The Devil's Garden

by Richard Montanari

  The woman leaned slightly over the counter. She waved at the girls. “Hi.”

  “Hi,” the girls replied.

  “It’s double the giggles and double the grins, and double the trouble if you’re blessed with twins.”

  Anna and Marya giggled.

  “How old are you?” the woman asked.

  The girls held up four fingers each.

  “Four years old,” the woman said. “My, my.” She smiled, leaned back, looked at Aleks. “My sister has twins. They’re grown now, of course.”

  A man standing behind Aleks – the next person in line – cleared his throat, perhaps indicating that Aleks’s small talk was wasting his time. Aleks turned and stared at the man until he looked away. Aleks turned back. The woman behind the counter smiled, rolled her eyes.

  “I’ll need to get the applications,” she said. “I’ll be right back.”

  The woman disappeared into the back room for a few moments. She returned with a pair of forms. “Do you have photographs of the girls?”

  Aleks held up the manila envelope. “I have them right here.”

  The woman opened the envelope, took out the photographs. “They’re so adorable.”

  “Thank you,” Aleks said.

  “They look just like you.”

  “And now you flatter me.”

  The woman laughed. “Okay. First off I’ll need to see some identification.”

  Aleks reached for his wallet. He handed the woman his newly minted driver’s license. It had Aleks’s photograph, and Michael Roman’s name.

  This was the first test. Aleks watched the woman’s eyes as she scanned the license. She handed it back. Hurdle cleared.

  “Next you’ll need to fill these out, and I need you to both sign at the bottom of each form.” She handed Aleks a pair of application forms for the issuance of a passport to a minor under the age of sixteen.

  “Both?” Aleks asked.

  “Yes,” the woman said. She glanced around the crowded room. “Isn’t the girls’ mother here?”

  “No,” Aleks said. “She had to work today.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” the woman replied. “You seemed so organized, I thought you knew.”

  “Knew what?”

  “Your wife needs to be present.”

  “We both need to be here at the same time?”

  “Yes, I’m afraid so. Either that, or she needs to fill out form DS-3053.”

  “What is that?”

  “That is a statement of consent form. It needs to be filled out, signed, and notarized. Would you like to take one with you?”

  “Yes,” Aleks said. “That would be most helpful.”

  The American bureaucracy, Aleks thought. It was at least as wearying as the Soviet edition. He now knew that everything had changed. He would not be able to get the girls out of the country legally. He also knew that the girls would not need a passport to get over the border into Canada, only the equivalent of their birth certificates, which he already had. The Canadian border was not that far away.

  The woman returned in a moment with the form, handed it to Aleks.

  “I’ll be back tomorrow,” he said.

  “That will be fine.” The woman stole another glance at the girls, smiled at them. “Where are you headed?”

  Aleks tensed at the question. “I’m sorry?”

  “On your trip. Where are you headed?”

  “We are going to Norway,” Aleks said. “We have family there.”

  “How nice.”

  “Have you ever been to Norway?”

  The woman looked up. “Gosh, no,” she said. “I’ve only been out of the country once, and that was on my honeymoon. We went to Puerto Rico. But that was a few years ago.” She winked at him. “I was a bit younger then.”

  “Weren’t we all?” The woman smiled. Aleks looked at her nametag. Bettina.

  He extended his hand. “You’ve been most kind and helpful, Bettina.”

  “My pleasure, Mr Roman.”

  Aleks took the girls by the hands and, noticing the security camera over the door, lowered his head. Once out in the parking lot, Aleks put the girls in the back seat, fastened their safety belts. He got back into the car.

  “Ready?”

  The girls nodded.

  Aleks turned the key, started the car. And it came to him.

  He would take Abby with them. As long as he had her husband, and she could see that the girls were safe, she would go along. It would make crossing the border that much easier.

  Canada, he thought. Once they were safely over the border, he would cut the woman’s throat, bury her, and he and the girls would disappear for as long as it took. He would be one step closer to his destiny.

  They would leave tonight.

