Authors: Robert Knightly
‘What about the names of the sponsors? Aslan’s and Barsakov’s.’
‘Not yet. Plus, I was only able to get a list of outgoing numbers. Incoming’s gonna be another couple of days.’ Linde tossed a
Coles Directory
onto my desk. ‘Whatta ya say we get crackin’?’
A
Coles Directory
is often called a reverse directory because it allows you to put a name and address to a phone number. This was exactly what we did for the next two hours. The job was painstaking and tedious, and ultimately disappointing. There were no outgoing calls to Manhattan addresses where live-in maids were likely to be employed. In fact, there were no calls to anywhere in Manhattan.
‘I need new glasses,’ Hansen finally declared.
‘Don’t get comfortable,’ I warned. ‘We’ve got a long way to go.’ I watched him lay his reading glasses on his desk, then rub his eyes. ‘First, I want to record how many times each number was called, then break the list into residential and business numbers, then organize the lists by neighborhood with the most frequently called numbers first.’
Linde groaned. ‘Whatta you say we just pick up the phones and start dialing?’
‘And ask what? Do you employ a maid from Domestic Solutions in your home? How long do you think it’ll take before someone calls Aslan and says, “Yo, wolf-man, the police are looking for your workers”?’
‘Alright, I get the point.’
‘Good, because that doesn’t mean we can’t knock on doors looking for Aslan Khalid. Given Barsakov’s sudden departure, Aslan’ll be expecting me to come calling. But I want the women left out of it.’
Hansen leaned back in his chair and I got the distinct impression that he was sick of my attitude. I wasn’t surprised. Linde worked for the First Dep, while I was a lowly squad detective. If life was fair, he’d be giving the orders. Still, I wasn’t finished.
‘How about a photo, Hansen? Did you, by any chance, make a copy of Aslan’s DMV photo?
Linde shook his head.
‘No photos. No sponsors’ names. No outgoing phone calls. If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were trying to impede this investigation.’
Hansen fixed his baby-blues on me for a moment, then smiled. Not his radiant, prairie-boy smile, but a smile nonetheless.
‘Feel free to stop me if you’ve heard this one, Harry,’ he said. ‘Ole and Lena decide to get married. They have a big wedding in their home town, followed by a catered reception, then head off to a honeymoon in Minneapolis. As they’re nearing the city, Ole puts his hand on Lena’s knee. Lena giggles and says, “If ya want to, Ole, you could go furdder.” So Ole drives to Duluth.’
It was eight o’clock by the time we left the Nine-Two. With Linde driving, we managed to check out a cluster of twelve residential addresses in the Brooklyn neighborhoods of Brighton Beach, Sheepshead Bay and Gravesend. The addresses were all in apartment buildings inhabited by ordinary workers. That the residents of those apartments were more likely to be maids than to employ them was obvious at a glance. But it was also obvious, given the number of calls from Domestic Solutions, that Aslan was known to these individuals, virtually all Russian, that we interviewed. A few even admitted to recognizing Aslan’s photo, the one I’d pulled off the squad’s computer. But they hadn’t seen him and didn’t know where he was. Nor did they care to discuss the nature of their relationship with him.
At one point, as we bounced from address to address, Linde asked an obvious question: ‘What the hell are we doing, Harry?’
‘We’re knockin’ on doors, Hansen, in the hope, slim as it may be, that we’ll run across somebody with a grudge against Aslan. Someone who’ll sell him out for the pure pleasure of doing so.’
‘A needle in a haystack?’
Three hours later, we headed back to the house, re-crossing Brooklyn on Bedford Avenue, from Avenue Z only a few blocks north of the Atlantic Ocean, through Sheepshead Bay, through Midwood, though Flatbush and Bedford-Stuyvesant, finally into Williamsburg. There were traffic lights on every corner and most blocks were lined on both sides with closed storefront businesses. On the surrounding streets, the architecture ranged from squat five-story apartment buildings, to single-family homes on spacious lots, to high-rise housing projects. How many thousands of people did we pass? Fifty thousand? A hundred? Five hundred? This was New York stripped of its glamour. This was where all those people who work in the basements of all those New York skyscrapers live out their uncelebrated lives. I knew that Aslan might be anywhere among them. Or in dozens of other equally uncelebrated neighborhoods in Queens or the Bronx.
