Hell Gate

by Linda A. Fairstein

  I couldn’t think fast enough about what it would mean if she had the same image as they did burned onto her body almost two years ago in a small town in western Macedonia.

  “What is it, Olena?”

  “It’s Zmey, Ms. Alex. A green monster with three heads and fire that came from his mouth,” she said. “I was property of the Dragon. No one would touch me if they knew that.”

  It had been too much to hope that Olena could lead us to the snakehead whose tattooed rose had linked Salma Zunega to one of the victims of the Golden Voyager.

  “I’m going to let you rest now, Olena. It’s almost time for you to have lunch,” I said, trying to disguise my disappointment, which was meaningless in light of the odyssey she had just recounted.

  “You want to know why I come on this boat, Ms. Alex?”

  “Yes, Olena, I’d like to know that.”

  “There is an orphanage in Kotovs’k. The nuns who run it, they took me in, let me go to school. I read about America in their books,” she said, finally offering me a smile that showed off her best features.

  “I’m glad they did.”

  “You had a great war once,” she said to Simchuk, and even the translator seemed happier now. I heard Olena say the name Abraham Lincoln. “Abraham Lincoln freed all the slaves in America. You have black man even who is president.”

  “Yes, we do.” I thought of the hundreds of slaves who sailed to New York centuries ago and the African burial ground, just a few blocks from where we sat.

  “I was a slave, too, Ms. Alex. I came to America, even though very scared still, because that can’t happen to me here.”

  The wreck of the Golden Voyager may have been the only break in Olena’s young life. This wasn’t the moment for me to tell her that the American traffic in sex slaves—local and international—still flourished and thrived, and that this disastrous accident may have been the thing that saved her from another round of forced prostitution.

  “No, Olena,” I said, taking her hands in mine and squeezing them. “That can’t happen to you now.”

  TWENTY-THREE

  My SUV was parked on First Avenue, across the street from the medical examiner’s office. Nan and I had just taken the two young women, Olena and Lydia, to view the bodies of the victims at the morgue. One of the Simchuk sisters remained with us to translate, both at the ME’s office and as they settled in to the shelter.

  “So far, everybody’s accounted for except Jane Doe Number One,” I said, herding the group across the avenue when the light changed.

  “I’ve got an idea about that,” Nan said.

  “Let’s hear it.”

  “What became of the captain and crew of the ship?”

  “They’re in federal lockup. Donny Baynes has them.”

  “Are they American?”

  “No. Eastern European. I’m not sure if Baynes said they’re Ukrainian, but the captain was pulling the no-speak-English bit on Wednesday. They’re in on trafficking charges and illegal entry, and they’ve all got lawyers by now. The captain had the proper papers to be in command of a ship, just not with the cargo he was carrying.”

  “What if that woman—the one no one has positively ID’d yet—was part of the captain’s reward for his safe passage?” Nan asked. “Suppose she spent most of the trip in his cabin, forced to service him.”

  “Interesting thought,” I said, as we opened the doors for our charges.

  “It helps explain why nobody on board had any contact with her. It also figures she could have been caught up in the physical battle when the guys mutinied. Maybe she was injured accidentally.”

  “That’s the most well-placed accidental stabbing I’ve seen in a while,” I said.

  “But I’m thinking maybe the captain threw her in the way to protect himself, or maybe one of her countrymen thought she had betrayed the others by becoming the captain’s woman.”

  “You need to call Donny so he can get one of his guys working on that,” I said. “It’s a really good idea.”

  “I hardly know him. Why don’t you call?”

  “ ’ Cause it’s your idea, and I’m driving.”

  Olena and Lydia seemed overwhelmed by the sights and smells of New York. They were craning their necks from each side of the backseat as Ms. Simchuk described the buildings we passed on our long afternoon drive up to the northern end of Manhattan.

  “I’ll go across Thirty-fourth Street so they can see the Empire State Building,” I told her, “and then through the theater district. Let’s get the business out of the way so they can enjoy the ride.”

  “Very good,” Simchuk said.

  “The shelter has very tight security. All of the women and children—about twenty-five families—are being protected because they are trying to get out of abusive relationships.”

  Simchuk translated and the girls listened.

  “That means their access is controlled. There is a nine o’clock curfew for all the other residents, and the police precinct is one block away, so it’s quite secure,” I said. “They will share a small apartment—”

  “Excuse me, you mean a room, yes?”

  “No, I mean a small apartment. There is one bedroom with twin beds, a separate bathroom, and their own kitchen.”

  Olena and Lydia were talking between themselves, excited by the description.

  “They each receive a welcome package with some clothing, kitchen utensils, and food.”

  “But, Ms. Alex,” Simchuk said, “they are afraid to believe this.”

  “It’s true.”

  They didn’t need to know how I had fought every point out with Donny Baynes last night in the conference room. He had wanted them each to wear an ankle bracelet to monitor their whereabouts. While they had clearly risked flight before, I couldn’t imagine subjecting them to such humiliation after what they had endured to get here.

