by Mark Dawson
The man stepped into Milton’s path and held up a hand.
Milton slowed to a walk. He appraised the man as he approached him: he was the same height as Milton and of similar build. His hair was swept away from his forehead in neat waves, and his salt-and-pepper goatee was carefully clipped. He wore a black overcoat, a thick woollen scarf and leather gloves.
“Excuse me,” the man said. “Could I have a word?”
Milton stopped and removed his earbuds. “Who are you?”
“My name is Fedorov.”
“Do we know each other?”
The man shook his head. “We do not. But you are the man who went into the sea to rescue a girl yesterday morning? Around this time?”
His accent was unmistakably Eastern European: he rolled the R in rescue, and the consonants at the end of his words were not voiced.
Milton looked at him more carefully. “Yes,” he said. “I am.”
“I am her father,” the man said. He turned and pointed to the bench by the railing. “Please. Can we sit?”
Fedorov smiled, his arm extended toward the bench. Milton was just getting started with his run and would have preferred to continue. He wasn’t interested in being rewarded for what he had done, but he also did not want to appear rude. He decided to accede. It wouldn’t take long, and then he would start again. He nodded his head, went to the bench and sat down.
Fedorov sat next to him. “What is your name?”
“John.”
“You run here every morning?”
“I do,” Milton said.
“The cold weather—it must wake you up.”
“Something like that.” Milton would get cold if he didn’t get started again soon. “What’s your daughter’s name?”
“Nataliya,” Fedorov said.
“How is she?”
“She spent the night in the hospital,” he said. “It is a precaution. She had mild hypothermia. They say that if she had been in the water for another ten minutes, she would have died from the cold.”
“She wouldn’t have lasted for another ten minutes,” Milton said. “She was underwater when I got to her.”
“Did you see what happened?”
“It was a riptide. It was strong. I’m not surprised she was struggling. I’m a good swimmer, and I could barely make it back. And it was very cold.”
Fedorov stared out to sea. “We have winter swimming at home. There is a contest every year. Teams come from all over: Feodosiya, Yalta, Salem, Sevastopol, Balaklava. I used to enter with my brothers. My daughter saw that New York will have a winter swimming contest in January. She wants to enter. She wants me to be proud of her. I tell her not to go into the sea here when there are no lifeguards, but she ignores me. She has learned a harsh lesson. She will not ignore me again.”
“Where’s home?” Milton said. “Russia?”
A flicker of displeasure passed across his face. “No. I am from the Crimea. We came here after Putin stole it from us.”
It was obvious that the subject was a tender one; Fedorov’s passion was just below the surface and ready to bubble over.
Milton wasn’t interested in the effort of choosing his words carefully. He was getting cold, and he wanted to continue with his exercise. He stood. “I’m glad she’s okay.”
Fedorov stood, too. “I would like to thank you properly.”
“That’s not necessary. Really. I’m just pleased to have been able to help.”
“No, John. I insist. Please—I own Café Valentin. It is on the boardwalk.” He turned and pointed to the west. “You head that way, toward West Brighton. My wife would like to cook for you. And my daughter would like to thank you herself. Please, John. Say you will come.”
Milton thought of the things he wanted to do today; he thought of Manny and Freddy Blanco and being with them so that he could offer his help, if they would have it. But Fedorov’s gratitude was sincere, and, since he had quit the drink, Milton had always tried to open himself up to new opportunities and experiences. It would be churlish of him to say no.
“Thank you,” he said. “That’s kind. When are you thinking?”
“Tomorrow evening?”
Milton had no plans. “That’s fine.”
Fedorov extended his hand and Milton took it. “Café Valentin,” he said. “That way. You can’t miss it. Shall we say eight o’clock?”
“Perfect.”
“Then we will see you then, John.”
37
Polanski slotted his car into the row of parked vehicles lined up outside the entrance to the precinct building. He switched off the engine and sat in the car for a moment, looking at the building and thinking about what it represented. He looked at the letters above the entrance doors: 75th Precinct, Police Department, City of New York. The letters were made from aluminium, and they shone in the harsh morning sunlight. It was as if the department had chosen something that glittered and gleamed in an attempt to distract attention from the iniquity that had characterised this place for so long. But the corruption was still there. Polanski lived in that world. He waded through the same sewage day after day. And he knew: the Seven Five hadn’t changed at all.
He had known for months that the precinct was rotten. The NYPD had made progress in clearing out the corrupt officers that had blighted its reputation in the 1990s, but it was a fight that required constant vigilance and it was beginning to look very much as if that fight was being lost. East Brooklyn was better now than it had been for years. Polanski had seen video footage from twenty years ago when Pitkin and Atlantic and the other streets had been blighted, with buildings that had been allowed to dissolve into piles of masonry in images that would not have been out of place in blitzed London. But Brooklyn had been revived in the years since. The artists came first for the cheap rent, businesses followed because the artists were cool, and then, finally, commuters from Manhattan arrived because they could get their chai lattes and organic sandwiches. The area had gone from dangerous to hip, and now, these days, it was close to bland homogeneity.
