But if my plan had been sound, that didn’t mean it was the only plan on the table. Far from it.
‘What you might have done,’ Adele pointed out, ‘was take a photo of Barsakov and show it to the witness first. That way, you’d be charging him with murder.’
I was quick to reply. ‘For that matter, I could have brought Clyde with me on the surveillance, let him ID Barsakov right there, then obtained search warrants before Aslan knew I existed. Or even better, I could have held off on serving the warrants until the women came back to Greenpoint on Saturday evening. Hell, by that time, I might have gotten warrants for them too.’
Adele finally brought me to a halt. ‘Alright, Corbin, I’m sorry. I know how you must feel.’
‘Do you mean that?’
‘Of course.’
‘Then why don’t you come home, Adele? Or at least tell me what’s wrong.’ The words were out of my mouth before I could take them back. ‘I know I’m supposed to be a new-millennium kind of guy, faithful and understanding, but it’s been two weeks and I’m starting to lose hope.’
The inevitable prolonged silence followed, during which I paced from the living room into the rear bedroom and back. Then Adele said, ‘Don’t give up on me, Corbin. Not yet.’
I noted the quaver in her voice, almost with satisfaction. Adele rarely displays her emotions. Woman of mystery is more her style.
‘No,’ I said. ‘Not yet.’
Another silence, followed by a change of subject. There was to be no revelation.
‘So, what are you going to do?’ Adele asked.
‘About what, exactly?’
‘About your Jane Doe, Aslan, the women, the children.’
‘Ah, we’re back to them. Well, in the short term, there’s only one thing I can do.’
‘And what’s that?’
‘I have to break the priest.’
A few minutes later, after a goodbye that might have been warmer, I went back to my computer. There was one more item I wanted to research. Several years before, a Catholic priest had violated the seal of the confessional to free a man unjustly convicted of murder. If it happened once, or so I reasoned, it could happen again. I just wanted to know the exact circumstances before I confronted Father Stan.
EIGHTEEN
By one o’clock, I was on my way to the Blessed Virgin Outreach Center, driving along Metropolitan Avenue, over Newtown Creek, through industrial Maspeth, finally into the small residential community surrounding the center. Again, I was impressed with the resolute orderliness of the neighborhood, with the carefully tended yards and the immaculate gardens surrounding the modest homes. Written off decades before, this little piece of Maspeth was as proud — and ultimately defiant — as it was working class.
The outreach center was up and running when I walked inside. Seven adults and at least as many children were gathered around several of the worn couches against the walls. Curiously, there were no children in the play area.
‘Can I help you?’ A young woman in jeans and a tie-dyed sweatshirt rose to her feet from a kneeling position.
‘I’m here to see Father Manicki,’ I said, just as though I’d called ahead to make an appointment.
‘He’s not here today. He’s attending a conference at the Diocese. He’ll be back tomorrow.’
‘Thanks.’ I’d hoped to take the priest by surprise, which was why I hadn’t called ahead, but the trip wasn’t entirely wasted. There was always Sister Kassia and the pressure I hoped she’d put on Father Stan.
The nun took that moment to make an appearance, entering through a door that led back into the church. She stopped when she saw me, stopped to look into my eyes. I suspect she read the message correctly because her own eyes instantly hardened.
‘I need to speak with you for a few minutes.’ I was careful to keep my tone firm. There would be no mea culpas to confuse the issues. I’d come to make a deal which the good Sister could refuse or accept. There was no third alternative.
‘Alright,’ she said after a long moment, ‘let’s go outside.’
We took a slow walk to the end of the block while I related the same sad tale I’d conveyed to Adele only a few hours before. It was a beautiful day. The temperature was in the seventies, the sunlight clear and clean enough to render the cracked roads and worn brick nearly pristine. Above our heads, a steady breeze rattled the leaves and branches of an ancient maple whose roots had broken through the sidewalk.
‘I made no promises the other day,’ I said, ‘with regard to the other women, not to you or anybody else. And I’m not making much of a promise now. Those women are potential witnesses in two homicide investigations. They have a responsibility to come forward and I intend to make sure they honor that responsibility. Nevertheless, I need your help now and I’m willing to put an offer on the table.’