  PART THREE

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  Abby stood at the foot of the bed. The dress was laid out in front of her, along with a pair of black stiletto heels. Kolya sat on a chair at the other side of the room, next to the windows that looked onto the street. Every so often he would part the curtains.

  Abby turned to face Kolya, held the black dress in front of her. Vera Wang. She’d only worn it once.

  “Oh, yeah. That’s the one,” Kolya said. “Put it on.”

  When she had taken the shoebox from the shelf she had slipped the .25 inside. The box now sat on the bed.

  Abby turned away from Kolya, slipped out of her sweats and fleece top. She was grateful she was wearing a bra.

  “Don’t get all shy on me now,” Kolya said.

  Abby stole a glance at Kolya in the dresser mirror. He parted the curtains for what seemed like the tenth time, glancing down at the driveway. He was worried about Aleks returning.

  “I’ll do anything I have to do for my daughters, you know,” Abby said.

  “Yeah?” Kolya asked. “Anything?”

  She slipped the dress over her head, moved the shoebox closer to the edge of the bed. “Anything.”

  “I’ve got a few ideas.”

  Abby backed up a few inches, pulled her hair out of the way. “I need you to zip me up.”

  Kolya laughed. “Why? You’re just going to take it off in a minute.”

  Abby shifted the top of the shoe box, but didn’t open it fully. “Please,” she said. “This is how it has to be.”

  She sensed him getting up behind her. He ran his hands along her hips. The revulsion she felt was complete.

  “Goddamn you are one fine looking woman,” he said. “This is even better than the nurse uniform.” He reached over, zipped up the back of her dress. She slipped on her high heels.

  When Abby turned around to face him, she picked up a small atomizer of perfume, spritzed twice. She put the atomizer down, slipped her arms around his neck. “I don’t like it rough, okay?”

  “You can have it any way you want it.”

  Abby glanced down at Kolya’s waist, back up. “I don’t think I can relax if you have that gun on you. Guns scare me.”

  “Forget it.”

  Abby ran a hand through his hair. “Look. Kolya. What am I going to do? Aleks has my girls. You have me. I’m not going to do anything stupid.” Abby ran a finger over his lips. “If I’m nice to you, maybe you’ll be nice to me. Maybe we can work something out.” She moved even closer. She could see Kolya’s nostrils widen slightly, taking in her perfume. “You said yourself that you just met Aleks. Maybe you don’t have any loyalty to him. Maybe you could be loyal to me.”

  Kolya studied her for a few moments. He wasn’t buying all of this, but other engines within him had been engaged. He peeked out the window one more time, turned back to Abby. “You try something, I’m gonna get really fuckin’ mad.”

  “I know,” Abby said. “I won’t.”

  Kolya, took the pistol from his waistband, ejected the magazine. He flipped on the safety, racked the slide, checked the chamber. Seeing it empty, he put the magazine in his jeans pocket, the pistol on top of the dresser. He turned back to Abby, sliding his hands arou
nd her hips. He squeezed her hard, pulled her into him. Abby could feel his thickening erection. “That’s not a full clip in my pocket, lady. I’m just happy to see you.” He laughed at his own joke.

  Abby leaned in, kissed him gently on the lips. When she pulled back, Kolya’s eyes glazed for a moment, and Abby Roman knew she had him. She shifted her weight onto her left foot, centered herself, and brought her right knee up as hard as she could, slamming it into Kolya’s groin.

  Kolya barked in pain, releasing a lungful of sour breath, doubling over. Abby stepped back, grabbed Kolya’s weapon from the dresser, flung it into the hallway. While Kolya’s hands covered his damaged testicles, Abby pivoted and delivered a second blow, this time with her right foot, delivered full force to the center of his face. With her years of Pilates training she knew her legs were toned and strong, and when the pointed toe of her high heel caught Kolya square in the jaw, she could hear bone break. A spurt of blood shot onto the bedspread. Kolya folded to the floor.

  Abby spun around, knocked off the top of the shoebox and took out the .25. When Kolya rolled onto his back, clutching his stomach, his eyes widened at the sight of the pistol.