That did not mean that the criminal element had moved out. The dealers and crews had become more professional, embedding themselves within legitimate businesses and adapting their offerings to better suit a new clientele with deeper pockets. Heroin and crack could still be had, but there was greater demand for blow and meth. Spice—synthetic marijuana more potent than heroin—was becoming popular. The industry was insidious, less blatant than before but with tentacles that reached across the district.
And, when there was a significant criminal presence, there would always be temptation. Cops who were not paid enough to insulate themselves from the possibilities available to those who were prepared to look the other way would always be vulnerable to it. And the opportunities that came with a gun and a badge opened up even wider possibilities for those more avaricious officers who were prepared to actively seek out illicit opportunities.
Polanski’s unit had only recently finished an investigation into half a dozen corrupt cops in the neighbouring Seven Seven. The affair had been embarrassing for the NYPD, and even though the mayor had said all the right things in public as the cops were convicted following a three-month trial, his private remarks had made it clear that he did not want to see a repeat prosecution. The man was a politician, and, like all politicians, he had one eye on his legacy and the other on how he might get himself re-elected. The word had filtered out from the commissioner to Internal Affairs and then to the rank and file. Polanski had watched with dismay as reports of corruption had increased. He knew why: the bad cops were gambling that they had a few months’ immunity until the next crackdown, and, until then, they were going to take advantage.
Polanski had seen it, too. He had been told to soft-pedal his investigation into the Seven Five, but he wasn’t prepared to do that. He kept digging. He kept turning over rocks and found more evidence that there was a cabal of corrupt officers who were almost indistinguishable from the Acosta gang that they were prote
cting.
And then he had found a man who was prepared to go on the stand and testify to the truth of what was happening in the district. A man who was deep within the Acosta crew, a man who was the bridge between the Dominican gang and the corrupt officers. José Luis González was going to name the officers who were involved.
And now he was dead.
Polanski had driven from the safe house straight over to Euclid Avenue. The subway station had been closed, with a police cruiser and a CSI van outside. Polanski had been able to get down into the restroom before the crime scene techs had finished with their work. The body was still there, sprawled out in a pool of fast-congealing blood. They had already been able to identify González from his driver’s license, but Polanski had confirmed it.
They loaded the body into the back of the van and took it away to the morgue at Kings County Hospital. Polanski had watched it go, and had driven back home to Washingtonville for what little sleep he could snatch before the sun came up again.
A car pulled up into the space next to Polanski. He pulled down the visor and checked his reflection in the mirror. He was tired, and it showed. There was no time to worry about how he looked. He knew that González had been killed by the police—either at their hand or at their behest—and the longer they had to cover up what they had done, the more difficult it would be to follow the evidence back to them.
He opened the door and stepped outside. It was cold. The forecast was for another freezing day, and Polanski shivered as he shut and locked the door. He crossed the sidewalk and went inside.
Polanski went to the desk sergeant and asked whether Detective Mackintosh was at the precinct yet, but, before the sergeant could answer, he glanced up as a woman wearing a leather jacket came down the steps into the main room.
“Hey, Mack,” the sergeant called out.
The woman paused and then diverted to the desk. “What’s up?”
“Got someone who wants to see you.”
Polanski raised his hand in greeting. “I’m Aleksander Polanski.”
“Yeah?”
“I’m from Internal Affairs.”
She couldn’t prevent the curl in her lip. “That right?”
“Can I talk to you, please?”
She shrugged. “Sure. Shoot.”
He shook his head. “Not here.”
“Why not?”
She was bubbling with hostility; it wasn’t unusual, and Polanski had long since learned not to take it seriously. They called IAB the Rat Squad. Attitude from the rank and file came with the job.
“You got the homicide at Euclid?”
She nodded.
“The vic was one of my CIs. He was coming in last night.”
Polanski watched Mackintosh’s face; she understood what he had said, and, more importantly, she understood the implications. Polanski was IAB, charged with investigating dirty cops. González was his informant, which meant he must have been passing information about dirty cops. And then he had been murdered.
She shook her head and sighed. “Fuck.”
“Yeah,” Polanski said. “Fuck.”
She unzipped her jacket. “What are you doing now?”
“Nothing.”
“There’s a possible witness,” she said. “A kid. I’m going to go and see him now. You want, you could ride up to Cypress Hills with me and tell me whatever it is you think I need to know.”
38
Milton showered and changed into his work gear. He went back down to the street, got onto his bike, and rode north.
Milton had worked at the restaurant ever since he had arrived in Brooklyn. He needed the money, but it was more than that. It lent structure and order to his day. His experience had taught him that he needed a routine. It was an important buttress against boredom; when he was bored, he had more time to think about the things that he had done in his past. Those thoughts always led him back to pain and the drink that he had relied upon to salve it. He had worked as a cook before, in London and in Juarez. He had seen the help wanted ad for this job on Craigslist, had applied and—after a perfunctory interview on the phone—had been given the job.
