Tower of Babel

by Michael Sears

  Ted sat down again. “I’m going to look in your purse. Normally I would never do that, but these aren’t normal times.”

  She didn’t object.

  Lipstick. Keys. A slim metal credit card holder with a Visa and a folded, crisp twenty-dollar bill. And her cell phone.

  “See? Success.”

  He noticed a zippered pocket. There was something inside. He debated for only a moment. He opened it and found two foil-wrapped condoms.

  “Wow.” He zipped the pocket closed. The implications of this discovery were both pleasing and disconcerting. Kenzie had come to dinner prepared, her decision already made or at least more than half-made. Should he feel flattered? He did. Did he also feel a step behind the beat in their mating dance? He did, but maybe it didn’t matter. There was also the possibility that the mere existence of the condoms in her purse had nothing to do with him. He took the phone and replaced everything else.

  “I will never admit to having seen these,” he whispered.

  He woke the phone. “I’m going to need your thumb.” He gently took her right hand and pressed her thumb to the screen. Nothing happened. “Not your thumb? Okay.” He switched to her index finger. The screen flashed. He was in.

  “And this is something else I would never do. Except I am doing it. I’m not intentionally violating your privacy. I’m looking for a way to get those bastards.”

  He opened the camera function. The most recent photo file opened with another touch. It was a video. The video. He tapped it.

  The picture was clear enough, though the distance and perspective were not perfect. Cheryl could be identified only occasionally in profile. Jackie never, as the back of her head was to the camera the whole time. The others were easier to make out: the fat man, Pak, and Kid Reisner. The camera lingered on each one. It passed over the model—Ted generously granted her that description—in a blur.

  “This is dynamite, Kenzie. I’m sending the video to my phone,” he told her as he found his own number in her phone’s contacts. “I’ll share it with that detective as soon as I get the chance.”

  He checked his phone. The video had come through. He pushed her phone down into the purse and opened the wardrobe.

  Kenzie’s voice hissed at him in a hoarse whisper. “What are you doing?”

  He whirled around, fighting to control the explosion of emotions that were all firing at once. Guilt—her purse was in his hand. Elation that she was awake and aware. Confusion—Kenzie’s eyes were still shut.

  A woman was standing at the door. Kenzie’s mother—there could be no doubt. She was a stunning redhead with the same light blue eyes, though in her case they peeked out from behind gold-framed glasses. She had either danced nightly in the Fountain of Youth or given birth in her early teens. She could have passed for an older sister. And there was the voice. Breathy, husky, and deep.

  “I’m Ted Molloy,” he said, knowing that would mean nothing to this woman, but he had to say something while he thought of a way out of this predicament. He was holding the damn purse.

  The clincher for identification of the woman was the attitude. “I didn’t ask who you were. I asked what the hell you’re doing.”

  “I was worried,” Ted said.

  “Yes?”

  Ted thought this would have been a perfect time for Kenzie to wake up and explain everything to her mother.

  “I was with her last night,” he said. “I wanted to see that none of her things had gone missing.”

  Apparently he had blurted out the magic words. “You were there? Did you see who did this?” The woman softened visibly. Her voice was no longer commanding but pleading.

  “I saw it happen, but, no, I couldn’t see the driver. It was dark, raining. And it happened so fast. You’re Mrs. Zielinski?” If Mrs. Zielinski was there, then Mr. Z, as Lester called him, was probably not far. Ted needed to be gone before the man arrived.

  She smoothed Kenzie’s hair. It hadn’t needed smoothing. “I am. Dolores Zielinski. Dee.” She almost reached out a hand to shake but stopped herself. “What did you find? Was anything missing?”

  Ted handed the purse to her. “I don’t know. Her wallet and phone are there.” Too late, he thought of the zipper pocket. “I don’t think she was carrying much cash. I’d guess it’s all there.” He began to edge past her toward the door.

  “Ted Molloy?” she asked, obviously trying to remember if she’d heard his name before.

