by Steven Henry
“My name is Detective O'Reilly,” Erin said. “NYPD. Please identify yourself, ma'am.”
“I am Natalie Markov,” the woman replied. She had sounded confused. Now she sounded scared. “Why do you have Gregory's telephone? Is he all right?”
“Ma'am, are you at home right now?” Erin asked.
“Yes. Is Gregory okay? Please, you are scaring me.” Natalie was getting more frantic.
“Ms. Markov, is Gregory Markov your husband?”
“Yes!” Natalie shouted. “Now tell me where he is!”
Erin closed her eyes. “We need to talk, Ms. Markov. Something's happened. We need you to come in to the station right away.”
“I do not understand,” Natalie said. “How could this happen?”
Natalie Markov was a tall, slender blonde in her early thirties. She was very pretty, crossing the line into beautiful. She had a model's face, high cheekbones, striking blue eyes, and a firm chin. She wasn't crying. She sat in front of Erin's desk, looking shell-shocked.
Webb should've been doing this, Erin thought bitterly. But rank had its privileges, and one of them was delegating the unpleasant parts of police work to underlings. “Why don't you and Jones talk to her,” he'd said.
“Why us?” Erin asked.
“Because you'll do better at this sort of thing than I would,” Webb had said. “You've got more natural empathy.”
“He means it's an emotional thing, and chicks are better at that,” Jones had whispered in Erin's ear, rolling her eyes.
So here they were, with New York City's newest widow. Natalie had arrived by taxi so quickly after their phone conversation that Erin was half-tempted to flag down the cabbie and give him a speeding ticket on general principle. They'd taken her to the morgue to ID the body, per departmental procedure, and Natalie had agreed that yes, the man on the slab was her husband. Now they were back upstairs. Natalie had a glass of water and a box of tissues on her side of Erin's desk, but hadn't touched them.
“Ma'am, we're very sorry for your loss,” Erin said for the fourth or fifth time. “And we want to help you. Do you know anyone who might have wanted to hurt Gregory? Anyone at all?”
“No,” Natalie said. “My husband is a good man. He helps people. He has no enemies.”
“How long have you been married, Ms. Markov?” Jones asked.
“Five years.”
“You have an accent, ma'am,” Jones said. “Where are you from?”
“I was born in Saint Petersburg,” Natalie said. “I moved here ten years ago.”
“Is Gregory from Russia, too?” Erin asked.
“Yes,” Natalie said. “His birth name is Grigori. When he came to America, he changed the spelling to Gregory, to better fit in.”
“Did you meet in Russia?” Jones asked.
“No,” Natalie said. “It is not easy for immigrants, coming to your country. Many men will take advantage of a young woman with no family. Gregory helped me to find work. Since he came to America the same way, he always wished to help others.” Now, at last, there were tears in her eyes. “He was so kind to me.”
“What line of business was your husband in?” Jones asked.
“Imports,” she said. “Gemstones.”
Erin and Jones exchanged a glance. Neither of them said smuggler. Jones made a note on her pad.
“Do you have any children, ma'am?” Erin asked.
Natalie shook her head. “No. We tried for several years. Last year, I became pregnant. But we lost the baby four months into the pregnancy.”
“That must have been hard,” Jones said. “How did he handle it?”
“He was very upset,” Natalie said. “And he worried about me very much. We both wanted a child so badly.”
Erin swallowed. This line of questions wasn't pleasant. “Was Gregory distant lately?” she asked. “Was he acting at all strange? Like maybe he was hiding something?”
“No,” Natalie said. Then she hesitated. “He hinted there might be a surprise, for our anniversary. He said I would be very happy with it.”
“Is it possible he might have been seeing another woman?” Erin asked.
“Nevozmozhno!” Natalie snapped. Seeing their blank looks, she shook her head violently. “Not possible! You are asking if Gregory had a girlfriend? No! We were happy to be married! We... we were... happy...” Her self-control crumbled as the reality of the situation finally sank in. She buried her head in her hands.
