‘Tell me what Sherman Cole looks like.’ Chigorin’s already walking toward the door. ‘How old was he?’
‘In his late thirties.’
‘Describe him.’
Hootie follows Chigorin into the hallway, pausing only to lock up before heading down the stairs. The Russian’s just ahead, leaning hard on the banister as he descends. Though he’s obviously hurting, he doesn’t complain.
‘Average height, under six feet, but built strong. Not thick like Bubba, more like a bodybuilder. His hair’s dark – maybe too dark, like he dyes it – and he has a mustache. Other than that, he looked ordinary.’
‘That’s it? What color were his eyes?’
‘I got no idea. I was a hundred feet away. But I’ll know him if I see him.’
‘That’s why you’re comin’ with me out to Bayside. If a citizen’s life is in immediate danger, I have the authority to conduct a search without gettin’ a warrant. So, I need you to ID Sherman Cole.’
Chigorin opens the lobby door and steps out on to the sidewalk. After days of intense summer heat, the cool breeze feels somehow alien. He pauses for a moment, turning his face into the wind, then limps off toward his car. ‘How did Bubba identify Sherman Cole?’
‘From his cellphone number. At least, that’s what Amelia told me.’
‘See, that should have set off the alarm bells right there. You can block caller ID just by dialing star-six-seven.’
‘He tried that, but Amelia forced him to unblock his number. Threatened to cut him loose if he didn’t. Look, I only came in at the end, but I know Bubba and Amelia were months setting this up.’ Hootie’s feeling a lot better now that he’s unburdened himself. He slides into the car on the passenger’s side, mindful of the weapon strapped to his ankle. ‘The thing about Cole was that he had the money to pay off. So you could say we got too greedy.’
‘Don’t be hard on yourself. Given the number of wild cards in the pedophile deck, there was always a chance that you’d turn up a sociopath.’
Hootie fastens his seat belt as Chigorin pulls out of the parking space. Not a bad idea, as it happens. Their route takes them along a series of highways: FDR Drive across the Triborough Bridge to the Grand Central Parkway, to the Whitestone Expressway, to the Cross Island Parkway. The cop pushes the speed limit hard, weaving in and out of traffic, cutting in front of irate drivers, pulling on to the shoulder when an accident brings them to a halt by LaGuardia Airport. He doesn’t slow down until they leave the parkway at Bell Boulevard. Then he pulls to the curb in front of a restaurant and slams the transmission into park.
‘We’re two minutes from the address on that map,’ he announces, ‘and we need to get squared away. But first, lemme ask you this. If I didn’t show up this morning, what did you plan to do?’
Hootie’s looking over Chigorin’s shoulder at the arc of a long suspension bridge. He doesn’t know the name of the bridge, or where it comes down on the other end. The Bronx, he guesses. Connecticut would be too far.
‘I was gonna drive out here and find Sherman Cole.’
‘And then what?’
‘Kill his dog.’
‘Say again?’
‘That’s what Bubba said he was gonna do. Kill his wife, kill his kids, kill his dog.’
Chigorin’s laugh, as he reaches into his briefcase, is short and harsh. Hootie averts his eyes, looking past the cop and out over the choppy waters of … of what? The East River? The Hudson? There are sailboats out on the water, and a little band of fishing boats anchored beneath the bridge. He watches a fisherman cast a metallic lure in a long arc, from the shadows into the sunlight.
‘Look, Hootie, even if Cole is at the address, that doesn’t mean we’ll find Amelia. In fact, when you think about it, his home is the last place he’d bring her. And you can’t assume that he really lives there. Cellphones are cloned every day.’
Hootie turns his head to stare out through the windshield at the road ahead. He’s thinking, If Sherman Cole lives in that house, Hootie Hootier will find Amelia, dead or alive. And not tomorrow, either. That’s because Bubba was right. Kill his wife, kill his kids, kill his fucking dog.
The cop’s made Hootie’s life a lot easier, whether he knows it or not. Sherman Cole wasn’t responsible for Hootie’s indecision. Hootie’s problem was functioning in a rich white neighborhood. Now he can let the cop function for him. He doesn’t have to learn on the fly.
‘So what I want you to do is keep your mouth shut,’ Chigorin continues. ‘If you spot Cole, stick your right hand into your pocket, but don’t say anything. That OK with you?’