  “Yes. Kenzie and I met recently.”

  “So you were on a date?” She had managed to shift her stance so that she was subtly blocking his exit. It was well executed, too well to have been unconscious.

  If she was as perceptive as her daughter, he could not risk lying to her.

  “Yes and no.” He was not comfortable with this line of questioning. The condoms in the purse would give one message and a tale of bribery and fraud an entirely different one. It was time to change direction. “When you arrived was there a policeman here?”

  “Yes. Why?”

  “When I left here last night, I asked that they keep an eye on her.”

  “Why would you do that? The detective told me this was an accident. A car theft.” Ted was stunned but he struggled to recover. He could not let her see his surprise. “Was this someone from NYPD? Detective Duran? Or Kasabian?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Duran’s a big black man. Long face. Square jaw. Kasabian looks like the old Marlboro man—”

  She cut him off. “No. No. They were nothing like that. Could they have been local? I mean from here. Nassau County. They were here this morning.”

  “What did they say?”

  “Not much, I’m afraid. They talked to me for a minute or two, told the uniformed policeman he could go, and they left.”

  A string of curses ran through Ted’s mind, but he managed to stop them before they erupted out of his mouth.

  “Is everything all right?” she asked. “I didn’t think to ask them to stay.”

  Ted did not want to frighten her. He’d talk to Duran or Kasabian as soon as he could get away from her. They’d had a deal. “I’m sure it’s fine. They wouldn’t have left if there was a problem.”

  Ted watched her rearrange her features to appear fully convinced. It was an impressive attempt. A less skeptical man might have believed it. “Where did you two meet?” she said, making polite conversation. “According to my daughter, her life begins and ends with her work.”

  He tried a laugh to reassure her and dispel any suspicions. He failed. The laugh was false, and Mrs. Zielinski was sharp. “She stopped me on the street. In front of the courthouse.”

  “Hmm?” It was a perfect response. She gave nothing away and at the same time invited more. How did a librarian develop lawyers’ skills? Ted didn’t fall for it. He had more pressing issues. He needed to talk to the detectives.

  “I should be going,” he said. “I’d rather we had met under other circumstances.”

  She brushed by him and placed the purse in the wardrobe. “Will you be back?”

  Ted heard footsteps approaching down the hall. Mr. Z? Trapped. He’d waited too long.

  “I’ll try and stop by this evening.” He ducked out the door. A tall, spindly man in doctor’s coat passed him, moving quickly down the corridor. Ted released an anxious breath and headed for the elevators.

  -50-

  Mohammed had the car idling at the curb. Ted joined Lester in the back seat, and they headed toward the LIE. Lester had a bulging plastic bag in his lap.

  “How’s the lady?” he asked.

  “Not good,” Ted said. “What’s in the bag?”

  Lester flashed him a view of the contents. Ted guessed there were two dozen or more airline-sized vodka bottles.

  “What’s this?” Ted said.

  “Controlled dosage,” Lester said.
“Is she going to be okay?”

  “I don’t know. The nurse thinks so. They’ve got her in an induced coma.”

  “That doesn’t sound good.”

  “No,” Ted agreed, though reluctant to admit to a negative thought. “It doesn’t. How many of those have you had?”

  “One an hour should work.”

  “So you’ve had one so far,” Ted said.

  Lester held up two empties. “The key to dealing with pain is to stay in front of it. Did you get to talk to a doctor?”

  “No. Her mother showed up, and I thought that was a strong indication that I should be somewhere else.”

  “What’s the mother like?” Lester asked.

  “She’s too young for you.”

  “You say that, but you’ve never seen me dance.”

  “I need to speak to Detective Duran. There’s no guard on her. The mother said they pulled the uniforms early this morning. I talked to the hospital security guys on the way out but they’re useless. Empty uniforms.”

  “Will Duran listen to you? I’ve got a bad feeling.”