“Natalie,” Erin said as gently as she could. “Is there any reason your husband would have been at a motel with a young woman?”
“What woman?” Natalie demanded. “Who has said this?”
“There was a woman found with him,” Erin explained. “She was also killed.”
Jones took out a photo from the morgue. Erin wished they had a live snapshot of the girl. But then, if they did, they might not need anyone to ID her.
“My God,” Natalie whispered. “No, I do not know her. But if Gregory was with her, it is because he was wishing to help her. That is the man he is... the man he was.”
“What've you got?” Webb asked.
“He was a great guy,” Jones said dryly. “Everyone loved him. Pillar of the community. No enemies, no debts, no shady connections.”
“Damn,” Webb said.
Erin tried not to look as unhappy as she felt. They'd gotten nothing useful out of Natalie. Markov's widow had left after her interview was done, to make arrangements with his business and for the funeral. “Either he was a hell of an actor, or there's nothing he was hiding,” she said. “Natalie... Ms. Markov... seemed genuine.”
“You buy it?” Webb asked Jones.
She nodded. “Yeah. Natalie doesn't know jack about why he got killed.”
Webb rubbed his temples. “Russians,” he said.
“The Markovs came from Russia, sir,” Erin said.
“Not what I meant, O'Reilly,” he said. “Neshenko dropped by Evidence. The prints aren't in-system. But he was able to ID the cigarette butt you found.”
“Yeah, it was a funny color,” Erin said.
“Exactly. Apparently it's a Sobranie Black, a Russian brand.”
“Can you get them in the States?” she asked.
“Yeah, unfortunately,” Webb said. “They're available online, like every damn thing these days. But think about it. Russian cigs, Russian handgun in the drain, Russian victim in the morgue.”
“Two Russian victims, if it turns out Jane Doe's from there, too,” Erin pointed out.
“Yeah,” Webb said. “And Markov was importing gems. Maybe he screwed someone over on a deal.”
“The wife wouldn't necessarily know about that,” Jones said. “Hell, maybe it was a legitimate deal from Markov's point of view, but he didn't know who he was messing with.”
“Jones, I want you to start running Markov's financials,” Webb said. “Then get in on the international jewel trade. Get a client list. I want to know who Markov was doing business with, and their street reps. See if anything pops.”
“On it, sir,” Jones said. She rolled her chair back behind her desk and set to work at her computer.
“What about me, sir?” Erin asked.
“I want you working on an ID of the other victim,” Webb said. “Since you've got ten bucks riding on it, see if you can find out who she is and why anyone would want her dead bad enough to blow away another guy and half a motel room. Start down in the morgue, talk to Levine.”
“I thought the prints came up blank,” Erin said.
“Be creative, O'Reilly,” Webb snapped. “Figure it out. It's three thirty in the morning, I have a headache, and I'm not gonna hold your hand on this. Do your job.”
“Yes, sir,” Erin said. It was the only thing she could say.
Levine was in the lab, looking into a microscope, when Erin came in.
“What can you tell me about the victim?” Erin asked.
“Which one?” Levine asked without looking up.
“The one we don'
t have identified,” Erin said.
“Which one?” Levine repeated, still staring at the scope.
“There's just the two bodies,” Erin said.
“Three,” Levine corrected.
“Huh?”
Levine looked up then and blinked at Erin through her glasses. “It depends on how you define victim,” she said. “New York state law says there's only two.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” Erin was exhausted, hopped up on late-night caffeine, and in no mood to play games.
“There isn't currently a state statute regarding murder of an unborn child,” Levine said. “The Unborn Victims of Violence Act would classify this as an additional homicide, but only if it took place in federal jurisdiction, so maybe it just counts as two.”
“Hold on,” Erin said. “Just stop. Are you telling me Jane Doe was pregnant?”
“Yes,” Levine said. “About halfway through the second trimester.”
