin’ for a new career.’

I started to respond, but Sarney was already headed for the door. A moment later, I followed.

My workday far from over, I went from Bill Sarney to the Sixth Precinct where I approached a sergeant named Callahan. I was determined not to make the same mistake twice. I had until the end of the week, when Aslan returned to collect his workers. By then, I would be well prepared.

I flashed my shield. ‘Busy night?’ Behind me, the squad room was deserted.

‘The worst.’ Callahan ran his finger along a mustache thick enough to pass for a broom. ‘What could I do for ya?’

‘I was hoping to borrow your computer, Sarge. I only live a few blocks away, in Rensselaer Village, and I’m on foot.’

Cops like to grant each other favors, especially when those favors entail no costs. Callahan gestured to a far corner of the squad room. ‘Knock yourself out.’

I began at the Department of Motor Vehicles, limiting my initial search to the Portolas’ street address on Riverside Drive. Within seconds, I had three hits. Margaret Portola, age 45, who owned a 2003 Jaguar, in addition to holding a New York State driver’s license. Ronald Portola, age 24, who owned a 2004 Saab convertible and who also had a driver’s license. David Portola, age 17, who possessed a learner’s permit.

I printed the information, then checked each of the Portolas for a rap sheet. David came up clean. Not so Margaret and Ronnie. Margaret had been arrested twice, both times for assault. Her first brush with the law, a misdemeanor, was dismissed on the following day. Her second arrest, in 1995 for second-degree assault, was more serious. A charge of second-degree assault requires extensive physical injury. Not a black eye or a split lip, but injuries sufficient to require immediate medical treatment. Nevertheless, though it took nine months, this charge, too, was dismissed. But dismissals seemed to run in the Portola family. Ronald Portola had also been arrested twice, both times at a gay bar called Montana, both times for soliciting a male prostitute, and both times the charges had been tossed out. Now closed, Montana was a bar notorious for rough trade.

I printed Margaret’s and Ronald’s rap sheets, then turned away from the computer to spread out the Portola family photos as they appeared on their drivers’ licenses. At some point, I’d be taking a shot at one of them. But which one? I couldn’t answer the question, not then, and I didn’t try. Still, it was the essential question. Mynka’s death had occurred nearly a month before and no cop had come calling. More than likely, they knew nothing of Barsakov’s failures, or of the Russian’s subsequent demise. More than likely, they were starting to relax, to believe they’d gotten away with it. My sudden appearance would come as a complete shock, and that was all to my advantage, but I wouldn’t get a second bite at the apple. If I blew it, the Portola family would lawyer up and that would be that.

Again, I looked from Margaret to Ronald to David. Margaret was staring straight ahead, eyebrows slightly raised, lips and nostrils compressed. Ronald’s eyes were fixed on a point slightly below the camera’s lens. His soft smile appeared almost regretful and his lips were very red. His brother’s mouth, by contrast, was hanging slightly open. David seemed almost bewildered.

I glanced at the issuing date on David’s learner’s permit: June 17 of this year. According to Father Stan, David and Mynka were in love and I wondered, as I searched David’s features, if he’d still been looking ahead on the day the photo was taken, if his hopes and dreams were of happily ever after. Mynka was pregnant by then. Maybe the threats had already started. Abort, or else.

A moment later, I turned back to the computer where I ran the plate number of the Ford Explorer I’d seen on Riverside Drive. The vehicle was registered to Zashka Ochirov, living at 121 North Third Street in the borough of Brooklyn. Brooklyn is a big place, but I didn’t need a map to pin down a more exact location. Barely a mile long, North Third Street begins and ends in Williamsburg, home of the Nine-Two.

I pulled up Ochirov’s driver’s license next. The woman who looked up at me was blond at the time her photo was taken, but I recognized her easily enough. I’d seen her twice before, at the Domestic Solutions’ warehouse when I confronted Barsakov, and just that morning when she double-parked in front of the Portola townhouse. Zashka’s rap sheet came last, a long record of non-violent offenses, including larceny, forgery and welfare fraud. This was all to the good. Now I wouldn’t have to do a lot of talking when I explained that Aslan was tied to the tracks and there was a train coming down the line. Better for her, much better, if she was on it, because that train wasn’t—

‘Say, you gonna be long?’

Startled, I jerked around to find two detectives, a man and a woman, standing behind me. Intensely focused, I hadn’t heard them approach.

‘Long day?’ the woman asked.

I glanced at my watch. It was eight o’clock and I hadn’t eaten since breakfast. I was going to have to slow down. I logged out of the computer and gathered the printouts.

‘Long and fruitful,’ I said. ‘In fact, I haven’t had a better day in the last nine months.’

TWENTY-SIX

I
was back in Riverside Park at seven thirty on the following morning, striding through a heavy fog in search of a bench close to the street. The sun was a pale orange disc and the morning air, dead still, clung to my body. My pants and the back of my shirt, when I sat on a dew-slick bench were instantly soaked.

Though it was the beginning of the work week, the park was crowded with committed runners tracking their miles before heading off to the job. I thought of Adele then, as I’d thought about her last night after I settled in front of the TV. I felt guilty. I should have called her, at least to bring her up to date, but I hadn’t. My reasoning was very simple. Suppose she finally opened up, told me what was bothering her. Suppose the issue required my immediate attention at a time when I had no attention to spare. What would I do? Better not to know.