  “You . . . fucking . . . cunt!”

  Abby stomped on his crotch, driving in her spiked heel. Kolya screamed, rolled onto his side, a fat cord of foamy pink-and-green bile leaking out of his mouth. Muscles corded in his neck. His face was bright scarlet, raked with blood.

  Abby kicked off her shoes, leaned over. She put the barrel of the gun to Kolya’s head.

  “Say that word again.”

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  While the forensic team processed the Arsenault house, Powell and Fontova returned to the office. Sondra and James Arsenault had followed them into the city, and would be looking at mugshots in hope of identifying the man who had broken into their home.

  Back in the office, Powell and Fontova had run thirty-five names, and found that many of the people whose cases Harkov had lost no longer lived in New York. Of the seven who did, two were currently in jail, five were gainfully employed, more or less, and had, since their incarceration, kept their noses clean.

  None had records that would suggest anything near the propensity for extreme violence seen in that room. This was not an ag assault that had gone too far, or an accidental death that occurred as the result of some pushing match that went terribly wrong. This was the work of a bona fide psychopath.

  Things were not always so straightforward. There was recently a case where an employee of a gas station was robbed at gunpoint. Thirty minutes later, while being interviewed by detectives, the man had a heart attack, collapsed and died at the scene. In another instance, one that occurred before Powell became a homicide detective, a man was attacked on a Forest Hills playground, wounded with a knife. The man slipped into a coma, where he remained for years. In the meantime, the attacker was arrested, prosecuted, and convicted of aggravated assault, for which he served eight years on a fifteen year sentence. Three weeks after the attacker’s release the man in the coma died.

  Were these homicides? There was no question in Desiree Powell’s mind – or indeed the mind of any detective Powell had ever worked with – that they were. The decision, however, was not up to the police. It was up to the district attorney. Plus, it was one thing for a police officer to be certain of someone’s guilt or culpability in a crime. It was another matter to be able to prove it.

  Powell studied the possibilities. Nobody jumped out.

  She handed the list to Marco Fontova. The addresses were spread out over Jackson Heights, Elmhurst, Briarwood, Cypress Hills. In other words, all the way across Queens County, and halfway across Brooklyn.

  Fontova reached into his pocket, handed Powell a dollar.

  “What’s this for?” she asked.

  “I have to go to fucking Cypress Hills?”

  Powell nodded, took the bill. “Reach out to Brooklyn Homicide if you have to.”

  Fontova pulled a face. There was no love lost between Brooklyn detectives and Queens detectives. Sometimes they had to work together, but they didn’t have to like it.

  Grumbling under his breath, Fontova grabbed his coat and left the office.

  Powell sank back in her chair. Seniority had its perks, she thought, one of which was certainly not the part where she was older than half the people she worked with.

  She checked off a list of people she would be interviewing, then poured herself some coffee. Contrary to popular belief, the cop-shop coffee at Queens Homicide was good. Somebody’s wife or girlfriend – Powell could never keep the rosters straight – had signed somebody up for a Coffee of the Month-type club and either on a lost bet, or under threat of exposure for some office indiscretion, the coffee ended up in the small fridge they kept. Today it was a Kona blend.

  Powell sat down at the computer.

  She popped in the CD that had been duped from Viktor Harkov’s hard drive. It seemed the man saved everything, including JPEGS of menus from all the takeout restaurants near his office. Powell waded through the first half. Nothing.

  She was just about to get on the street when she saw that hidden in one of the folders was a database with only a handful of names and addresses. It was separate from the others. It was mixed in with the files of letters and correspondence. The file was called NYPL 15.25 EFFECT OF INTOXICATION UPON LIABILITY. But that’s not what it was at all. Instead, it was a short list of names, addresses, and other data, with the subhead of ADOPTIONS 2005 (2).

  What have we here? Powell thought.