Hootie pretends to consider the question. Finally, he says, ‘Hey, you’re the expert.’
Only a few miles from Chigorin’s home in College Point, Bayside is familiar ground to the Russian. He pilots his car past a large garden apartment complex, then an upscale shopping center, to 27th Avenue, where he makes a left turn on to a block of large single-family homes set on generous lots. The architecture, except for the occasional McMansion, is a mix of colonial, ranch and Tudor homes. Chigorin has come to hate the McMansions. The other houses are set well back from the road, with spacious lawns and elaborate gardens, while the McMansions, with their columns and turrets and faux balconies, crowd up close to the sidewalks like inner-city apartment buildings. Chigorin’s heard that these enormous homes are owned almost exclusively by Asians. If so, they’ve jettisoned the Eastern concepts of grace and harmony.
But Sherman Cole’s home on a cul-de-sac is not a McMansion. It’s a three-story Tudor with fluted chimneys at either end of a slate roof. On the lower floor, the windows are multi-paned and leaded. Half-timbers criss-cross the stucco façade, while dormer windows project from the attic. The grounds are immaculate, the lawn so green, even in midsummer, that it might have been ordered whole from a seed catalog.
Chigorin nods to himself. Money, money, money. In his experience, you can’t intimidate wealthy people. To the wealthy, cops are little more than servants. Or better yet, security guards charged with safeguarding their persons and property.
‘Remember what I said,’ the Russian tells Hootie as he opens the door and eases his left foot on to the road. ‘We’re only here to make an ID. If Cole’s in the house, I’m gonna call for backup before I force my way inside.’
Chigorin limps along a flagstone path to a pair of heavily-carved doors. The doors are windowless, but a security camera to his right corrects that defect. The security camera is bolted to the stucco wall ten feet above his head.
The Russian glances into the lens without changing expression, then rings the bell. A moment later, the door on his right swings out to reveal the ugliest man he’s ever seen. Little more than a slash, the man’s wide mouth curls downward to frame a jaw that might be used to scoop flour from a bin. His large eyes bulge from his head, round as golf balls, yet his pupils are no more than smudges behind lids drawn so close he might be peering between the slats of a Venetian blind.
‘May I help you?’ the man asks.
Chigorin notes the careful enunciation, each word distinct. He’s reminded of the butlers in English movies, how their diction is always more precise than the aristocrats they serve. But the man doesn’t have a British accent and he’s not a servant. He’s dressed in wool slacks and a cardigan sweater, and his leather slippers are worn shiny by use.
‘Detective Chigorin,’ the Russian announces, displaying his badge and his ID. ‘I’m looking for Sherman Cole.’
When the man smiles, the corners of his mouth rise to form a perfect smiley-face. ‘That would be me,’ he says. ‘Won’t you come in?’
‘Thanks.’ Chigorin walks past Cole into an oak-paneled foyer, with Hootie following behind. The foyer is six-sided, with a yellow-brown stone floor. From the ceiling directly above Chigorin’s head, a glass fixture in the shape of a tulip hangs from a delicate chain, fixing the detective in a circle of light.
Chigorin studies Cole for a moment, but he can’t get past the man�
��s looks. Cole’s thick eyebrows poke up in every direction, while his receding forehead runs backward to merge with a nearly bald scalp. From the neck down, he appears to be in his forties. From the neck up, he might be sixty.
‘Say, would it be alright if we sat down?’ the Russian asks. ‘I got bit by a dog yesterday and my ankle’s killing me.’
‘Certainly.’
Cole leads Chigorin and Hootie into the living room. Large enough to accept the Russian’s entire apartment, the room is filled to overflowing with Victorian furniture, most of it mismatched and all showing signs of wear. But Chigorin doesn’t sense neglect. It’s more like Cole’s preserving the family heirlooms. Every object is free of dust, including a series of ornately-framed landscapes.
Chigorin takes a seat and Hootie joins him. Cole remains standing. He extends a hand and says, ‘May I offer you some refreshment? Coffee? Tea? A soft drink, perhaps?’
‘Maybe a soft drink, a Coke if you have one.’ The Russian turns to Hootie. ‘How ’bout you?’
