The Cold Room (27 page)

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

T
here 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.

I rose from the bench as the limo turned onto 82nd Street, draped my bag across my shoulder, finally offered my hand to Sister Kassia. Together, we walked to the door of the townhouse, which opened before I could knock.

I followed the nun inside, past Tynia, who slid the door closed behind us. Tynia was wearing an apron over her blue dress and she wiped her palms across the front, but did not offer her hand. We were standing in a large entrance hall paneled in dark wood. There were side chairs flanking the door leading into the house, with oval seats and backs, and four oil paintings on the wall above the wainscoting. The paintings, all landscapes, were surrounded by enormous gilt frames and seemed vaguely familiar.

Without a word, Tynia led us to a stairway against the northern wall, then down into a basement kitchen. I came last, hanging back when I reached the bottom of the stairs. For a moment, I failed to register any of the kitchen’s details except for one. On the other side of the room, directly across from where I stood, a wooden door rose to the height of my head. The door turned on hinges made of hammered iron and the gap between door and frame was sealed with rubbery gray insulation.

I waited where I was until Tynia and Sister Kassia were seated at a long table, lost in conversation. Then I crossed the room to run the fingers of my right hand over the front of the door. The faint mahogany stain was flaking and the surface felt dry and rough. Around the handle, a black semicircle attested to decades of wear. Setting down my bag, I gave the handle a yank. It released with a satisfying
ka-chunk
and the door turned effortlessly on its hinges. I was left staring into a room about ten feet deep, with shelves and bins, some open, some covered, to my left and right. The room was narrow, not more than four feet wide, including the bins, and I had to turn my shoulders when I stepped inside.

Instinctively, I reached out to keep the door from shutting, but I needn’t have bothered. Unlike most refrigerator doors, which close by themselves if left ajar, this door was weighted to swing outward. Just as well, because there was no inner latch. If the door shut behind me, I’d have to rely on a red button, labeled EMERGENCY, mounted on the wall.

The button was a great idea, no question, but as a means of escape, it depended entirely on the good will of the individual, or individuals, on the other side of the door.

The cold air cut its way into my skin as I edged toward the back of the refrigerator. I found myself wanting to jam my hands into my pockets. Instead, I began to pull out the bins, to examine them closely, along with the shelves beneath them. I was looking for blood evidence, which I didn’t find, but I was struck by the number of empty bins. There was a lot of food in the refrigerator, including a dozen varieties of cheese and enough fruit to stock a pushcart, but the unit was only a third full. Clearly, it was too large for a single family.

My fingertips and toes were growing numb by the time I gave up the search. My forearms were rapidly following suit. I was wearing a short-sleeved polo shirt, loosely woven, and lightweight tropical slacks, both seemingly as porous as fishnets. The temperature inside the refrigerator could not have been more than a few degrees above freezing.

For a moment, I stood in the doorway, letting warm air from the kitchen wash across my body. Sister Kassia and Tynia were still seated at the table, still engaged in intense conversation. But now the empty space in front of Tynia was taken up by a set of silverware, a service for twelve by the look of it. Tynia was working on the knives, one at a time, coating them with polish, then buffing them until they gleamed. She worked quickly, leaving me to suppose that she’d been assigned a number of duties, and that she faced consequences if they were not completed before the return of her employer.

‘Sister?’ I waited until the nun turned to me. ‘I’m going to close the door. I want you to open it in five minutes. Not before, understand?’ I shifted my gaze to Tynia. Initially, I found her eyes questioning, but then her doubts were replaced by simple recognition. We understood each other now.

When the door closed and the refrigerator went dark, I took several steps back. I couldn’t shake a feeling that the room was contracting around me and I instinctively hunched over, as if avoiding a blow. In that moment, the cold became organic, an alive and hungry parasite burrowing down through my skin.

I was tempted to fight back, to jog in place, to flap my arms, as I knew Mynka had been tempted, as Tynia had been tempted. But there was just so much oxygen in that little room and the harder I worked the sooner it would be exhausted. The only question was which would kill me first, would I freeze to death or would I suffocate?

But these were questions that didn’t need answering. After a time – which I was unable to measure – I began to shiver, a reflex which became more and more intense as the seconds ticked by. Eventually, conserving oxygen ceased to be a viable option. I started to run in place, slowly at first, than faster, until my body produced enough heat to drive the cold away. The effect, as I well knew, would only be temporary. As long as that door remained closed, the cold was an enemy that couldn’t be defeated, or even kept at bay for any length of time.