The cold room hc-2

by Robert Knightly

  ‘I’m not shivering because I’m cold,’ Adele explained. ‘I’m shaking because I was frightened.’

  I glanced at my left leg. It was going up and down like a piston. Alongside me, Adele removed her vest. She patted her stomach gingerly.

  ‘How do you feel?’ I asked.

  ‘A little bruised. That’s about it. Let’s just do what we have to do.’

  What we had to do was drive into upper Manhattan, to a school on Amsterdam Avenue that’d been converted to a shelter for battered women. On an upper floor, in what had once been a gym, we found the women of Domestic Solutions. The setting was grim — floors, walls, cots, a pair of cribs — but the women seemed in fine spirits as they unpacked their few possessions and discussed the sleeping arrangements. Zashka was with them and she appeared comfortable.

  ‘Zashka?’ I said.

  She turned to look at me, wary now. ‘Yes?’

  I crooked a finger. ‘We need to talk.’

  I led a resigned Zashka to a small office on the first floor. Adele remained behind. She was going to speak to the women, just in case they knew anything about Barsakov or Mynka. It was a long shot, but we were covering all the bases.

  ‘Sit down, Zashka.’

  I pointed to a chair on the far side of a desk, waited for her to sit, then sat down myself. Though my fingers were still trembling, I made an effort to appear casual. I crossed my legs at the knee, dropped my hands to my lap, let my shoulders fall back.

  Zashka held up a pack of cigarettes. ‘You mind?’

  ‘Knock yourself out.’

  She closed her eyes when she inhaled, opened them when she blew the smoke out through her nose. ‘I got in trouble,’ she said, ‘with a Russian shylock out in Brighton Beach. I was working it off.’

  ‘With Aslan?’

  ‘Aslan needed somebody to stay twenty-four-seven with the kids and mind the ladies when they were at home. It wasn’t like he could advertise in the papers. The shy was a friend of his and they made a deal. Aslan got me for a year, me and my debt.’

  She paused then, her chin coming up, mouth tightening. I waited patiently, certain she had something else to say. Finally, she cleared her throat and smiled.

  ‘I was good to them. To the kids. I didn’t think I would be, not havin’ kids myself, but they got to me right away. Their mothers were gone all the time. If I didn’t love them, nobody would. I know what’s that’s about, detective. I know what it is to be little and have no one to love you.’

  ‘Okay,’ I said, ‘but what about their mothers? What about Tynia? How could she leave her child in the care of stranger, even a nice stranger, for six days a week?’

  Zashka thought it over, then looked at me, looked straight into my eyes. ‘Two reasons. First, poor women all over the world leave their children, sometimes for years, in order to provide for them. Second, Aslan Khalid is a frightening man. You fuck with him, he will definitely kill you. One time, when the girls staged a little revolt, he threatened to blow up the warehouse with everyone in it. Myself, after listening to all his bullshit about Chechnya, I believed him.’

  The window behind Zashka was covered by a white shade. Someone had painted a picture in crayons on its smooth surface, a bunny rabbit hopping through a field of crudely drawn flowers. I stared at it for a minute, then got to the point.

  ‘I think you were in the house when Mynka was butchered. I think maybe you even know what happened to her organs, though I can’t prove it. But what I can prove, through independent witnesses, is that you were present when Konstantine Barsakov was murdered. So there’s no room for bullshit here. You know what happened that night. The only issue is whether or not you want to tell me.’

  Zashka took another pull on her cigarette. In her forties, she was fairly attractive once you got past the red hair. Her cheekbones were high, her features small and regular.

  ‘God, I hate that prick,’ she said.

  ‘Aslan?’

  ‘Yeah, Aslan.’ She nibbled at her lower lip for a minute. ‘What’s the threat? There has to be a threat.’

  ‘If you don’t cooperate?’

  ‘If I don’t cooperate now. If I cooperate somewhere down the line, say after I get a lawyer.’

  ‘I need a statement tonight. If you don’t give it to me, I’ll charge you with extortion.’

  ‘Extortion?’

