Silent Mercy ac-13

by Fairstein, Linda

  “Tell me about the Zukovs. I’ve got two hours to listen, with time to meet them before we disembark. I can have the train stopped anywhere along the way because I’ve got Daniel, and every agent from here to Florida will want to press him for details he might remember.”

  Delahawk’s head snapped in Daniel’s direction. “What does he know?”

  “It’s not like that, Mr. D. I’m asking the questions. How many Zukovs on board this buggy?”

  Delahawk cleared his throat. “There are four of the family members in the current act.”

  “And they are?…”

  “Yuri. He’s about thirty-five years old. His wife works with him too. She’s quite good. And they have a four-year-old who travels on the train, of course. I hope you’ll leave the children alone.”

  “What’s their specialty?”

  “Trapeze. They’re trapeze artists. The Zukovs are trained to do everything that might be expected of an aerialist.”

  “Who else?”

  “Yuri’s younger sister, Oksana. She works mainly with her husband. That’s Giorgio, one of the men I sent to search for you two. His family is from Italy, so most of them work in Europe. We’re lucky that Giorgio fell in love and came with Oksana. His people also have a long tradition of circus performance.”

  “And their act?”

  “Oksana and Giorgio are aerial contortionists, Detective.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “It’s been a long time since you’ve come to the circus.”

  “I live it, Mr. Delahawk. Twenty-four-seven,” Mike said. “What’s a contortionist?”

  “The Zukovs perform aerial acrobatics while hanging from a special fabric. No safety lines, of course. They can suspend themselves from almost anywhere.”

  I thought immediately of the tall gate that separated the steps of Mount Neboh from Adam Clayton Powell Jr. Boulevard, the tree that hung over the cemetery at Old St. Pat’s, and the beams suspended above the silver chalice at the Fordham chapel.

  Delahawk went on. “The best aerialists, like the Zukovs, can spiral their bodies into just about any position. They sort of, shall I say, fly through the air — but without the trapeze.”

  Had Zukov been the apparition who had disappeared from the balcony at St. John the Divine when I called after him, and terrified Faith by climbing on the scaffolding above her without making a sound?

  The large man hoisted himself out of his chair and moved to his desk. He had a stack of photos — eight-by-ten color glossies — and flipped through them till he found some of Oksana Zukov to show to us.

  “Look at this, Mike,” I said. The attractive woman was dressed in a lacy black bodysuit and sheer tights, her lithe body bent back to form a semicircle, hanging on to a red fabric suspended from the ceiling of a tent. Her left leg was hooked over a vertical piece of the ceiling support, and the top of her auburn hair almost touched her right foot, which pointed straight down, also wrapped in the lower length of fabric.

  “How the hell can she do that?” Mike asked.

  “It’s in the DNA, Detective,” Mr. Delahawk said. “These families have it in the blood, I tell you. They’re incredible artists.”

  “What’s the fabric?”

  “It’s called aerial silk, but it’s really a very strong, flexible, stretch material, which gives the performers all the control they need.”

  “Aerial silk,” Mike said. “I’ll bet that’s the type of cloth that was found under Naomi Gersh’s arm.”

  The shiny blue fragment that had been shielded from flames by the flexion angle of her armpit might yet be a forensic link to the killer’s train compartment.

  “So why don’t you tell me about Ted, Mr. Delahawk?”

  The older man screwed up his face and answered Mike with a blank stare. “Ted? Who do you mean by that?”

  “There’s a Zukov named Ted, isn’t there? You leaving him out for a reason?”

  “I don’t know who you mean. The only one I haven’t mentioned is Fyodor.”

  “That’s the Russian equivalent of Theodore, Mike,” I said. “There’s your Ted.”

  “So where is he, this Fyodor? What suite?”

  “You’ve missed him, Detective. He’s on leave.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Just what I said. He’s taken a leave. Young Daniel here is his replacement.”

  “I didn’t know that. I swear I didn’t,” Daniel said, jumping to his feet. “I’m just a stagehand. I’m not like Ted.”