We were interrupted then, by an elderly woman who pushed a walker onto a small porch. The woman called Sister Kassia’s name as she skillfully avoided the spring-mounted door by turning in a full circle. Without a word, Sister Kassia went up on the porch to speak to the woman. When she returned a few minutes later, she seemed less tense. I walked alongside her, from the shade of the maple into the sunlight, then simply continued our conversation as though we’d never left off.
‘I may have to be hard on the women,’ I told her. ‘I may have to make them more afraid of me than of Aslan.’
‘Why are you telling me this?’
‘I’m offering a contract, Sister, and I don’t want to conceal the terms. Ordinarily, I’d ask the DA to incarcerate the women as material witnesses, with or without their children. INS would be notified at that point and deportation proceedings would begin.’
‘But that doesn’t have to happen?’
‘There’s no good reason to incarcerate witnesses who are available and cooperative. Undocumented workers testify in court every day.’
We continued on, to the end of the street, then began to retrace our steps. Ahead of us, a car backed out of a tiny driveway to block our path.
‘I’m going to take those women away from Aslan,’ I said. ‘All I’m asking is that I have a safe place to bring them when I do. Some place other than Blessed Virgin, which Aslan knows about.’
‘I can place them in a temporary shelter easily enough, but if you’re trying to make an offer I can’t refuse, you’re not there yet. You need to spell out my side of the bargain.’
The car finally pulled off and we resumed walking. ‘I need a carrot,’ I said.
‘A carrot?’
‘To go along with the stick.’
Sister Kassia mouth turned down and she shook her head in disgust. ‘Spare me the drama,’ she declared. ‘Inscrutable doesn’t become you.’
‘Then let me state the case plainly. My goal is to isolate one of Domestic Solutions’ workers. At that point, I will become the stick. Now there’s nothing wrong with sticks. Sticks have produced results many times in the past. But in order for a stick to be most effective, there should be a carrot on the other end, a tangible reward for cooperation.’
‘A good cop to complement the bad cop?’
‘Exactly.’
She thought about this for a moment, then said, ‘You make it seem as if all this is going to happen in the near future. Are you telling me to be ready tomorrow?’
‘That, Sister, depends almost entirely on Father Manicki.’
I stopped at a little joint called Driggs Restorante, before heading into the Nine-Two, where I picked up a veal parmigiana hero, a side of spaghetti and a salad laced with pepperoncini hot enough to make your eyes water.
Comfort food was what I called it and my thoughts were on my meal as I threaded the maze passing for a squad room at the Nine-Two. But I wasn’t so oblivious that I failed to note Inspector Bill Sarney standing next to Drew Millard in the lieutenant’s office. Nor did I fail to note the contrast. Bill Sarney was everything the lieutenant wanted to be, so dominant that Millard seemed lost in his shadow. At var
ious times in the last year, Bill Sarney had been my rabbi, my enemy, and my benefactor. All the while manipulating me with the skill of a practiced con man. I couldn’t read him then. I couldn’t read him now.
I nodded once as I passed, continuing on to my office where I unwrapped the hero, popped the lids off the spaghetti and the salad, finally opened a can of orange soda. Then I leaned forward and took a deep breath.
‘Do you have any idea how much cholesterol there is in that sandwich?’
I looked up at Sarney, then down at my watch. ‘I got in a little early,’ I said, ‘hoping to eat in peace. Now you’re in my cubicle, giving me indigestion.’
‘Do I hear a guilty conscience speaking?’ Sarney looked as if he expected an answer, but when I didn’t supply one, he added, ‘I read the file, Harry. Unknown to your supervisor, you’ve been conducting you own investigation.’
‘There are DD5s in the case file accounting for every single minute in the investigation.’
‘Which you wrote last night.’
‘Better late than never.’
Sarney burst out laughing, the thin lips of his small mouth nearly vanishing in the process. Needless to say, I wasn’t fooled by his good-old-boy guffaws. Nor did I believe that an inspector from the Puzzle Palace was in a Brooklyn precinct to discuss a case file.