  ‘Any time you compel an individual to refrain from any lawful behavior, you commit the crime of extortion, a D felony. You’ll be charged with five counts and there’ll be a strong recommendation that you be held without bail.’ I ticked the items off on my fingers. ‘You’re a material witness in a homicide, you’re an extreme flight risk, you’ll almost certainly face charges in a federal court that could land you in prison for decades.’

  Zashka looked at me for a minute, then laughed. ‘Know something? You’re a prick, too.’

  I shrugged. I’d kept my tone matter-of-fact and Zashka seemed relaxed. ‘Zashka, you’re entirely too negative. Remember, you can cooperate now and lawyer-up later. There’s no law against it.’

  ‘Fine. And if I do cooperate? What then?’

  ‘If the written statement you give me is complete and truthful, you retain your liberty. That’s assuming you convince me that I’ll be able to find you again when I need you.’

  Zashka thought it over, her mouth working as she weighed her options. ‘I have an aunt in the Bronx, in Kingsbridge. She’ll take me in.’

  ‘And after she does,’ I encouraged, ‘you’ll contact a lawyer and cut a deal.’ I spread my hands apart, palms up. What could be simpler? ‘Keep in mind, anything you tell me is useless without your testimony at trial. So, you can always back out if you don’t like the offer.’

  In fact, once she committed herself in writing, the pressure from the DA, should Aslan be arrested, would only grow more intense. Zashka most likely knew that. But the fib I’d told was a social fib, the kind you might tell at a cocktail party. Oh, I just love that tie.

  ‘First thing,’ she said, ‘me and Aslan, we weren’t partners. I only worked for the guy.’

  ‘And now you work for me.’

  About Mynka’s fate, Zashka knew little. On the night before Mynka’s body was discovered, she’d been roused from sleep by Aslan and Konstantine when they entered the warehouse around midnight. This was unusual since they didn’t live there, but it was none of her business. On the following morning, she was again awakened, this time by a loud argument. Aslan was clearly in a rage, Barsakov more defensive, but as they spoke Russian, she had no idea what they were fighting about. She had her suspicions, of course, because Mynka hadn’t returned from the Portolas on Saturday morning, but she wasn’t about to face off with Aslan. When he told her that Mynka had run away, she’d accepted the explanation and gone about her business.

  I broke it off at that point, instructing Zashka to write everything down, then went upstairs to check on Adele. I found her sitting on a straight-backed chair next to Sister Kassia. They were leaning toward each other, engaged in a conversation that ended abruptly when I stepped into the room.

  ‘How are you feeling?’ I asked.

  Adele probed her abdomen with the tips of her fingers. ‘A little sore. No big deal. You almost finished?’

  ‘Not even halfway. You wanna take the car, go back to the apartment, feel free. I can find a gypsy cab later on.’

  ‘No, I’ll wait. Sister Kassia and I are having a very interesting talk.’

  ‘Can I ask what about?’

  ‘About husbands and lovers.’

  I smiled. ‘Well, let me know what you decide. Right now, I’m kinda focused on Konstantine Barsakov.’

  As expected, Zashka was eager to distance herself from Barsakov’s fate. She’d been upstairs, she explained, when Barsakov entered the warehouse after his release. Aslan was upstairs as well, packing linen into a cardboard carton.

  ‘Wait here,’ he’d told her. ‘Don’t come down.’

  A half hour later, a
single shot was fired. Then Aslan came pounding up the stairs. He loaded her and the children into the van and they drove away. She never saw Barsakov again.

  I was far from satisfied with a speech Zashka had obviously been composing for some time. I took her over the details. What was she doing when Barsakov arrived? Packing? What was she packing? Where were the children? What were they doing? How did they react to the move? To the shot? To Aslan’s appearance? Was Aslan composed? Agitated? Was there blood on his skin or his clothing? Do you know where Aslan is currently staying?

  The last question, which came from left field, was a test of truth. I knew where Aslan was living. If Zashka lied, if she was still protecting him, I’d arrest her on the spot.

  ‘In Williamsburg,’ she said after a moment. ‘On North Third Street above a lingerie shop.’