Hootie nods, the gesture a bit too vehement, and Chigorin represses a frown. But Cole appears not to notice. He leaves the room, seemingly in no hurry, returning a few minutes later, tray in hand. The tray holds two Cokes in small green bottles and a pair of ice-filled tumblers garnished with wedges of lemon. Cole puts the tray on a leather hassock, then finds a seat of his own in a brocaded wing chair.
Chigorin fills a glass, squeezes in a few drops of lemon, finally drinks. He replaces the glass on the tray and smiles at Sherman Cole. ‘There’s nothin’ like a Coke when you’re really thirsty. Talk about an endorphin rush. I think I just satisfied ten different needs simultaneously.’
The Russian’s looking into Cole’s eyes, or as much of them as he can see. But Cole’s heavy lids don’t so much as quiver. He crosses his legs at the knees and folds his hands in his lap, then says, ‘I’m glad you enjoyed it. I don’t get many guests since my wife passed on. I’m afraid my social skills need polishing.’
Chigorin drinks again. ‘You’re doin’ just fine, Mr. Cole, and please let me apologize in advance for imposing myself.’
‘Always glad to cooperate. Support your police and all that.’
‘I only wish everybody thought like you. Where I work, cooperation is hard to come by. In fact, I’m more likely to be on the wrong end of a brick tossed from a roof than get cooperation from the locals.’ Chigorin shrugs and smiles a what-can-ya-do? smile. Life is hard and you know what happens next. ‘So, anyway, down to business. I’m here about your cellphone. You do own a cellphone, right?’
‘Yes, but I almost never use it. My children live far away and I don’t get out much.’ Cole’s smile is rueful. This is the first time he’s shown any emotion and the Russian is quick to note it.
‘Do you live here alone?’
‘Essentially. I have a cleaning crew in twice a week. They handle my laundry as well.’
‘You cook for yourself?’
‘Simple things, chops, steaks, eggs.’ He purses his lips for a moment, the gesture opaque, then continues. ‘There was a time when my wife and I were avid readers of the restaurant reviews in the New York Times. Each year, we had at least one meal at every four-star restaurant in the city. Of course, we lived in Manhattan, then, and it was much easier to get around.’ Another pursing of the lips, this time prolonged. ‘Funny how the little bits of your life slip away. There’s no trauma to it, only a day and a night and everything’s changed.’
Chigorin thinks it over for a minute, then says, ‘Actually, with my personal life, it’s been more like a big explosion from day one. But about your cellphone. Does anyone besides you have authority to use it?’
‘As I said, I live alone.’
‘So, it’s just you,’ Chigorin persists. ‘Nobody else.’
‘No.’
‘What about without your knowledge?’
‘I don’t know what to say. My cellphone is on a bureau in my bedroom, plugged into the charger. Somebody on the cleaning crew might have used it, I suppose. I don’t follow them about.’ Cole pauses long enough to display a whip-crack of a smile. ‘In fact, I try to keep out of their way.’
‘I see. So when did you last use your phone? Do you remember?’
When Cole leans back his jaw comes up to shield his eyes. As if the lids weren’t protection enough. ‘Last week,’ he says. ‘I carried the phone on a visit to my ophthalmologist. But I didn’t use it. In fact, I can’t remember when I used it last.’
‘Do you have a bill lying around somewhere?’
Cole’s mouth turns down, a smiley-face in reverse. ‘No, I’m sorry. I pay my bills as soon as I get them and I don’t keep the invoices. My cancelled check is proof of payment. I suppose I could phone my carrier.’
‘Or you could go online.’
‘Yes, that would do it, too.’
Chigorin finishes his Coke, hands Cole a business card and struggles to his feet. ‘I’d appreciate a call if you get around to it,’ he says. ‘If somebody cloned your cellphone, which happens every day, a record of his calls will show up on your bill. Of course, I could go to your carrier. But that would take weeks and the offense under investigation is very serious.’ He limps toward the door, the pain in his ankle so ferocious he’s imagining himself being fitted for a prosthesis.
‘I almost forgot,’ he says when they reach the door, ‘I need the name of that cleaning company, and the names of any employees who had access to your cellphone.’
Cole flashes another quick grin. ‘The company is called Paragon Cleaning Services. It’s located in Greenpoint and the owners are Polish.’
‘What about the workers? Are they Polish, too?’
‘Yes, and they’re very hard workers. Another reason I keep out of their way.’