  Nan took over. “They will not be able to leave the building without an escort, though. A federal marshal will come for them every morning at nine, and will return them here at the end of the day. Even on weekends. We’re trying to get translators to be assigned around the clock, but for tonight, you’ll stay as late as you can, and after that it will be sign language to communicate their needs.”

  We were losing our witnesses to the great spectacle of the New York City streets. I took the slow, scenic route, circling Rockefeller Center so they could ogle the enormous Christmas tree and the ice skaters out in full force, despite the cold.

  I went up Sixth Avenue and into Central Park, passing the horse-drawn carriages at the Fifty-ninth Street entrance and taking the drive north, behind the Metropolitan Museum of Art and the glass-enclosed Temple of Dendur, which didn’t interest the duo a fraction as much as the endless assortment of bikers and joggers, dog walkers and performance artists, and the carefree attitude so many of them seemed to radiate to the two tired hostages inside my SUV.

  “You have to stop at the station house first?” Nan asked as we reached the Heights.

  “That’s the way it’s done,” I said, pulling in front of the building on Broadway that housed the Thirty-fourth Precinct.

  I double-parked and we all got out, although Olena and Lydia were not pleased about the stop. “Don’t worry,” I instructed Ms. Simchuk to reassure them, “it’s just to let them know where you’re going to be.”

  The desk sergeant called up to the squad, and one of the detectives came down to meet us. I told him who the women were and that Safe Horizon agreed to put them up at Parrish House.

  “You need us to sit on the place, Counselor? They expecting any trouble from anybody?”

  “Neither one of them knows a soul in this country except the people who sailed over with them.”

  “And the newspapers say those poor folks aren’t exactly foot-loose and fancy free. Legal limbo, I guess.”

  “It’s a horrible situation,” Nan said. “We’re hoping the task force can clear them in a reasonable amount of time.”

  “Our o
nly worry is making sure these two don’t decide to run away. I’m kind of on the hook with the feds for that,” I said. “I’m afraid you’ll get the first call if they take it on themselves to disappear.”

  “Trust me. They won’t get very far in this neighborhood,” the detective said, “unless their Spanish is really good.”

  I didn’t think that language barriers were an issue for these desperate young women.

  “I’m betting on you, ’cause it’s my head that’s going to go on the chopping block if they do,” I said. “I’m going to call the shelter’s manager now.”

  “Yeah, we got a good relationship with them over there. They’ll send an escort to show you to the house. That’s their rules, even if you know where it is. Sorta lets us know what’s going on.”

  He and Nan chatted while I spoke with the social worker who was in charge of Parrish House. She said it would only take her a couple of minutes to walk the block and a half to the station house.

  “Don’t worry, Ms. Cooper,” the detective said, stopping at the front desk, “we’ll give the place a little extra attention. I’ll ask the sarge here to tell the guys at every roll call we got some foreign dignitaries we gotta look out for, okay?”

  I thanked him and we stayed inside the lobby until the advocate from the shelter arrived and introduced herself.

  “Why don’t I walk back with you?” Nan asked. “Alex can follow with the others.”

  Simchuk, Olena, and Lydia got into the SUV and I pulled away, stopping at the traffic light. I had to square the block because of the one-way streets that crossed Broadway, and by the time I pulled over in front of the fire hydrant just past the entrance to the large redbrick building, Nan and her guide were waiting on the steps.

  It was a quiet residential block, with a small old church across the street and a bodega on the corner. The girls got out and looked around at their new environs, stepping back to let a young black woman with a little boy at her side pass between them as she left the shelter.

  “Welcome to Parrish House,” the advocate said to Ms. Simchuk, ringing the buzzer for admission and holding the door open to invite us in. “Please tell them we’re happy to have them here.”

  Before the four of us could mount the steps, I saw a dark minivan approaching down the narrow street. It caught my attention because it was so much newer and cleaner than the other beat-up cars nearby.

  Ms. Simchuk went first and the girls followed. I watched out of the corner of my eye as the shiny vehicle seemed to be braking near the curb in front of the building, but its windows were so darkly tinted that I couldn’t see inside.

  “Let’s go, Alex,” Nan said. “Stop looking for trouble.”

  Olena and Lydia turned their heads to look at me when they heard Nan call out my name.

  I put my first foot on the step just as lights seemed to burst from within the minivan. Someone was shooting photographs of our arrival.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  “Call nine-one-one!” I screamed to the advocate who was inside the hallway.

  “Why?”

  I dug in my tote for my cell phone and dialed as the door closed behind us.

  “What did I miss?” Nan asked.

  “Yes, Operator. I’m an assistant district attorney. I need someone from the Three-four to come to Parrish House,” I said, giving her the address. “What? No one’s hurt, no.”

  I signaled to Nan to move Olena and Lydia into the small office at the end of the hall.

  “What’s the crime?” I repeated the operator’s question. “Well, I’m at a shelter for crime victims and some guy—No, I didn’t see who but I assume it was a guy, was taking photographs of us, or maybe of the house—Excuse me? I know that’s not a crime, miss. But I just need some officers over here as soon as possible.”

  I opened the front door again but there was no black minivan anywhere on the street.

  “Did you see a guy, really?” Nan asked me. “Ms. Simchuk, why don’t you take the girls into the office and let them get started. They’ll need to give some background information about themselves, and then we’ll show them around and introduce them to the team that works here.”