  “Are we talking about the same person?” I asked. “Can you describe him, Mr. Delahawk?”

  “He’s a Zukov, young lady. That’s what he looks like. Tall, like all of them are. Thin. Supple body, like you see in his sister’s picture. A Zukov.”

  “Any unusual features? What about his hair?”

  Delahawk thought for a moment. “Dark hair. Very long. That’s all.”

  “His skin?” I asked.

  “It’s marked or pitted or something. But around me — when he was appearing in the show — I am used to seeing all these kids with so much makeup on that I wouldn’t really notice.”

  “Makeup?” Mike asked.

  “Yes. Theatrical makeup. Very thick, almost like a white paste for the aerialists, so you can see them highlighted against the dark background of the tent, or in contrast with their black costumes.”

  Phantasmagorical, like Faith Grant said, when she encountered Ted on the street.

  “So is Fyodor a stagehand or an artist, Mr. Delahawk? Russian or American?”

  “His parents came to this country when they were in their twenties, sent by their families. The three siblings were all born here. In Florida, in fact, near our headquarters.”

  “Accent or no?”

  “Not a trace.”

  Mike was ready to call in to Peterson with a description of “Ted’s” actual birth name and other information.

  “Do you know if he’s religious?” I asked.

  “The whole lot of them are religious,” Delahawk said. “In our business, I suppose it’s either religion or superstition that gets you up on the high wire. I’d pray a lot more if I was seventy feet in the air and had nothing but the wooden flooring to break my fall.”

  “What religion? Do you know where he worships?”

  “Eastern Orthodox. For years now we’ve had to make sure there was a church for the Zukovs to attend near every stop we make.”

  I didn’t know the Orthodox position on feminist theology.

  Fontaine Delahawk held his forefinger against his lips. “With Fyodor, everything changed after the accident last year. He doesn’t go to church with the others anymore. I’m not sure what he does about that.”

  “What accident are you talking about?”

  “Fortunately, we were in a backwater town in the Florida Panhandle,” Delahawk said. “If it happened at Madison Square Garden, it would have been front-page news.”

  “What was it?” I asked again.

  “Fyodor Zukov dropped a girl.” Delahawk spoke each word distinctly. “He was on the trapeze, during a performance, and his partner — the girl he was training to work with him — fell to the ground. She trusted him to catch her while he was on the trapeze — he’s done it thousands of times. He’s done it almost every day of his life, since childhood. But she plummeted like a rock.”

  “Did she live?”

  “She’s alive, last I knew. But both of her legs were crushed. If she ever walks again it will be a miracle.”

  “And this was an accident, you say?” I was skeptical, thinking of the violence that had seemingly engulfed Fyodor’s life throughout this year.

  “It proved to be a medical situation, Ms. Cooper. You can be certain the doctors — and the police — confirmed all that. So, yes, it was an accident. Fyodor can no longer do the wire acts or trapeze. He had a brilliant future, of course, but now that’s gone. That’s why he’s been moving scenery and carting the props around. I’ve offered to ke
ep him on payroll, but he’s very angry. He’s angry at the world.”

  “What medical condition is it?”

  “Something to do with his nerves. I simply don’t know. Patient privacy and all that.”

  “You mean he’s lost his nerve?” Mike asked.

  “Oh, no,” Delahawk said, almost chortling while he spoke. “Fyodor’s got ice water in his veins, Detective. Nothing scares him, I can promise you that. It’s the nerves in his hands that are shot.”

  “When did he leave the company?”

  “He hasn’t been back to the train all week. That’s why we had to hire an extra young man for the next leg of the trip,” Delahawk said, gesturing to Daniel Gersh. “I haven’t seen Fyodor Zukov all week.”

  FORTY-FOUR

  “WE need to talk to Fyodor’s family,” Mike said.