Thursday was fast drawing to a close. On Saturday, Aslan Khalid, ever the good shepherd, would gather his flock. I closed my eyes for a minute as Hansen drove across Empire Boulevard, imagining the women I saw at Blessed Virgin, their fresh, hopeful faces, the summer dresses they wore. I imagined them led along a narrow ramp into an airliner. Right this way, ladies. Watch your step.
‘Alright,’ I finally said, ‘let’s hear it.’
‘Hear what, Harry?’
‘Those little tasks I gave you, the ones you mentioned before. Let’s hear the results.’
Hansen slowed for the light, then threw the transmission into neutral before producing a small notebook. ‘Okey-dokey,’ he said. ‘First, the lab compared the tire-impression photos you took at the crime scene with tire impressions found in an oil spill at Domestic Solutions. They got a match.’
I shook my head. ‘The van can only be tied to Konstantine Barsakov. Let’s not waste time on it.’
Linde dropped his eyes to the open notebook without protesting. ‘The blood found beneath the bathroom tiles at Domestic Solution is the same type as your Jane Doe’s. A DNA analysis is ongoing. We’ll have results within a week.’ He looked up at me, but I waved him on. ‘The Barsakov autopsy was done early this morning by a pathologist named Moore. She estimates time of death between nine and ten thirty on Monday night.’
‘And the manner of death?’
‘Well, Moore’s calling it a homicide. That’s the good news. The bad news is that Barsakov’s prints were found on the gun and a test of his right hand for gunshot residue was positive.’
‘How about the finger that was blown off? Did they find gunshot residue on the finger?’
‘Don’t know, Harry.’
I waved him on.
‘I managed to contact Barsakov’s lawyer, Martin Cardiff, and, believe me, it wasn’t easy. Cardiff says that he and Konstantine split up when they left the precinct on Monday night.’
‘Was anybody there to meet Barsakov?’
Hansen shook his head. ‘I also called the phone company, hoping that Aslan gave them a forwarding number for Domestic Solutions. As it turns out, the phone’s in Barsakov’s name and the number’s still active.’
Ahead of us, a small cluster of teenagers slouched in front of a deli. The deli was closed and one of the kids was spray-painting a graffiti tag on a steel shutter covering the window. Hansen looked at the kids for a minute, then put the car in gear when the light changed. He drove past without comment.
‘The ME recovered three human hairs at the autopsy and sent them over to the lab for comparison. The hairs were found on Barsakov’s shoulder, where someone leaning over him might have deposited them.’
‘Were the follicles intact?’ For the most part, hair evidence is junk science. All you can really say is that a comparison doesn’t exclude a given suspect. There are exceptions, however, when hair is deformed in some way, through disease or heredity, or when enough living tissue from the follicle is recovered for DNA testing.
‘Afraid not, Harry. The lab rat who examined them told me the hairs were unremarkable.’
I left my apartment early on Friday to cruise the streets of Queens and Brooklyn, accompanied by a wispy fog that slowly evolved into a dense summer haze. The temperature was on the rise, the humidity, too, and my Nissan’s air conditioning was running full out before the morning was done. I was working with the list of phone numbers secured by Hansen, visiting businesses closed on the prior night, from a pizza parlor in Greenpoint to a plumbing supply house in Flushing. I wasn’t expecting much and I wasn’t surprised when my canvas ground to a halt at two o’clock in the afternoon, the list now exhausted. But I did learn something. Though I never ran into him, a giant cop, who could only have been Hansen Linde, had already visited a number of these businesses before I got there.
Par for the course. I didn’t hold it against Bill Sarney, much less Hansen Linde. They had their interests to protect. As for myself, I’d made no mention, to either, of my encounter with Father Manicki or my deal with Sister Kassia. And I hadn’t told either that I expected the priest, following a thorough examination of his conscience, to find a reason to cooperate, or that my deal with the nun would effectively put five material witnesses beyond Sarney’s reach.
Mynka belonged to me. Hansen Linde could not speak for her, even should he wish to do so. Nor could Bill Sarney.
When my cell phone rang, I was down to the last bites of an astonishingly greasy cheeseburger, sitting in a diner on Conduit Boulevard. I was hoping it was Father Stan, calling to say that he’d come back early and his conscience had won the day. Instead, I got Dominick Capra, who turned out to have a conscience of his own.
‘If you’re tapin’ this, ya fuck,’ he began, ‘I swear to God I’ll kill ya.’
‘Dominick? That you?’
‘Don’t say my name.’
‘Sorry.’