  I waited until the interpreter led Olena and Lydia away before I spoke. “I’m not sure what I saw. Did you get the make of the car?”

  “Get what about it? It was a station wagon, I think.”

  “I could swear it was a minivan. Did you see a plate?”

  “Alex, I wasn’t even aware of the thing. Why are you so freaked out?”

  “In the first place, no one’s supposed to know that we’re here.”

  “True. But nobody was following you.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because they’d be dizzy from the ride you took to get here. C’mon, you would have noticed. Whoever it is would have rear-ended you each time you stopped to point out a famous site. What do you think, they wanted some snaps of us for Cosmo for Prosecutors ’cause we look so hot at the end of a long week like this?”

  I laughed. “Imagine, I almost had an entire day without a Chapman dose of reality, and here you are, doing it for him. So it wasn’t a glamour shot?”

  “Lights and sirens coming your way. Pull yourself together, my dear friend.”

  “Seriously, Nan. The bigger issue is whether some other lowlife is looking for his ex and figured out this is the spot. The cops just need to know about it. So does the executive director of the agency.”

  The buzzer rang and I looked through the peephole to see a young uniformed cop standing outside before I opened the door.

  “Hi, I’m Alex Cooper. This is Nan Toth. We’re with the DA’s Office.”

  “Nice. I’m DeCicco,” he said, pointing to the name tag on his chest. “What’s up?”

  “Nan and I are just bringing two of the victims from the shipwreck—you know the boat that was grounded in Queens early Wednesday morning?”

  “Victims? Victims of what? They’re all illegals, right? Somebody on board killed somebody else, right?”

  I was looking for a guy with some concern and empathy, but clearly drew the short straw.

  “Two of these young ladies who I’m willing to vouch for aren’t murderers, okay? Can we start with that? And they’re not going to take your job away from you anytime soon. Commissioner Scully thinks they’ll be safe here.”

  “Guess he knows. Somebody bothering them?”

  “Not exactly. Nan and I drove them up here, and of course, no one’s supposed to know the address of this safe house, and as we were coming up the steps this car stopped and—”

  “What car?”

  “A black minivan, I think it was.”

  The cop was looking at the expression on Nan’s face. “Not what you think, is it?”

  “I mean, Alex really saw it. Might have been dark gray or green. I didn’t actually—”

  “But you don’t think it was a minivan, do you?” DeCicco asked.

  “Look, I don’t want to disagree with Alex because she’s the one—”

  “What is she, the boss of you or something?” He looked at me again. “Where did it stop?”

  “It didn’t exactly stop. I think the driver kind of braked and slowed down.”

  “You’re beginning to sound like one of your own witnesses,” Nan said. “You would be coming down on the poor thing so hard right now.”

  “Was he taking pictures or not, Nan?” I asked.

  “He. You’re sure it’s a guy, right?” DeCicco asked.

  “I didn’t see him. I’m assuming it was a guy, okay? The windows were very darkly tinted.”

  “He—maybe she—was photographing you or the Russian broads?”

  No point stopping for a geography lesson.

  “I don’t know. It seemed like the flash went off four or five times.”

  “You sure he wasn’t photographing the church across the street? People come here all the time to take pictures of it. Must be one of the oldest churches in the city.”

&nbs
p; I looked across the street at the building, which had no remarkable architectural features.

  “Understand me? I mean, can you say the camera was pointed at all of you and not across the street?” DeCicco asked.

  “The windows were so dark I can’t honestly say where the camera was pointed. I just saw flashes of light.”

  “Passenger window open facing you?”

  I shook my head from side to side.

  “So you couldn’t see if the driver’s window was open?”

  “No.”

  “Sort of makes more sense he’d be shooting at the church through an open window on his side and not through the tint at you, right? Don’t make sense.”

  “Can you just take a report of this—this—?”

  “It’s not a crime.”

  “Okay, the incident, then. Just a record of the time and a description—well, a sort of description of the car.”

  “Sure, miss. Sure, I’ll do that,” DeCicco said.

  I’d been blown off more diplomatically in my life. “Thanks.”

  “It wasn’t a department car, was it?” he asked.

  “You’ve got minivans out here—unmarked vans?”

  “We’ve got some wagons,” he said, nodding to Nan.

  “Not all shiny—?”

  “Sometimes we even wash ’em, you know?” DeCicco said, on his way down the steps. “Not to worry. They call us if there’s even the smell of trouble here. You take care, girls. See you in court.”

  “Don’t say it, Nan. I lost that round.”

  “Now, there’s a guy who could give Lem Howell a run for his money. Let me see—a cross that was rapier sharp—”

  “Risible and rude. There’s your triplicate.”

  We waited until Olena and Lydia had toured the facility, seen their first large-screen high-def television mounted in the lounge, greeted some of the other residents, and cried with joy when they were taken into their own little apartment.

  At four thirty, Nan and I said good-bye to them and walked out to my SUV.

  “Perfect timing,” I said, checking my watch. “I promised Vickee I’d be at the house before six.”

  “I’ll hop on the train.”