“Go back and sit down.”
Michael did as he was told.
“I am going to leave now,” Kolya said. “I want you to listen to me carefully. Are you listening?”
“Yes.”
“You don’t leave this room. You don’t make any phone calls. There’s a man sitting in that Ford over there. He works for me. If you so much as open the door to this room, he will call me, and your family is dead. Do you understand this?”
The words sliced through Michael’s heart. “Yes.”
“I’m going to call you on this room phone every thirty minutes. If you don’t answer within two rings, your family is dead.” Kolya pointed to the wall. “The girl working the front desk here is my cousin. In front of her is a switchboard. If you make an outgoing call, she’ll know. If you even pick up the phone without receiving an incoming call, she’ll know. Do either of these things and I will light up your family. Do you understand this?”
The fear began to crawl around Michael’s stomach. The possibility that he may never see Abby and the girls was real. “Yes.”
“Good.”
Kolya pointed to the two large grocery bags he had brought in with him. “There’s food in there. You’re gonna be here awhile. Eat healthy, counselor.”
Kolya laughed at his joke, then held Michael’s stare for an uncomfortable amount of time, asserting his authority. Michael had met so many men like Kolya over the years. He could not look away. He would not.
Finally Kolya backed off. He crossed the room, gave everything one more look, opened the door, and left. Michael slipped up to the window, peered through the curtains. He saw Kolya walk up to the blue Ford. Whoever was inside the Ford rolled down the window. Kolya pointed to the room, to his watch. A few seconds later he slipped into his own car, pulled out of the parking lot and soon disappeared into the traffic on the Hempstead Avenue.
Michael paced around the room.
He had never felt more helpless in his life.
THIRTY-TWO
Aleks looked through the two-drawer file cabinet in the small bedroom Michael and Abigail Roman used for a home office. He scanned the history of their lives, taking in the milestones, the events. He learned many things. He learned that they owned their own home, having paid cash for it. They also owned a commercial space on Ditmars Boulevard. Aleks perused the photographs of the boarded-up building. He recalled it from the story he’d read about Michael. It was the place in which Michael’s parents were killed. The Pikk Street Bakery. Inside the envelope were a pair of keys.
Marriage license, deeds, tax returns, warranties – the residue of modern American life. He soon found the documents he sought. The girls’ adoption decree, forms which would serve as their birth certificates.
Aleks sat down at the computer, conducted a search for the government agency he needed. He soon heard a car door slam. He glanced out the window.
Kolya had returned.
THEY STOOD IN THE kitchen. Aleks smelled the marijuana on Kolya. He decided to say nothing for the moment.
“Any problems?” Aleks asked.
“None.”
“Do you have the license?”
Kolya reached into his pocket, removed an envelope, handed it to Aleks.
Aleks opened the envelope, slid out the plastic laminated license. He held it up to the light, caught the shimmer of the holographic image. It was good work. He put the license in his wallet.
“Where do you have him?”
Kolya told him the name and address of the motel, along with the room number and phone number. Aleks wrote nothing down. He did not need to.
Aleks glanced at his watch. “I will return within one hour’s time. When I come back you will return to the motel and make sure Michael Roman does not leave. Are we clear on this?”
Kolya mugged. “It’s not that complicated.”
Aleks held the young man’s stare for a few moments. Kolya glanced away.
“You may be there for a while,” Aleks said. “You will need to guard him until I am out of the country.”
“The money is right, bro. No worries.”
Bro, Aleks thought. The sooner he left this place, the better. “Good.”
“What do you want me to do with him then?” Kolya asked
Aleks glanced down at the butt of the pistol in Kolya’s waistband. Kolya saw the look. Neither man said a word.
ALEKS LOOKED AT the photos of the girls. He had taken them against the wall in the kitchen, an off-white background that could have been anywhere. He took a pair of scissors out of the drawer and cut the photographs into 2 × 2-inch squares. He needed two photographs of Anna, and two of Marya. For their passports.
THE GIRLS SAT ON THE couch in front of the television. They were watching an animated film, something about talking fish.
He got down to the girls’ level. “We’re going to go to the post office,” he said. “Is that all right?”
“Is Mommy coming with us?” Marya asked.
“No,” Aleks said. “She has some work to do.”
“At the hospital?”
“Yes, at the hospital. But on the way back we can stop and get something for dinner. Are you hungry?”
Anna and Marya looked apprehensive for a few moments, but then they both nodded.
“What would you like for dinner?”
The girls exchanged a guilty glance, looked back. “McNuggets,” they said.
ABBY WATCHED THE DOOR at the top of the stairs, and waited. She had always feared for her daughters, as any mother would. The stranger in the car, the terminal childhood disease. She had also feared the legal ramifications of what they had done. She had even rehearsed what she might say if ever called before a judge or a magistrate, the pleadings of a woman desperate for a child.
But never this.
A few minutes later Aleks came downstairs. Abby had long ago stopped struggling against her restraints. Her limbs had fallen numb.
“Do you need anything?” he asked.