‘You think the bosses hate you, but it’s not like that,’ Sarney explained. ‘They think you’re a cop’s cop, Harry, and they secretly want to be like you. You can trust me on this because I’ve been among the bosses for some time now. In fact, I’m a boss, myself.’
I demonstrated my indifference with a shrug. Even if true, the compliment was meaningless. The bosses might admire Harry Corbin, but if he threatened them, they’d stomp him like a cockroach.
‘What are you doing here?’
Sarney leaned over my desk. ‘When Konstantine Barsakov’s fingerprints were run this morning, somebody’s computer was flagged.’
‘Whose?’
‘I don’t know, Harry, and I don’t care. And you shouldn’t care either. What’s important is that the somebody whose computer got flagged called a number of other somebodies, and one of those somebodies called me.’
As I awaited the falling of the axe, I kept chomping away. The case, I was certain, would be taken from me. What I would do next was anybody’s guess. But Sarney still had some cards to play, including one he’d been hiding up his sleeve.
‘I vouched for you,’ he announced. ‘I told my boss that you’d do the right thing. You hear what I’m saying?’
That caught my attention. ‘Yeah, I do.’
‘This is the chance you’ve been waiting for, the opportunity to prove yourself.’ Sarney tucked his chin into his chest, displaying a wide swath of naked scalp as he stared at me through his eyebrows. ‘If you fuck it up, you’ll never get another.’
I thought this over for a moment, then asked, ‘You still with the Chief of D?’
‘Nope, I’m working out of the First Dep’s office these days.’ Chief of D is cop shorthand for Chief of Detectives. The First Dep is the First Deputy Commissioner, who sits at the foot of the Commissioner’s throne. Power in the NYPD flows from the Commissioner, to the First Dep, to the Chief of Department. From there it fans out to the chiefs of the various bureaus, including the Detective Bureau. Thus Sarney’s climb, from the Chief of Detective’s office to that of the First Dep, was a two-rung advance.
‘Do I understand you right? I’m keeping the case?’
‘With a little addition. Starting tomorrow, you work with a partner.’
‘Who?’
‘You don’t know him, Harry. His name’s Hansen Linde. But don’t worry. As long as you play it straight, Hansen won’t be a problem, though you’ll most likely find him annoying.’
Warning delivered, Sarney turned away. I let him reach the door before I set down my sandwich.
‘You wouldn’t wanna tell me,’ I asked, ‘what “playing it straight” actually entails?’
‘That’s simple,’ he said without looking back at me, ‘just don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.’
I finished my dinner and disposed of the garbage before heading for Drew Millard’s office. When I appeared in the doorway, I thought he was going to get to his feet and salute. Whatever fears he’d entertained regarding Harry Corbin had been multiplied to infinity by the appearance of an inspector from the Puzzle Palace.
‘Sorry to bother you, lieutenant, but I was wondering about Barsakov’s prints. Did they get run?’
‘Yeah, they were run this morning and they came back clean. Something else, by the way. You’re taking the rest of the tour off. Inspector’s orders.’
‘That anything like doctor’s orders?’
‘More like God’s orders, Harry. More like they were written on the stone tablets. Peons like us, all we can do is read ’em and weep.’
NINETEEN
The next morning, at ten o’clock, after a restless night, I rang the bell of Blessed Virgin’s rectory, a single-family home to the west of the church. A buzzer sounded from inside, followed by a click as the lock on the door released. I entered to find myself in a small outer room, facing a slender woman seated behind a desk. The woman’s autumn-gold dress set off her mahogany skin, as did the amber stones in her large earrings and a tiny cross at the end of the chain that encircled her neck.
‘Yes, may I help you?’ Her voice held the merest hint of the Caribbean.
‘My name is Detective Corbin. Would you let Father Manicki know that I’ll be needing a few minutes of his time?’
‘Can I tell him what it’s about?’
‘That won’t be necessary.’ I flashed my best smile. ‘We’re old friends.’