  “I’ll ask them if they’re willing to—”

  “You’ll ask them nothing, Mr. Delahawk. It’s almost time for dinner. Pour yourself a nice stiff drink, stay off the airwaves there — no intercom warnings — and we’ll pay them a visit. No illusionists or jugglers. Don’t send in the clowns. Do I make myself clear?”

  “But I’ve told them not to talk, Detective.”

  “I can be very persuasive, sir,” Mike said. “C’mon, Daniel. You’re with us.”

  As we retraced our steps through the narrow corridors toward the Zukov suite, we stopped in one of the vestibules between cars. Mike called Lieutenant Peterson and I turned away from him to speak with Faith Grant on my cell.

  “Do you have any news for me?” she asked.

  “Not yet, Faith. But I think that’s a good thing. I’m going to ask you the impossible.”

  “What’s that?”

  “To try to keep it together tonight. The photograph of Chat may already be on the news.”

  “It is. It’s on every station.”

  “You’ll make yourself crazy trying to watch it. Have some dinner. You’re not alone?”

  “No, no. I don’t think that I could be.”

  “Good. Mike and I will be working all night, so you may not hear from us till morning. But we’re on this. There’s going to be a suspect’s name released shortly, with photographs. Stay as calm as you can.”

  “You are indeed demanding the impossible.”

  “May I ask you something about the Russian Orthodox Church?” I had my back to the window, holding on to the handrail behind me as the train pitched around a bend in the tracks.

  “Of course.”

  “Do they have a formal position on women in the priesthood?”

  “Most definitely. They’re completely against the ordination of women.”

  “For a particular reason?”

  “Well, most of their teachings claim such an act would disregard the symbolic and the iconic value of male priests, who are a representation of Christ himself, and of course, of Christ’s manhood.”

  “That’s all I need to know. Call my cell if you have anything to tell me. And thanks, Faith. We’ll talk with you soon.”

  I waited for Mike to finish his conversation. “Is there anything else about your friend Ted that we ought to know? Anything at all you remember?” I asked Daniel.

  He answered softly. “No.”

  Every trace of Mike’s good humor had disappeared by the time he hung up the phone. I asked Daniel to step away for a few minutes.

  “Is it all bad news?”

  “Peterson will have state troopers waiting for us in Providence. May even bring in some feds because of the interstate abduction possibility.”

  “And the Zukovs? What if they don’t talk to us?”

  “Fine with me. They’ll be climbing the monkey bars in the local j ail.”

  “No sign of Fyodor?”

  “Not him. Not Chat. There’s one Angus truck missing from the lot. The commissioner’s doing a stand-up with the mayor at nine p.m. to release all the photos and ask the public for help. The APB on the truck has gone out to every police department and highway patrol. AMBER Alerts and all that. Maybe the guy’s going home to his roots, to Florida.”

  “And the rest of whatever has you so bummed?”

  “The Secaucus cops broke open the back of every one of the trucks still on the lot. There’s dried blood in all of them.”

  “No surprise. They’re butcher shops,” I said.

  “One of them had a sleeping bag in it. There’s blood in that too. Don’t tell me the filet mignons didn’t like the cold. ME’s testing to see if it’s human. It’ll take a while longer for DNA, but this may be where he finished off Naomi or Ursula.”

  “Could be he was camping out in one of the trucks, getting handouts from his family. That would still have let him use the train as home base, without anyone else aware he was around.”

  We started to walk single file, catching up with Daniel Gersh.

  “I need you to go back to your room, Daniel,” Mike said. “Ms. Cooper and I got work to do. Don’t talk to anyone. Not about Naomi or your job or knowing us. Stay put, and when the train gets to Providence, you come out on the platform and look for me. Understood?”

  “Yeah. I get it.”

  We continued back to the suite that had the Zukov name on the door. Mike opened it and entered without knocking.

  In the living area, a man and a woman were sitting on opposite ends of a sofa. The woman cradled a sleeping child in her arms, while both were fixed on a flat-screen TV on the wall, watching a twenty-four-hour news broadcast.