  I left with a hand-written statement ten pages long, each page signed and witnessed. That was enough to buy redemption. All I had to do was hand the statement and Aslan’s address to Bill Sarney. What happened next — whether or not Aslan agreed to deportation — was none of my business. Just pass on the information and become the bosses’ fair-haired boy.

  But I didn’t call Sarney. I put Zashka’s statement in a manila envelope, then shoved it in a file when I got home. Aslan was for the future. For now, there was only Ronald Portola, a man who wore thousand-dollar blazers and paid to have men abuse him sexually. Earlier, I’d guessed that Ronald was the sort of guy who’d appreciate a bit of theater. When I explained this to Adele, then asked her if she was up to putting on a show, she replied with a grin. We were inside by then. Adele was holding an ice pack to a small bruise just above her navel.

  ‘What’s my role?’ she asked.

  ‘Bad cop.’

  ‘Do I get to slap him around?’

  ‘Sparingly. Remember, this guy likes a beating now and then. You hurt him bad, he’s liable to get a hard-on.’

  ‘And that would be counter-productive?’

  ‘Let’s just say, Ronald being attracted to men, not women, it would put me in a ticklish position. Being as my goal is to make him happy.’

  THIRTY-ONE

  On the way home that night, at her request, I took Adele to Beth-Israel Hospital’s emergency room, only a few blocks from my apartment. Just in case, was how she put it. I was relieved, although Adele claimed not to be in any real pain. I knew that a bullet stopped by a vest transmits energy forward into the body. Internal injuries are fairly common and deaths are not unheard of, especially when a round impacts the left side of the chest.

  That hadn’t happened to Adele. Plus, she’d been well prepared. Not only was her Grade III-A body armor much heavier than that generally worn by cops, it was specifically designed to minimize post-impact trauma. In addition, when I examined Adele’s vest, I found a gouge running across the fabric. The bullet had struck at an angle and some of the force had dissipated as it slowed down.

  We used our badges to get immediate treatment, but kept the cause of Adele’s injury to ourselves. A fall on stairs, a collision with the point of a cast-iron handrail, we just wanna be sure she’s okay.

  A few minutes later, Adele was sitting on a narrow bed separated from a line of other narrow beds by a set of flimsy curtains. I was standing beside her when the doctor came in, a tall blond who seemed on the point of collapse. She listened to Adele’s story, then asked me to step outside while she conducted an examination. The wait was short, as was the message. Adele would go to Radiology for a few tests. It would be better if I returned to the waiting area.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ she assured. ‘I haven’t found any injury beyond the contusion. But let’s err on the side of caution.’

  Then she was gone, leaving me with no choice except to comply. I’d been out-copped.

  It was three o’clock on Sunday morning and the waiting room was fairly crowded. There was the usual collection of the wounded and the overdosed, along with a half-dozen women of varying ages, all accompanied by children. A wheelchair backed against the rear wall was occupied by a man so ancient he might have been a mummy. The old man sighed from time to time, though he never moved. Nor did his aide, who was asleep in the wheelchair next to him.

  Adele came out an hour later. ‘All clear,’ she told me. ‘I’m just gonna have to suck it up and stop whining.’

  This was news I was glad to hear. It was four o’clock in the morning. We were both dead tired and we weren’t going to get more than a few hours sleep. Still, I’d come up with an idea while I sat in the waiting room, a way to establish rapport when I interviewed Ronald on the following day. I wanted to know whether I could bring it off before I turned out the lights. I took Adele’s vest from where it hung on the back of a chair and slid it over my head. The vest was too small for me, which was why Adele had worn it, but I managed to fasten the Velcro straps. Though the fit was tight, I could breathe well enough.

  As it turned out, we slept for five hours, until nine, then bolted down a hasty breakfast and got out the door. We were eager, the both of us. Personally, I had no thoughts of failure. Adele and I were going to play with Ronald Portola’s psyche. We were going to twist his mind until the truth popped out. We could not be defeated. It was all familiar stuff, remembered from my high school days when I’d competed on the swimming team. My coach, Conrad Stehle, was big on positive thinking. And I have to say, I won a lot more races than I lost. But I wasn’t good enough to win the big ones, the statewide competitions. Positive attitude or not.