The restaurant was on the corner of Coney Island Avenue and Kathleen Place. It was called Red Square and was the first in what the owner rather optimistically hoped would eventually be a chain. It majored in Eastern European cookery, including dishes from Russia, the Ukraine, Uzbekistan and the rest of the Caucasus. The menu was full of choices that were intended to be authentic. Guests were welcomed with glasses of kvass—the fermented beverage made from pumpernickel bread that was also present in a summer soup called okroshka—before they were shown to their tables and invited to choose from all manner of smoked fish, salads, hot and cold soups, and robust stews cooked with beef or pork.
Milton parked his bike on Kathleen Place and went into the restaurant through the rear door. He took off his jacket, changed into his smock and made his way to the kitchen.
The chef-patron was a man named Vadim, who made much of a life that had seen him emigrate to the United States from Moscow by way of China and Uzbekistan. His original plan to offer higher-end dining at prices that matched had been shelved by lack of interest from the clientele, and he had fallen back upon the ploy of offering plentiful food at cheap prices. The weekday lunch specials started at five dollars for a main course and twelve dollars for a choice of three plates.
Milton was in charge of the samsa, pastries that were stuffed full of chicken and vegetables. He also had the pelmeni dumplings, pork and lamb fillings wrapped in unleavened dough. He went into the pantry to collect the ingredients that he would need and then returned to his station.
Vadim was waiting for him at his counter.
“Smith,” he said, “you are late.”
“No, I’m not. I was here two minutes early.”
Vadim dismissed Milton’s rebuttal with a wave of his hand. “We have busy day,” he said with gruff disdain. “Wedding party coming in at noon and we have man down.”
Milton knew all about that. The woman who worked the station next to him had quit in tears last week. Her name was Natalia; she was an emigre from St. Petersburg, slight and pretty and with a mischievous glint to her smile that Milton found very attractive. Milton had watched as Vadim had continually talked her down, denigrating the quality of her cooking and, eventually, even the way that she looked. One of the other chefs had explained that Natalia had turned down Vadim’s clumsy advances and now she was being punished for it. The last straw had been an explosive volley of insults as Vadim had tasted the perfectly good okroshka that Natalia had delivered to the pass. She had turned her back in tears and started back to her counter; Vadim had thrown a plate at her, the crockery narrowly missing her head and shattering into pieces as it caught the edge of the range. Milton had been ready to intercede, but Natalia had caught his eye and shaken her head. She had taken off her smock, set it on the counter, and left. She hadn’t returned; Milton didn’t think that she would. If Vadim had any shame at the way he had treated her, he didn’t show it. Instead, he had railed at how it was impossible to find staff upon whom he could rely. He delivered these declarations with one eye on Milton, as if daring him to react. Milton did not, although he was sorely tempted.
Milton put the ingredients down on the counter. Vadim was still watching him, his brawny arms folded across his chest. It was as if he was looking for a confrontation.
“You standing there watching me isn’t going to make me go faster,” Milton said.
Vadim snorted derisively, but he took the hint. He turned and went out to the front of the house.
Milton took a knife from the block and started to dice an onion.
39
Mackintosh led the way out of the station house and down to the line of cars outside. She blipped the lock on a Sonata, indicated that Polanski should get in, and went around to the driver’s side. Polanski opened the door and sat down. He looked across the cabin as Mackintosh opened the driver’s side door
and lowered herself into the seat.
Polanski had never come across Mackintosh before. That, he thought, was a good sign. Notoriety within IAB was not something that a decent, ethical detective would encourage. He guessed that she was in her late thirties. She was attractive, with thick brown hair that she tucked behind her ears to fall all the way down past her shoulders. She wore hardly any make-up, and her eyes were bracketed top and bottom by thick lashes. He would have liked to see her smile, but that looked unlikely; her face was set in a scowl as she reached to the dash to start the engine.
“I don’t want to step on any toes,” Polanski began, “but there’s one thing we need to get clear right at the start: this is my case.”
“The fuck it is,” said Mackintosh as she turned onto Essex Street and headed north. “It’s got nothing to do with you.”
“Yes, it does. González was my CI. He was coming in last night.”
“So?”
“He had evidence about officers from the Seven Five working with the Acosta gang.”
“Bullshit,” she said.
“He has evidence of officers from this precinct taking money from Acosta.”
“Who?”
“He was going to tell me last night.”
She stopped for the lights at the corner of Essex and Atlantic.
Polanski pressed, “I’m taking this investigation.”
The lights went to green and she pulled out, turning right. “No, you’re not,” she said. “It’s a homicide on my patch. I got the call. It’s my case. You want me to take it up the chain?”
Polanski exhaled. “Knock yourself out. We both know what’ll happen if you do that.”
They drove in silence, turning onto Crescent and heading north toward Cypress Hills. Polanski felt his temper bubbling and distracted himself by looking out of the window. East New York had worked hard to improve itself since the nineties, but it was still a dive. Fulton Street was still an easy place to score drugs, and, although the murder rate had been drastically cut, it was still one of the most dangerous areas in New York for mugging and burglary. Polanski had worked a number of cases in the Seven Five and the neighbouring Seven Seven, and he knew from experience just how much temptation was laid in the paths of the men and women who tried to police it.