“Jesus.” Erin took a step back and leaned against the wall. “Okay, we're going to need you to run the bloodwork on the fetus. The first thing we've got to know is whether Markov is the dad, obviously.”
“I'm already checking the woman,” Levine said. “No drugs in her system. She's a recovering addict, no doubt about it. The needle tracks aren't fresh. Noradrenaline levels are normal.”
“What's that mean?” Erin asked. “Let's assume I don't have a medical degree.”
“It means she's been clean for a few weeks at least,” Levine explained. “The physiology returns to normal. The addictive behaviors take longer to correct, but she made it through the initial withdrawal period.”
“Good for her,” Erin said. “Maybe when she found out she was pregnant, she figured she had to kick the habit.”
“It's possible,” Levine said. “The effects of opioid abuse on unborn children can be extremely negative.”
“Still doesn't tell us who she was,” Erin said. “No match on the prints. I'm guessing nothing on dental records, either.”
“She had some dental work done in a former Soviet-bloc country,” Levine said. “When she was a little girl.”
“How do you know that?”
“Gold,” Levine said. “Crowns and fillings in gold were very popular in Russia until just a few years ago. I'd guess she came from a smaller rural town, where dentistry hasn't caught up. They're using composite fillings, mostly, in Moscow these days.”
“Levine,” Erin said, “how do you get all this in your head?”
“I read a lot.”
“Okay.” Erin sighed. “So you know where she got her teeth done, sort of, but no American dental records. No identification at all. Just a pregnant girl, probably from Russia. Anything else you can tell me? Anything at all?”
“She was physically abused,” Levine said.
“How? When?”
“There's fresh bruising over more faded marks. It's what I'd expect to see on a battered spouse, or a child from an abusive home. Mostly localized to the backs of the thighs and lower back. Judging from the marks, I'd guess an extension cord or some other kind of insulated cable.”
Erin closed her eyes. “Systematic beatings.”
Levine nodded. “There's also some bruising on the stomach and abdomen. I'm a little surprised it didn't induce a miscarriage.”
“Any chance Markov inflicted any of the injuries?” Erin asked.
“Hard to say,” Levine said. “The marks on the back and legs were too old to have been received tonight. She wasn't beaten this evening. But this might not be the first time they've met.”
“Got anything else for me?”
“Not right now,” the medical examiner said. “I have been able to determine the cause of death was definitely multiple gunshot wounds to both adults, with the pistol shot to the female victim's head inflicted at time of death. Markov was killed by the shots to his torso, almost instantly. It's likely she would have died from her other wounds before the paramedics arrived, regardless of the head GSW.”
“Okay, thanks,” Erin said. “Let us know what else you come up with.”
As she waited for the elevator to take her back upstairs, Erin knew one thing at least. She was going to find out what had happened to that girl, and she was going to make the bastards pay for it.
Chapter 5
Webb finally called off the night's work at four. “Go on, everybody go home,” he said. “Get some sleep, then get back in here.”
Erin, in a fog of fatigue, leashed up Rolf. The dog, who'd been sleeping on his carpet square beside her desk, hopped to his feet, ready to go out and get back to work. They got in her car and started driving, a cup of coffee—her fifth of the night—in her hand so she wouldn't drive into the East River.
She was halfway to Queens when she remembered she didn't live in Queens anymore.
“Damn, damn, damn,” she muttered. At least the bridge wasn't too busy this time of night. She had to go all the way across before she could turn around, though. Her first night of living in Manhattan wasn't off to a promising start.
Finally, she got to her new apartment. The bed wasn't made; she and Vic had just dropped it in the bedroom before hurrying off to the crime scene. She decided she didn't care. She stripped down to her underwear, threw on a loose T-shirt, tossed a pillow onto the bare mattress pad, and lost consciousness.
Sometimes all it took to crack a case was coming at it fresh, with a few hours of sleep. This wasn't one of those times. When Erin dragged herself out of bed at her usual wake-up time, having slept less than three hours, she was still tired, her apartment was still full of boxes of stuff, and she still had no idea who Jane Doe was.