I remained where I was for the next three hours, until I could no longer distinguish between the mist and my own sweat, watching drops of water form on the ends of the pine needles, then drop to the ground. Behind me, the West Side Highway was running full out, but the traffic produced no more than an inconstant hum that seemed part of the swirling fog. On another day, driven by New York’s prevailing westerly winds, the reek of automobile exhaust would cover the narrow strip of park between the highway and Riverside Drive, but the only odors to reach my nostrils on that day were of wet earth and decaying vegetation.

At ten fifteen, Ronald Portola, the elder of the two brothers, came out of the house. He wore an off-white linen blazer over a black polo shirt and white pants that bunched around his shoes and ankles. I watched him from a park bench right across the street. He was sporting that same bemused smile and he had that same dismissive look in his intelligent eyes, as though he were observing the game of life the way a scientist observes a colony of ants. I wondered how I’d appeal to him if the time ever came to make an appeal. Ronald would appreciate a creative approach, a bit of high theater, of that I was sure. As I was now sure that bludgeoning was not Ronald’s style and I would have to look elsewhere for Mynka’s killer. Ronald was glancing at his watch for the second time when a black Lincoln Towncar from one of Manhattan’s many car services pulled up in front of the townhouse. The driver popped out an instant later, ran around the vehicle, opened the back door with a little flourish. Ronald shot his cuffs before climbing inside.

David Portola made his appearance a little after eleven, carrying a skateboard. In marked contrast to his brother, he wore a pair of cutaway denim shorts, the hems ragged, and a t-shirt that had once been white but was now a dingy gray.

I was back in the park by then, a good hundred and fifty yards from the townhouse, but I didn’t have to shift my position for a better look, or even raise my binoculars. The youngest Portola walked directly across the street, dropped his skateboard onto the sidewalk and came straight down the path in front of my bench. He looked neither right nor left as he passed, his lower lip curled into a nasty pout, eyes hard-fixed on the path ahead. David’s hair was moussed into a little forest of quills and he was skimming the few strollers in the park, his head bent forward as if intending to impale them. Finally, he came within inches of a female jogger who yelled at him to slow down. All she got for her efforts was a raised finger.

I knew from experience that sullen can sometimes become outright defiance, that David’s hatred for authority figures might extend to all cops all the time. The challenge, if I chose to approach him, was to re-route his anger, to focus it back on his family, on the people who’d provoked his anger in the first place. The rest would be easy. After all, he’d loved Mynka.

A little after noon, I left my post in search of a bathroom and something to drink. I found a reasonably clean restroom several blocks to the north and a vendor near a deserted playground who sold me a can of soda, two bottles of spring water and a couple of boiled hotdogs. I carried the food back to a convenient bench, opened a bottle of water, then leaned forward to pour the cold water onto my head and neck. I told myself that weather is never an excuse, not for a cop; that standing up to the elements is a matter of honor. I wasn’t consoled and the water didn’t cool me off all that much either.

I was just about to bite into the first hot dog when the door of the townhouse opened and the Portolas’ maid emerged. I recognized her without difficulty. At Blessed Virgin, she’d covered her head with a gold kerchief before going inside.

Without pausing, she turned south on Riverside Drive. I dumped the hot dogs and the soda in a wire trash basket and trotted after her, opening and draining the last bottle of water as I went. The water seemed to come out through my skin as I drank, as if my stomach were somehow directly connected to my sweat glands. But I had little choice except to quickstep down Riverside Drive. The little maid was moving right along, arms swinging, legs churning. Without slowing down, she turned left on 74th Street and continued on, pausing briefly on West End Avenue to let the traffic pass, until she finally entered the very upscale Fairway Market on Broadway.

Inside the market, the air was cold enough to bring goose bumps to my forearms. It was refrigerator cold. I let my eyes sweep past stacks of piled grapefruits that looked as if they’d been spit-shined, past strawberries that might have been sculpted by Fabergé, to the back of the store where I found the maid standing with a small group of customers. At that point, I was supposed to call it quits, having verified exactly what I’d come to verify: the Portola’s maid was allowed to leave the home unaccompanied. But I found myself moving closer, despite the looks I drew from the other customers.

The maid was standing in front of a twenty-foot counter devoted entirely to salmon – Nova Scotia salmon, Irish salmon, Maine salmon, Scotch salmon, wild Scotch salmon, wild Columbia River salmon, wild Canadian salmon. She’d taken a number and was impatiently awaiting service, shifting her weight from foot to foot. I walked past her, to a display of cooking oils that included walnut, hazelnut and pumpkin seed.

In her twenties, she was as plain as Mynka, with narrow downcast eyes, a long nose, broad at the tip, and a heavy jaw that would become her defining feature as she grew older. She kept glancing back and forth, from a cheap watch held to her wrist by a pink band, to an LED screen displaying the number of the patron currently being served. I couldn’t tell how far she was from the front of the line, only that there were half a dozen customers standing before the counter. But I could see that she was afraid and I had to wonder whether Aslan charged a premium for a domestic servant who could be abused, as well as used.