Though Capra couldn’t see it, I was grinning from ear to ear. One day, I decided, I’d express my gratitude with a case of micro-brewed bourbon.
‘A coupla things about your boy, Harry. First, he has refugee status in the United States. That’s supposed to mean that he faces persecution if he returns to Russia. Only the Russian government put him on their immigration quota, which doesn’t make a lotta sense if they were persecuting him. Not unless we’re talkin’ about a very special accommodation for a Chechen who did the Russians some very special favors. Anyway, there’s two places you might look for him: the home address he supplied on his application two years ago, and the business address of his sponsor, Nicolai Urnov.’
Capra dictated the addresses, both in Brooklyn. I didn’t recognize the first one, but the second, the address of Formatech Money Services, was on the list compiled by Hansen Linde. I’d been to Formatech less than an hour before, only to find it closed, its shutters drawn.
‘Promise me something, Harry,’ Capra finally said. ‘Promise that you won’t call me again and that my name will never come up. Swear it.’
Actually, that was two somethings. But I not only promised, I remembered to say thank you.
Five hours later, at seven o’clock, I dialed Bill Sarney’s home number from the back of my Nissan. I was scrunched down in the seat with my head pressed against the post separating the side and rear windows. Given Aslan’s natural paranoia – fueled, no doubt, by recent events – I might have chosen a better spot for a stakeout. But I hadn’t really expected him to show. In fact, I didn’t spot him when he came driving down Coney Island Avenue, when he parked his car, or when he got out. I didn’t spot him until he opened Formatech’s door and walked inside.
‘I’m sitting on Aslan Khalid,’ I told Sarney, ‘and I need something from you before I move on him.’
‘Where’s Hansen?’
‘Probably at the Nine-Two, waiting for me to show up.’
After Capra’s call, I’d first checked the residential address supplied by Capra, only to find a hole in the ground and a band of construction workers digging away. I had better luck at Formatech Money Services. The shutter covering the door was rolled up and somebody was inside. My first instinct was to jump out of the proverbial frying pan, to confront Aslan’s sponsor, Nicolai Urnov, assuming he was in there. Instead, I decided to sit on the building. If Urnov was inside – or, even better, Aslan Khalid – he’d eventually come out. I knew, of course, that this was my last chance. I didn’t want to make the same mistake I’d made with Barsakov.
‘I want you to call Hansen immediately.’ Sarney’s tone reeked of command authority, but I wasn’t intimidated. I knew the bastard.
‘There’s no point and no time, boss. Hansen can’t authorize what I need.’
Another silence as Sarney resisted the urge to bite. Finally, he said, ‘Okay, prick, let’s hear it.’
‘I have enough on Aslan to bring him in for questioning, but not enough to charge him.’
‘For Barsakov’s murder?’
‘That’s right, and what I want to do is take Aslan out of circulation until noon on Monday. I want him to disappear.’
Technically, any detention is an arrest. Technically, all arrested individuals must be arraigned within twenty-four hours. But these impediments to a long, hard interrogation are easily overcome. All the diligent detective need do is swear that the suspect voluntarily submitted to forty-eight hours of confinement in a small, enclosed place. Since interrogations are not routinely taped, it’s the cop’s word against the defendant’s, and judges almost always rule for the cop. In a law-and-order age, they really have no choice.
‘Why?’ Sarney asked. ‘What’s so important about Monday?’
I gave him a quick explanation. Domestic Solutions’ workers, their value as witnesses, their current employment. If Aslan was not around to conduct business over the weekend, perhaps they’d be returned to their jobs on Monday, or simply left in place. Or perhaps they’d be shipped to an oilrig anchored off the coast of Nigeria. I was doing the best I could.
Sarney didn’t interrupt until I finished. I suspect that the little gears were already turning. There was an intricate cost-benefit analysis to be worked out here. His interests, the job’s interests, maybe even Harry Corbin’s interests. There were times when Bill Sarney played his brain the way a safe-cracker plays the dial of a locked safe.
‘Why not just drag Aslan into the Nine-Two?’ he finally asked.
‘No good, boss. That’s the first place a lawyer would come looking for him. Plus, there’s Drew Millard. I need something private and I’m hoping you’ll supply it. But, look, this can work out for both of us.’ I was talking faster now, but my eyes never left Formatech’s door. If Aslan came out, all bets were off. ‘Your concern is with Aslan. Mine is with the man who killed my Jane Doe.’