She took Rolf for a jog, jumped into the shower while her coffee-maker worked its magic, fried a couple of eggs, downed a glass of orange juice, and took the coffee with her to the precinct. She got there twenty minutes early and realized she was still a little out of it. This living-in-the-city business was taking some getting used to.
The first thing she did was talk to the Vice squad. Sergeant Brown was head of the Vice unit at Precinct 8. He held an office in a converted supply closet, which meant it was poorly ventilated and had no windows. Brown himself was a bitter, cynical, heavyset cop with a very dim view of human nature. When Erin knocked on his door, he was looking at a magazine, his feet propped up on his desk.
“Morning, Detective,” he said. “You're up early.”
“Do you ever go home?” she asked. His office looked lived-in, with empty takeout containers, soda cans, and even a clothes bar on one side of the room with spare shirts hanging on it.
“Why would I want to go home? There's nothing I want to do there.”
“Is there anything you want to do here?”
“Not really. But I'm already here, you see.”
She leaned forward, squinting in the faint light of a fluorescent fixture with a bad ballast. “Are you looking at porn?”
He smiled sourly and tilted the cover of the magazine toward her. Three women were on the cover, twisted into some sort of bizarre pretzel shape with big, fake smiles plastered on their faces. “Yep,” he said. “I'm the only guy in this city who has to sneak the Wall Street Journal into his desk drawer, but can read skin mags in front of his coworkers. Afraid I can't let you have it; it's crime-scene collateral. But if you're interested, I got some other stuff. All shapes, sizes, positions, orientations.”
“No thanks, I'm good,” Erin said. “I was hoping you could help me with a homicide ID.”
“Got a dead streetwalker?”
“Good guess.”
“Most of them have priors,” he said. “She'll probably be printed.”
“She's not. We ran her prints first thing.”
“Okay,” Brown took his feet off his desk with a sigh. He popped open a can of Mountain Dew and took a swig. “What's her profile?”
“What do you want to know?” Erin asked.
He sighed again. “Whatever you got. We're saying 'she', so I'm gues
sing we're not talking rough trade, or a rent-boy dressed as a girl. How old?”
“Seventeen, maybe eighteen.”
“Ethnic group?”
“White. Blonde, blue eyes.”
Brown nodded. “Drug use?”
“Heroin tracks, but bloodwork says she's been clean for a few weeks. The drugs tell you anything?”
Brown shrugged. “Everyone's addicted to something.”
“Everyone?”
“Not just drugs,” he said. “Some people are sex addicts, some are food addicts. You're addicted, I'm addicted. It's how we're wired. It's biological.”
“Bullshit.”
“How much coffee you drink?”
Erin didn't answer.
“How much time off you take?” he went on.
“That's not what we're talking about.”
“Of course it is. Our whole job in Vice is busting the addicts our society's decided are addicted to the wrong stuff. Hookers, blow, kiddie porn. Fast foot, coffee, and working on weekends are fine. Boffing the secretary's borderline, but you usually get away with it.”
Erin shook her head. “How do you even get up in the morning?”
He smiled wearily. “I'm an addict, too. I'm the guy who slows down when he passes a bad highway crash. Just can't look away from the way New Yorkers fuck up their lives. Now, this working girl of yours, she have any scars, tattoos, other marks?”
“No ink,” Erin said. “She'd been beaten systematically, over a period of time. And she was pregnant.”
“That explains kicking the needle habit,” Brown said. “I'm surprised she had the willpower. I'm even more surprised her pimp let her off the chemical leash.”
Erin hadn't thought about that. Now, hearing the Vice cop say it, she realized it made sense. Lots of pimps used drugs to control their girls, keeping them dependent and compliant. Jane Doe might not have had a choice about taking drugs. How had she managed to stay clean? Heroin had really obvious withdrawal symptoms. Her pimp would've known she was trying to get off the stuff.
“Maybe she was on the run,” Erin said. “Got out of a bad situation?”