  Ted nodded agreement. He did not like this situation at all. “I did manage one thing.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I was able to get the video Kenzie shot at the restaurant last night. I’ve got Councilman Pak, Cheryl, Little Reisner, all of them. Once Duran sees it, he’ll have to take this seriously.”

  “Meanwhile, we need some place to hole up where we won’t wake up being clubbed.”

  “I have an idea about that.” Ted looked at Mohammed, who appeared frazzled and in need of a break. “How’re you holding up?”

  “Rock and roll,” he replied.

  “Mohammed thinks we’re high maintenance,” Lester muttered.

  “He’s got a point,” Ted said. “Take us to Corona. I’m looking for a guy who might help us.”

  -51-

  “If it’s comfort you’re looking for, I won’t be much help.” The Preacher eyed Lester warily. The sling, the stitches, and the bruises on his face added up to a troublesome package. Ted noticed that he was also a bit red-eyed, which could have been the vodka or, almost as likely, the effect of having slept only sparingly on a hard pew for the past two nights.

  Ted had found their man delivering his message to a smirking group of Hispanic teenagers outside a Dominican deli. The Preacher made a brief show of annoyance at being interrupted, but it was obvious to all concerned that the gang of youths—both male and female—were much more interested in one another than anything the grey-bearded man in the ankle-length overcoat might have to say.

  “I don’t need turndown service and a chocolate on the pillow,” Ted said. “I need anonymity. A mattress and a shower would be nice. And a roof.”

  “I’ll take a pillow,” Lester said.

  “McKenzie thought you could help,” Ted said.

  If there had been any reluctance on the Preacher’s part, it crumbled at the mention of Ms. Zielinski. “Come along, then,” the Preacher said. “Manny Singh may have something for you.”

  The entrepreneurial Mr. Singh led them up a flight of rickety stairs that seemed to have been tacked on to the rear wall of his market as an afterthought. They passed a featureless door marked fire exit only on the second floor and continued up to the top.

  The aromas of cardamom, garlic, and mint enveloped them. Caramelized onion and slow-cooked lamb provided a bassline. Something sweet—warm honey, perhaps—drifted in as counterpoint. Ted’s mouth watered.

  “There is no key,” Manny said. “But you will not need one. You will see.” Ted and Lester followed him into a dark hallway. “Please to keep your voices down. Most of my tenants work nights and are sleeping now. They are mostly cooks, waiters, sous-chefs. In Manhattan.”

  They passed a room with sagging couches grouped around a silent television. A soccer game was in progress, but no one was watching. Heavy rugs hung from the walls and covered the two windows, allowing only a thin ray of sunlight to hit the floor.

  “This is the community room,” Singh said. “Anyone can use it. No food in here, please.” He continued toward the rear of the apartment, passing a spotless bathroom on one side and a large and similarly spotless kitchen on the other. An ankle-height night-light was the only illumination in the hall, and it took Ted a moment to see that they were facing two doors.

  “I don’t know who is here right now, but there are a few beds available. Take your pick.” Singh cracked open the door to the right.

  The bedroom was lit with more night-lights. Four two-tiered bunk beds filled the walls. There was a low coffee table in the center of the room surrounded by brocaded pillows. Most of the beds were hidden behind hanging blankets suspended from the bed frame above or from curtain rods on the ceiling. Light snoring could be heard from behind one of the blankets.

  “The rules are simple. Respect your neighbors. They are almost all Afghan, but you will find them very accepting and welcoming. No women allowed. No drugs. Tobacco and alcohol are allowed, but drunkenness is not.” He looked sharply at Lester, who nodded in reply. “You pay weekly. In advance.”

  Ted took out two more of the hundred-dollar bills. The envelope was getting thin. “Is there any place to stow our things? I mean if we go out for a while.”

  Singh smiled with barely concealed disdain. “No one will steal from you here. Leave your things on your bunk. They will be there when you return.”

