The Cold Room (28 page)

Literally blind, I groped my way toward what I hoped was the room’s door, only to discover myself up against the back wall. I turned on my heel, aiming to re-trace my steps, but was unable to walk a straight line. I kept lurching into the bins on either side as I shuffled along. By the time I reached the door, I was breathing hard. Because the adrenalin was pumping? Or because my lungs weren’t getting enough oxygen?

I let my index finger rest on the emergency button, wondering how many times Mynka had stood here, how many times she’d pushed the panic button? I wondered if she’d become angry when no one responded. Whether she’d held the button down, smashed her fist on the door, demanded release. Or if she was in fear of some greater punishment, something worse than the cold room.

When I pressed the button, a buzzer sounded on the other side of the door. The buzzer was loud even in the sealed refrigerator; in the kitchen, it must have been ear splitting. I tried to imagine Mynka’s tormentor on the other side of the door, knowing it might have been Margaret or Ronald, or both.

The sound of the buzzer, of course, would only inspire a true sadist to persist, to confine Mynka long enough, before she was killed, to produce an unforeseen consequence. I’d noted this consequence at the crime scene, as had Dr Hyong at the autopsy: lividity that should have been purple-black was rosy pink. That single anomaly, more than any other factor, was responsible for my presence in the Portola townhouse.

I didn’t panic, didn’t pound on the door or repeatedly press the emergency button, as I imagined that Mynka and Tynia had, but I felt an overwhelming sense of relief when Sister Kassia opened the door and I stepped out. The nun was holding a mug of hot coffee and smiling faintly, while Tynia stood by the table, polishing cloth in hand.

I took the mug, cradling it between my fingers until I stopped shivering. ‘Who did it?’ I asked Tynia. When she shook her head, I added, ‘Who put you in the cold room?’

‘Madame,’ she answered.

‘Not Ronald?’

Her sudden smile was contemptuous. ‘Never.’ She turned to Sister Kassia and spoke in rapid-fire Polish.

‘Tynia says that Ronald is a coward, that he only does what his mother tells him to do. She says that when Margaret’s angry, she calls her son, “La Bamba.” ’

‘What about David? Did she have a pet name for David?’

‘Jerk,’ Tynia responded. ‘Always she is saying, “Jerk, do this, do that.” David is hating this, but is also fearing the mother. She is beating her sons from time they are babies.’

‘How do you know that?’

‘Mynka is telling me this and I am seeing Madame for myself. When becomes angry, she is crazy woman. Punch, kick, slap. Her sons are pushing her away, but they are never fighting back.’

I nodded, then turned to Sister Kassia. ‘Are you and Tynia finished?’

‘We have a bit more ground to cover. I’ve spent most of the time describing what comes after the women and their children arrive at the shelter.’

‘What’d you tell her?’

‘I told her that we’ll get them jobs as soon as they’re settled in, that their children will be cared for by professionals while they work, that we’ll help them find housing, that legal assistance will be available.’

I left it there and began to search the kitchen for any trace of blood evidence. I didn’t know whether or not a servant has the right to allow a cop into her employer’s home, or if a cop, once admitted, has the right to seize evidence. But if I discovered traces of Mynka’s killing in that kitchen, I intended to document them. Unfortunately, the only evidence I found was evidence of a thorough cleanup, a cleanup that included the floor beneath the refrigerator and beneath a huge dishwasher. In the broom closet, every item, from the dustpan to the mop, was new. That didn’t mean there was no evidence to recover, only that recovery demanded a level of expertise that excluded Harry Corbin.

When I took a chair at the kitchen table next to Sister Kassia and settled down, Tynia was finishing up the last of the teaspoons. By then, we’d been inside the townhouse for about an hour.

‘You’re not going to like this, Harry, so let’s get it on the table.’ Sister Kassia’s brows formed twin arches above her eyes, arches that mirrored the curve of her downturned mouth. ‘Tynia has been in touch with some of the other women.’

I looked over at Tynia. She shrank back in her chair and dropped the spoon she was polishing. I listened to it clatter on the tabletop, thinking that she was right to be afraid.