Abby Roman just glared at him.
“We are going to leave for a while. We will not be long.” He crossed the room, sat on the edge of the workbench. Abby noticed that he had gelled his hair. What was he getting ready to do?
“Kolya will remain here. You will obey him as you obey me.”
Abby noticed he was carrying a manila envelope. She saw her own handwriting on the front. It was the envelope that had Charlotte and Emily’s adoption papers in them.
Her blood turned to ice water. “You can’t do this.”
“Anna and Marya were stolen from their mother’s bed in the middle of the night. They are mine.”
Abby had to ask. Perhaps, in the answer, she would find something she needed. “Why do you call them Anna and Marya?”
Aleks considered her for a few long moments. “Do you really want to know the answer to this question?”
Abby wasn’t sure. But she knew she needed to keep him talking. If he left an opening, any opening, she would take it. She tried to keep the fear from her voice. “Yes.”
Aleks looked away, then back.
“It is the story of a prince and his three sisters . . .”
OVER THE NEXT FIVE MINUTES Aleks told her a story. What Abby had feared – that she was dealing with a dangerous but rational individual – was not true. This man was insane. He believed he was this Koschei. He believed that, with his daughters, he would be immortal. He believed that his soul was in the girls.
The part that stole Abby’s breath, the part that frightened her to the limits of her being, was that the girls knew. They had been looking at pictures from the same story in the library.
When he finished telling her the story Aleks stood, watched her for the longest time, perhaps waiting for some sort of reaction. Abby was speechless for a moment. Then:
“You’ll never get them out of the country. Someone is going to catch you.”
“If I cannot have them I will take their essence,” Aleks said.
“What
are you talking about?”
Aleks touched the vials around his neck.
My God, Abby thought. The vial filled with blood. The two empties. He was going to kill the girls if he had to.
As Aleks climbed the stairs, Abby felt her heart break.
She would never see Charlotte and Emily again.
THIRTY-THREE
Desiree Powell was hungry. Whatever was cooking in the kitchen – it smelled like a pork roast with rosemary and garlic, three of her favorite things – was making her salivate. She’d forgotten to eat lunch. It often happened in the tornado of the first twenty-four hours of a homicide investigation.
The ride up to Putnam County had been stop and start, due to construction. Fontova had taken a nap, a skill Powell had never been able to cultivate. She barely slept in her own bed, at night, with a righteous snort and 5 mg of Ambien as a chaser.
But now a question hung in the air.
Powell stared at the woman, tapping her pen on her notebook, waiting for an answer. With her hooded, eyes and unwavering gaze, Detective Desiree Powell knew she was all but impossible to read.
Powell had dealt with many social workers and behavioral therapists in her career. She knew the mindset. She knew that Sondra Arsenault had spent most of her adult life exploring people’s motives, ferreting out their agendas, divining their purpose. She was probably good at these things. Powell knew that she presented Sondra Arsenault with a cipher. By nature, social workers asked the questions. Today, it was Powell’s job.
When Sondra had called the local police department they had sent around a pair of uniformed officers to take down a report regarding the man who had broken into her home. When she told the uniformed officers that there might be a connection between the break-in at her house and the murder of a New York City lawyer named Viktor Harkov, they had wrapped things up quickly. They told her that someone would be contacting them soon.
Powell asked again. “So, the only people in the house were your daughters and yourself.”
“Yes.”
“And you didn’t hear anything? No breaking glass, no door being kicked in?”
Powell knew that the uniformed officers had looked at all the doors and windows, and written down that there had been no forced entry. It never hurt to cover it again.
“No.”
“You walked into you daughters’ room, and there he was.”
“Yes.”
“What was the man doing?”
“He was just standing there, at the foot of the bed,” Sondra said. “He was . . . he was watching them.”
“Watching them?”
“Watching them sleep.”
Powell made a note. “Was the light on in the bedroom?”
“No. Just a night light.”
“I know you described this man to the officers, but I need you to tell me. Once again, I’m sorry to put you through this. It’s just routine.”
Sondra didn’t hesitate. “He was tall, Caucasian, broad shouldered. He had close-cropped sandy hair, almost blond. He wore a black leather coat, dark jeans, white shirt, black vest. He had a small scar under his left cheekbone, a few days of stubble, light-blue eyes. He was in his thirties.”
Powell stared at her again, unblinking. “This is a remarkably precise description, Mrs Arsenault.”
Sondra remained silent.
“And you saw all this with just a night light?”
“No,” Sondra replied. “After I entered the room he turned on the overhead light.”
Powell scribbled another note, asked another question, one to which she already had the answer. “May I ask if you work outside the home?”
“Yes. I am a social worker. Part of my job is to observe people.”
Powell nodded. “Here in Putnam County?”
“Yes,” the woman said. “It’s not only people in the city who need counseling.”
Attitude, Powell thought. She left it unchallenged. “You said he spoke to you?”
“Yes.”
“What did he say?”
“He said: This is not Anna and Marya. I have made a mistake. If I have frightened you, you have my deepest apologies. You are in no danger.”