  The man rose immediately — I guessed him to be Giorgio, the Zukov brother-in-law — and called out for Yuri and Oksana. “The police are here,” he shouted to them.

  The child was awakened by the commotion and started wailing.

  Mike rushed back to the closest bedroom, heard the lock click shut from within, and kicked open the flimsy door with his foot.

  Yuri and Oksana Zukov, the brother and sister of our probable perp, were being briefed on our intrusion by Kristin Sweeney, the stunt rider from Texas.

  FORTY-FIVE

  “WHERE’S Fyodor?” Mike asked.

  Kristin Sweeney had cost us the element of surprise. Mike directed her back to her compartment, but there was no way for the two of us to secure people or possessions.

  “We don’t know where he is,” Yuri said, turning to face us with his arms folded across his chest. That kept his sister positioned behind him while she dried her eyes and tried to compose herself.

  “Let me have your phones,” Mike said.

  “I don’t have one.”

  “Bullshit. Both of you, give me your phones.”

  Yuri held out his arms to the side. He was wearing the classic bodysuit of an acrobat or dancer — a leotard and tights, with a zippered sweater over them. “No pockets, Detective. I use the satellite phone only,” he said, pointing to the nightstand next to his bed.

  “Coop — take her into the other bedroom,” Mike said, pointing to Oksana. There was no hope of getting information unless we separated them. He was giving me a shot at the weaker link.

  “Why don’t you come with me?” I said, smiling at the terrified woman. “Is your room next to this one?”

  She didn’t speak, but she nodded.

  “You can just do this?” Yuri asked. “You know we’re Americans.”

  “Oh, yeah, we can just do this. I don’t give a damn if you’re flying Martians. There are cops from here to Sarasota looking for your brother, and if you want to see him alive, you’d better put on your thinking caps.”

  Oksana slipped between Mike and the door without protest and took me into the adjacent compartment she shared with her husband.

  “You understand why we have to find your brother quickly?” I asked. I didn’t want to talk about the women who’d been murdered. “If we can save the woman who’s missing, maybe Fyodor has a chance.”

  “It’s not his fault, Ms. Cooper,” she said. “None of this is his fault.”

  The most tired lines in the perpetrator phrase bo
ok. I didn’t care to think about who Oksana would blame. “When is the last time you heard from your brother?”

  “I’m not sure. Yuri probably knows.”

  “Did you see him this week?”

  “This week? What day is today? Maybe Yuri remembers.”

  “Here’s the thing, Oksana. Yuri is talking to Detective Chapman, so whatever Yuri knows, he’ll eventually tell. When the train stops in Providence, all your friends will get off and stretch their legs, go out for a drink, get a good night’s sleep for tomorrow’s matinee. If you haven’t answered my questions — and Yuri plays the same game — you’ll both go to the police station and sit there, handcuffed to chairs, until your memories improve.”

  She had the turned-out foot position of a ballet dancer, feet planted firmly on the floor. I held the back of the chair to keep myself balanced as we hurtled forward along the tracks. She dabbed at her eyes and bent her head toward the wall, trying to make out the conversation between Yuri and Mike.

  “Did you see Fyodor this week?” I raised my voice a notch.

  “I think so.”

  “Yes — or no?”

  Oksana pouted.

  “Sit down.”

  “I’m perfectly comfortable, Ms. Cooper.”

  She was so much better balanced than I that she was probably counting on me lurching over at the next bump on the tracks.

  “I asked you to sit.”

  Her fear was morphing into defiance now, like it was the Zukovs against the world. Slowly and with the graceful movements of her art, she pivoted and sat on the edge of her bed.

  “Did you know that in the state of Georgia there’s still a death penalty, Oksana?”

  I wasn’t sure whether she flinched at that prospect or at the tone of Mike’s voice coming through the wall.

  “There are more than a hundred murderers on death row there, most of them likely to be burned to toast in the electric chair.”

  There were moments I knew I had spent too much time in Mike Chapman’s company.

  She swallowed hard. “Georgia? What does that have to do with anything?”