After a short wait, I was ushered into the priest’s spacious office. A large desk set before a window held a computer, an in-out box and a coffee mug decorated with a photo of the Vatican. The rest of the space was given over to a long couch and four easy chairs. Two of the chairs were set directly across from the couch, two at right angles. Father Manicki was seated in the chair at the far end of the couch. He didn’t rise when I stepped into the room, nor did he offer his hand, and it was obvious that he’d spoken with Sister Kassia. I should have thanked him for the tip, the subject’s current state of mind always being of interest to the interviewer. Instead, I took the chair to his right, perching on the edge of the seat, and let my briefcase drop to the floor.
‘How have you been, Father?’
‘Fine, how about you?’ The priest’s tone was sharp enough to walk the border of flagrant sarcasm.
‘Myself, I’m having a little problem with my conscience, something I need to get straightened out.’
‘Are you a Catholic?’
‘No, Father, but I’m not anything else, either. Besides, nobody understands that confession is good for the soul better than a detective. I’m talking about the relief that follows a confession. I see that relief, plain as day, in the suspects I interrogate. They always feel better once they get that burden off their chest.’
A portrait of the Madonna holding the infant Jesus hung on the wall facing my chair. The infant’s attention was on a book resting on his mother’s lap, which he examined closely while his mother gazed down fondly. Above her, a small angel held a gold crown with both hands. I found myself wondering, as the silence built, why the angel, with his black wings and sumptuous charcoal-gray robes, was so dark. Was there a hidden message, something about vanity perhaps? Or was the artist only working a contrast between the angel and the Virgin’s blond hair and sumptuous blue robes?
‘Are you here to confess?’ Father Manicki finally asked. ‘Because, if you are, I’ll be hearing confessions tomorrow afternoon in the church.’
‘I’m not here to confess,’ I said. ‘Not yet, at least. No, before I can make a confession, I have to know whether or not I’m a sinner. That’s the first step, right? To examine your conscience?’
‘It is,’ he admitted.
&nb
sp; ‘Then that’s what I’m here for. I want to know if I’m living in a state of sin.’
Father Manicki looked down at his hands, as if he hoped to find the solution to his dilemma inscribed on his knuckles. He’d made a good-faith effort to be rid of me when he failed to identify Plain Jane the first time I approached him, a charade Sister Kassia had exposed when she called me on that Sunday morning. So where could he go now, this compassionate minister to the downtrodden? Could he throw me out on my ass, perhaps after a dressing down for my impudence? If our positions were reversed, that’s exactly what I would have done. I certainly wouldn’t have given him the opportunity to plant a wedge and pound away at it.
I took advantage of the silence to pull my briefcase from the floor, to fumble inside for a moment before removing the likeness of Plain Jane Doe I’d planted all over town. Very carefully, I laid the photo on a glass coffee table so that it faced the priest.
‘I must care about her,’ I said as I straightened up. ‘I wouldn’t have spent all those hours creating that photo on my computer if I didn’t care. Keep in mind, I had very little to start with.’
Father Stan raised his eyes to meet mine. ‘What are you saying?’
‘I’m saying, Father, that when I found her, she looked like this.’ The photo I then removed from the briefcase was a close-up of Plain Jane’s face taken a few moments after I’d rolled her onto her back. I laid it on the coffee table alongside the first shot, inviting a comparison. To his credit, Father Stan didn’t recoil, though his jaw tightened and his full lips squeezed into a thin line.
‘Creating a recognizable likeness wasn’t as hard it might appear.’ I used my index finger to illustrate as I went along. ‘This discharge from her nose and mouth? You can eliminate that in under an hour. Likewise for the crushed portion of her skull. And the main features of her face? Her overbite, her square jaw, her short nose? They’re pretty obvious. The only problem I really had was with her eyes. In this shot, all you can see is a white film, but when I got up close at the crime scene, I observed a pair of blue circles underneath. These circles, they were very faint and I couldn’t determine the exact shade of blue. That’s one reason I printed the final shot in black-and-white. It’s like her skin, which was tinged with green. Taking the green out was no problem. But was she originally pale? Was her complexion sallow? Did she have color in her cheeks? Once a victim’s in this condition, it’s impossible to know.’
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