She pronounced the name Ma-RYE-a. Powell glanced at the photograph of the twins on the mantel, back. “Your daughter’s names are Lisa and Katherine?”
“Yes.”
“Who are Anna and Marya?”
Sondra said she had no idea. The look on her face, along with the way she worried one finger around another, told Powell that deep inside, where fear makes its nest, she probably had the feeling she was going to find out.
“After this you say he slipped out the window, and you never saw him again.”
“That’s correct.”
“Did you watch where he went? Did you see if he got into a car?”
“No,” Sondra said. “I did not.”
“What did you do?”
“I closed the window, drew the blinds, and turned off the light. Then I held my daughters.”
“Of course.” She made another note, took a few moments, then glanced at James. “May I ask where you were when this happened, sir?”
James cleared his throat. It sounded like a stall. Powell knew all the delay tactics – clearing the throat, scratching the lower leg, asking for a simple question to be repeated.
“I was at the school where I teach. Franklin Middle school on Sussex Avenue.”
Powell flipped a few pages back. “You were there at nine o’clock at night?”
“We had a parent-teacher meeting that night. I was helping clean up.”
Powell wrote this down. She would contact the school to see if James was telling the truth, as well as plug this information into the timeline surrounding the murder of Viktor Harkov.
“And what time did you get home?”
“I think it was just before ten.”
“The school is an hour away?”
“No,” James said. “We stopped for coffee.”
“We?”
James gave Powell the names of two of his colleagues.
“And your wife said nothing about this incident when you got home?”
“No.”
“Does this person she described sound familiar to you?”
“No.”
Powell turned back to Sondra. “Have you cleaned the bedroom since the incident, Mrs Arsenault?”
“No,” Sondra said. She looked slightly embarrassed by this, as if by implication it made her a bad housekeeper.
“I have a forensic team standing by,” Powell said. “Would it be okay if they processed the room for DNA and fingerprints?”
“Yes,” Sondra said.
Powell took out her cellphone, dialed the weather, listened. She would not be able to get her own CSU team out here for at least two hours, but the Arsenaults did not need to know that. When she got the forecast, she said a few perfunctory, official sounding phrases. She clicked off, took a sip of her coffee, which had grown cold. She leaned forward in her chair, a sure sign of intimate friendship, and continued.
“You both strike me as decent, intelligent people, so I think you know what I have to ask you next.”
Here it comes, Sondra’s face said.
“A man breaks into your house,” Powell continued. “It appears he does not steal anything, or harm anyone. It appears he thought your daughters were little girls named Anna and Marya. Have I gotten this right so far?”
Sondra nodded.
“So why do you think this has anything to do with the murder of a lawyer in Queens?”
Sondra took her time answering. “The newspaper account said that the lawyer handled foreign adoptions.”
“Yes,” Powell said. “He did.”
“And when the man – this intruder – spoke, he had an accent. Eastern European, Russian, perhaps Baltic.”
Powell pretended to consider this for a moment. “Mrs Arsenault, with all due respect, there are a lot of Russian people in New York. A lot of peopl
e from Romania, Poland, Lithuania. You’ll forgive me if I don’t see the immediate connection.”
Sondra tried to hold Powell’s gaze. She withered. “We . . . we knew Mr Harkov.”
Powell felt her pulse kick up a notch. “You mean professionally?”
“Yes.”
“He did some legal work for you and your husband?”
Sondra took James’s hand in hers. “You could say that.”
“What would you say, Mrs Arsenault?”
Tears began to gather in Sondra’s eyes. “Yes. He did some work for us.”
“I have to tell you that when we got the call from your local police department, we looked through Mr Harkov’s files, going back twelve years. We didn’t see your name.”
Powell did not wait for her to respond.
“Tell me how you came to meet Mr Harkov.”
Sondra told him about the process. How they had tried to adopt, three different times, and been rejected. How Sondra had heard about Harkov from a woman she had befriended at a medical conference in Manhattan. She recalled how Harkov said that he could get around certain things, that being their ages, and how they wanted a baby, not a child of five years. For a fee.
“Are you saying that Mr Harkov may have done something off the books? Something illegal regarding the adoption of Lisa and Katherine?”
It appeared that Sondra Arsenault might have had a million words to say, but in the end only three words found her lips.
“Yes,” she said. “He did.”
Powell looked at the woman. It was the break she had been waiting for. She glanced at Fontova, who had been sitting quietly on a rather severe-looking Danish modern dining-room chair. He moved his head an inch to one side, then back. No questions.
Powell stood, walked to the front window. A had just led to B. It was on. She had never gotten past C in her career, had never needed to. When she got to C she had her killer.
There was a good chance that the man who had destroyed Viktor Harkov had broken into this house. Maybe he had left a fingerprint. Maybe an eyelash or a drop of saliva. Maybe he had been seen by one of the neighbors. They would begin a canvass.
But who were Anna and Marya? Was there another couple out there in jeopardy?
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