  David Portola emerged from the townhouse a little before noon, his trusty skateboard tucked beneath his arm. Adele and I were parked at a fire hydrant a mere fifty feet to the south, but David looked neither right nor left as he crossed the street, dropped the skateboard to the ground and vanished into the park.

  Margaret Portola came out to hail a cab an hour later. As before, despite the designer frock, the gold jewelry and the strawberry-sized diamond on her left hand, the pitted cheeks and narrowed eyes gave her away. She was not the princess, or even the dowager queen. No, at best she was an ill-tempered wannabe.

  Screened from outsiders by the misted windows, Adele was sitting beside me in the Nissan, on the passenger side. The humidity, if anything, was even worse than on the prior night, and it was again threatening to rain. Across the street, in the park, the leaves on a little stand of young maples all pointed downward, as if only awaiting the first touch of autumn to give up the ghost.

  At three thirty, David Portola made his way back home. His mother followed a half hour later. Then all was quiet as the sun, an indefinite presence behind a ceiling of gray cloud, moved to the Jersey side of the Hudson River. Adele kept shifting in her seat. She’d made a quick foray in search of a restroom several hours before and now it was time to repeat the experience. The plan called for us to maintain the stakeout well into the night. From our point of view, the later Ronald came out, the better. As long as he did, eventually, come out.

  The suspense ended abruptly when Ronald emerged, along with his mother, at five thirty. This was the worst possible news and I muttered a curse which Adele echoed. But then Margaret stepped into a cab and Ronald closed the door behind her, hesitating for just a second as the cab pulled away before walking in our direction. Adele waited until he was almost alongside the Nissan before she got out and flashed her tin.

  ‘Hi, Ronny,’ she said. ‘My name is Bentibi. I’m an investigator with the District Attorney’s office and I want to talk to you.’

  I came up on his blind side, but didn’t display my shield. I was wearing Adele’s vest and the letters stenciled across my chest, NYPD, made my identity clear enough.

  ‘Detective Corbin,’ I said before repeating the essential message. ‘We need to talk to you.’

  As I drew Ronald’s attention, Adele wrapped her hand around his right arm, her fingertips coming to rest in the hollow space between the bicep and the elbow. From this position she could execute, with a simple squeeze, what the bosses at the Puzzle Palace
call a pain-compliance technique.

  ‘What about?’

  ‘What do you think?’ Adele asked.

  Up close, Ronald Portola seemed incredibly soft. But he was not only unafraid, he seemed oddly comfortable. He stared directly into my eyes, and I stared back. Patience was, after all, my game.

  Finally, Ronald turned to Adele. ‘I suppose I’m expected to ask for a lawyer,’ he finally said.

  ‘Why, did you commit some crime? Have you been messin’ with that rough trade again?’

  Ronald made a small move, as if to leave, and Adele clamped down, squeezing hard enough to draw a little grunt of pain.

  ‘You’re disappointing me, Ronald,’ I said, stepping in. ‘Where’s your spirit of adventure? Your basic curiosity? I figured you for a player, a man eager to walk that fine line between pleasure and pain. Was I mistaken?’

  Ronald’s only prominent feature was the long, straight nose he’d clearly inherited from his father. He gave the tip of that nose a series of quick strokes, as if searching for a pimple. ‘I just know there’s more to this story,’ he said.

  ‘How about you and me all alone in an interrogation room? There probably won’t be anybody else around, not on a Sunday night. That means nobody to overhear our conversation, nobody to misinterpret the direction it might take.’ I put my arm around his shoulders and led him toward the car. He went more or less willingly, ducking his head as he slid onto the back seat. ‘I promise, Ronald, I’ll show you a good time. I promise.’

  I walked around the car to get in on the other side. When I closed the door, I found Adele and Ronald locked eyeball to eyeball. Adele wore a half smile poised mid way between amused and sneering, her eyes so laid back she might have been looking at a freshly killed insect pinned to a specimen board.

  ‘Tell me,’ Adele asked, ‘because I’m dyin’ to know. How old were you when your mother started callin’ you “La Bamba”?’