NINETEEN
Hootie doesn’t have a clue, not a glimmer, not a glimmer of a glimmer. He’s been in a fog since Sherman Cole announced that his name was Sherman Cole. And the cop’s not helping. He’s limping along the path toward the car and he’s frowning when he says, out of the corner of his mouth, ‘Could you at least try to look casual, for Christ’s sake?’
‘What are you talkin’ about?’
Chigorin manages to get halfway into the car, then has to raise his left leg with both hands and carry it inside before he closes the door. ‘I’m startin’ to lose patience, Hootie,’ he says.
‘Say again?’
‘Get in the fuckin’ car or I’ll leave ya here.’
Chigorin’s makes a U-turn the instant Hootie complies. He drives back to the Cross Island Parkway, but instead of returning to the city, heads out to Long Island, again running ten miles an hour above the speed limit. Hootie buckles up, then asks, ‘Ya wanna tell me where we’re goin’?’
‘To a hospital. I gotta get this ankle checked out.’
‘Now?’
Chigorin doesn’t answer the question. Instead, he shakes his head in disgust and says, ‘I shoulda killed the fuckin’ dog. I’m talkin’ about the little terrier that bit me. What is it the Dog Whisperer says? Rules, boundaries and limitations? I shoulda limited that mutt’s boundaries by putting a bullet in his goddamned head.’
They’re traveling alongside a bay – the one, Hootie assumes, Bayside is named after. There are sailors here, too, taking advantage of the gusty breeze. One boat in particular, bearing a crimson sail, is heeled over so far it appears about to capsize.
‘So, that’s it for Amelia,’ Hootie says, more to himself than Chigorin.
‘Not necessarily.’
‘Not necessarily?’
‘Hey, were you in that house with me? Did I hallucinate you?’
Finally, Hootie looses his temper. ‘Fuck you, cop. I don’t need to hear this bullshit.’
‘But bullshit is exactly what you heard. Every word out of Cole’s mouth was bullshit. It was an act, and a pretty bad one. Take this as gospel, Hootie, that asshole’s dirty. And by the way, we only have his word that he’s Sherman Cole. He didn’t sh
ow ID.’
Hootie looks down at his hands. He’d swallowed every word Cole spoke, swallowed them whole. Now he doesn’t know where to begin. Finally, he says, ‘We were only there for ten minutes.’
‘And half of that was waitin’ for Cole to fetch our sodas. Which, by the way, you should’ve drank. But that’s actually good, that you sat there like a lump.’
‘Why?’
‘Because Sherman Cole never asked who you were.’
‘He probably thought I was your partner.’
‘Gimme a break, Hootie. You’re too young to be a cop, much less a detective. Cole should’ve asked, but he didn’t. Just like he didn’t ask us what we wanted, like I had to introduce the subject myself. I’ve knocked on hundreds of doors and I’m tellin ya, when they don’t ask what you want it’s because they already know. And by the way, he never asked what his cellphone was being used for either. That’s a red flag right there. If someone was using your cellphone illegally, wouldn’t you want to know what for?’
Again, Hootie’s struck dumb, this time by the fact that he was such a dummy. He says nothing as the cop whips across traffic to catch the on-ramp to the eastbound Long Island Expressway.
‘There’s more, if ya wanna hear.’
‘Why not?’
Predictably, Chigorin ignores the sarcasm. ‘You told me the first phone contacts with the pedophile occurred a month ago.’
‘More like six weeks.’
‘In which case Mr. Cole paid a bill that reflects those calls, right? So why didn’t he notice them? Keep in mind, he told us that he almost never uses the phone. That means his bills should be the same, month after month.’
‘Maybe he just pays the bills without checking. He’s pretty far out of it.’
‘Hootie, did you notice those glass-fronted cabinets on the wall behind Cole’s chair? I mean, you had plenty of time to look around while he was in the kitchen.’ Chigorin pauses, but Hootie doesn’t reply. ‘Well, one of them had little statues in it and the other had little boxes and there wasn’t a speck of dust anywhere. The glass was clean, too, even at the edges. In fact, the whole room was spotless. So you can put aside Cole’s act. He’s not a poor broken-hearted widower. He’s very much in control of his life. And you can forget what I said about cloning his cellphone, too. That didn’t happen.’
Cracker Bling Page 14