  Ted laid his jacket on a top bunk. Lester took a lower bunk on the other side of the room.

  “What do you think?” Ted said, keeping his voice low.

  “I wouldn’t mind having a lock on the door,” Lester said. “But somebody would have to be stark raving mad to bust in on a dozen or so guys who handle knives for a living.”

  -52-

  Lester swallowed another mini bottle of medicinal Smirnoff and crawled into his bunk. Ted went out to the community room. He had calls to make.

  The first was to the NYPD detectives. Ted wanted to know why Kenzie had been left with no protection—and what the NYPD was prepared to do about it. He took out Kasabian’s card and dialed.

  The moment he heard the detective’s voice, Ted started talking. “What the hell is going on? Why did you pull protection on Ms. Zielinski?”

  “Who’s speaking?”

  “You know who this is, Detective. Ted Molloy, and you screwed me, and you left McKenzie Zielinski lying there for those assholes to come in and finish what they started last night.”

  “Hello again, Mr. Molloy. I did not pull protection on your friend. I don’t make those decisions.”

  Ted didn’t want lessons in police bureaucracy. “Suppose for the moment that you are not jerking me off again. I’ll bite. What happened?”

  “As of oh-nine-thirty, the NYPD is no longer pursuing a case involving Ms. Zielinski.”

  “Why the hell not?”

  “Orders from on high. Nassau County has jurisdiction now.”

  “What? Why? Fuck it. Let me talk to Duran—”

  The detective cut him off. “I’ll let him know you called. Meanwhile, I will tell you this: we made our argument for keeping the case and were told in bold capital letters to back off.”

  Ted tried to swallow his anger; it wasn’t helping his case. He tried persistence. “She needs protection.”

  “Are you listening? Providing protection for a crime victim outside NYPD jurisdiction is not standard procedure around here.”

  He made it personal. “What are you going to do for her?”

  “Nassau County Police believe their investigation will show this was an accident resulting from a carjacking gone wrong.”

  The hell with being reasonable. “That’s bullshit.”

  “It’s their case.”

  “What about the bribes? The fraud on Barbara Miller? Reisner and Pak and the fat g
uy?”

  “We have no evidence of any crime.”

  “Are you fucking kidding me? Shit. I can’t talk to you. Get me Duran.”

  “We are working the murder of Richard Rubiano, but we have other active investigations, and his case is now over a week old. As a close associate with motive, you are considered a possible suspect and will be until we find closure.”

  “What about the big Greek? Nicky.”

  “Being sought as a person of interest. We are investigating multiple scenarios.”

  “McKenzie Zielinski was attacked because she got involved in this. If anything happens to her, it’s on you.”

  “I don’t know what to tell you, Molloy. But it’s not my case.”

  -53-

  Releasing anger and frustration on Detective Kasabian was an indulgence. Ted had enjoyed it, but he was left with more problems than solutions. Short of calling in a bomb threat, he had no idea of how to protect Kenzie while she lay all but dead to the world.

  He found himself retracing his steps down the staircase to the street. The whole structure seemed to groan with each step, echoing his encroaching despair. He was running out of options, and when none were left, where would he be? He was losing, and he hated it.

  Back in middle school he had joined the wrestling team only because the coach had told him he could be good at it. Eventually, he came to realize that this was the coach’s standard way of recruiting players. Everyone, regardless of any innate talents, got the same pitch. But Ted had stuck it out. He lost often the first two years, but in high school he began to win. In his junior year, he lost one match—to a wiry Hispanic kid from the South Bronx who knocked him out of contention for statewide competition. The following November, he pinned the same kid in eight seconds. He had learned something about himself: he did not like to lose.

  And despite the disappointments he had faced in his career and his marriage, he still didn’t like it.

  This was a fight he had not sought. The moment when Richie Rubiano dumped the file on the table at Gallagher’s was clear in his memory. But somehow, the case had found him, and the stakes had never before in his life been any higher. Like it or not, it was his to lose.