  In April 2005 Viktor Harkov brokered the adoption of two sets of twins. One, as Powell already knew, went to Sondra and James Arsenault. In addition to the two little girls adopted by Sondra and James Arsenault, a pair of twin girls, born in Estonia, processed in Helsinki, were adopted by a couple then living in the Whitestone section of Queens. A shiver went up and down Powell’s back when she saw the names. It was one of her favorite feelings.

  She picked up her phone, dialed.

  “TOMMY, DESIREE POWELL.”

  “Hey,” Tommy Christiano said. “You ready for us already?”

  “From your mouth Jah’s ear, eh?”

  “What’s up?”

  “Do you know Michael Roman’s wife?”

  There was a slight hesitation on the other end. Powell waited it out.

  “Sure. She’s great. Michael married up, big time.”

  “What does she do?”

  “She works at a clinic up in Crane County.”

  “That’s where they’re living now?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Must be nice,” Powell said. “She’s a doctor?”

  “No,” Tommy said. “She’s an RN. Why do you ask?”

  “Do you know where she worked before that?” Powell continued, steamrolling over Tommy’s question. She knew that this tactic would not be lost on a prosecutor.

  “She was an ER nurse at Downtown Hospital.”

  B just rounded the corner, sliding into C, Powell thought. She was not quite there, but she could smell it. She felt the rush. She made her notes, kicked the small talk down the alley as far as it would go. She wanted to ask Tommy a bit more about Michael Roman’s wife and children, but it made more sense to be coy at this moment. Tommy Christiano and Michael Roman were close.

  “Is Michael still in the office by any chance?”

  “No he’s gone for the day.”

  “Ah, okay,” Powell said. “Well, Tommy. Thanks a lot.”

  “No problem. Let me know if –”

  “I sure will,” Powell interrupted. “I’ll keep you posted.”

  Before Tommy said anything else, Powell clicked off. She turned her attention back to the computer monitor. She recalled Sondra Arsenault’s words.

  I never got her last name, but I remember she was a nurse. An ER nurse. Her name was Abby.

  Powell tapped her pen on the desk. She got back on the Internet, did a search for Michael Roman. In a few seconds she got a hit on an article tha
t had been written in New York Magazine a few years ago, a cover story about how Roman had survived an attempted car bombing. Powell remembered the incident well. She had never seen the article.

  She began to skim the piece of writing for details. It was lengthy, so she decided to just do a Find search on the page. She got a hit immediately.

  “Interesting,” she said to no one in particular.

  Michael Roman’s wife was named Abigail.

  SONDRA AND JAMES ARSENAULT sat in the squad room of the 112th Precinct. Sondra had never been in a police station before, and she had no idea how unrelentingly grim they could be.

  In her time as a social worker she had met many types of people. Granted, the nature of her work meant that many of the people with whom she came in contact were in some way troubled but, for Sondra Arsenault, this was both the joy and the challenge. While it was true that some people entered the mental health field with a god complex – an exaggerated sense of hubris in which a patient is formed and molded by the therapist into a vision of normalcy – most of Sondra’s colleagues in the field were dedicated people to whom a person entering into therapy was not a blank slate to be recreated in some sense of normalcy, but rather that few behaviors are hardwired, and that adjustment could be made.

  Until today. As she scrolled through computer screen after computer screen of mugshots she realized she had seen more evil in an hour than she had seen in her previous eighteen years in the field of mental health.

  Looking at these faces she was reminded of the difference between working the city and working the suburbs. Perhaps Detective Powell had been right when she asked her about where she applied her science, and whether there might be a difference in what happened in a city, as opposed the comfort and safety of the suburbs.

  The detective was right. There was a difference.

  POWELL STEPPED INTO THE cramped, windowless room. “How are you guys doing?”

  Sondra looked up. “All of these men have broken the law?”

  Powell cleared a chair of papers, sat down. “Some more than once,” she said with an understanding smile. “Some more than ten times. Some are working their way through the alphabet – assault, burglary, car theft, driving without a permit.” She winced at her reach on that one, but no one seemed to notice. “Have you seen anyone who looks familiar?”