‘Harry?’ The nun tapped my arm. ‘There are five women staying in the Astoria apartment. Tynia only contacted two of them . . .’

‘On whose phone?’

‘The Portolas’. But she made the calls when the family was out of the house.’

‘And how do we know somebody wasn’t eavesdropping on the other end? You understand, if Aslan gets wind of our plans, not only will the women and the kids vanish, the Portolas will be notified, at which point they’ll lawyer up and my case against Mynka’s killer will also vanish. Even if I eventually prove that she was murdered in this very room, I’ll never be able to prove who did it. My entire strategy is based on catching the family unaware.’

Sister Kassia’s eyes dropped to her hands. I can’t be sure, but I suspect that she’d finally grasped the magnitude of the risk I was taking. In any event, it was Tynia who broke the silence. ‘Mynka, this is where she was dying?’

‘Yes, Tynia, your friend died in this very room. Does that frighten you? Do you want to leave right now? Because if you do, I can arrange to have you taken directly to a detention center.’

Tynia took Sister Kassia’s arm and began to speak in Polish. She spoke very quickly, but her tone was even. I settled back in my chair and waited until she paused.

‘Tynia says that last weekend she and the other girls were taken to a place they’d never been. Aslan wasn’t there, nor was a man named Konstantine. But there were other men there. They offered the girls new jobs at a motel in Los Angeles.’

‘They say to us it will be better,’ Tynia interrupted. ‘Time off every day to be with children. These men, they have nothing in their eyes. They are looking at you like you are dead.’ Suddenly, she reached over the table to take my hand. ‘We are ready, all of us. For a long time we have been ready. We cannot live more like this, every second afraid. Help us.’

The refrigerator’s motor kicked on at that moment and I listened to what might have passed for a death rattle before it finally settled into a low-pitched hum.

‘Listen, Harry,’ the nun said. ‘The women Tynia contacted are old friends of hers. They knew each other in Poland and came over together. They’re eager to cooperate.’

‘Fine, now tell me the rest of it. What, exactly, have these ladies cooked up?’

‘On their day off, when they’re in Astoria, they’re watched by a woman named . . .’

‘Zashka Ochirov.’

Tynia jerked back in surprise, but Sister Kassia merely smiled. ‘Tell me about Zashka,’ I continued. ‘Is she armed? Will she fight?’

‘Zashka takes care of the children when the women are at work. According to Tynia, she treats the children kindly and they respond to her without fear. The only threat she’s ever made against the women is to call one of her bosses.’

I nodded. ‘Did you make arrangements for a signal?’ This was another topic I’d asked her to explore.

‘There’s a window in Tynia’s bedroom that faces the street. If Ochirov is alone when you arrive at ten o’clock, the window will be raised. If there’s someone else in the apartment, but Tynia will be able to let you in, the window will be closed. If she can’t let you in, the window will be halfway down.’

‘Good. Did you tell her that you won’t be there when I come through the door?’

‘I told her that I’d be waiting downstairs, ready to take her and the others away. She was suspicious at first, but she finally accepted it.’

I turned back to Tynia then. My sense was that I’d done about as well as I could have, given the constraints, and it was fast closing in on the time for Sister Kassia and me to leave. I just had a few more questions.

‘Tell me how old Mynka was?’

Tynia’s expression clouded for a moment when I said Mynka’s name, but then she grew sober and her eyes lit up. I liked what I saw in her eyes. When the time came, she would not back down.

‘Are you knowing Mynka is pregnant?’ she asked.

‘Yes, I am.’

‘Then this is two peoples who are dying. Two lives are being killed.’

I nodded agreement, then repeated my question. ‘How old was Mynka?’

‘She was eighteen years, still a girl only.’ Tynia rattled off several sentences in Polish, which Sister Kassia promptly translated.

‘She says that Mynka loved romance novels, that she dreamed of true love. Mynka thought that love would save her.’

Yeah, right.

‘One last item, Tynia, and we’ll be gone. David Portola. Tell me what he’s like?’

As she considered her reply, Tynia put the last of the spoons into a mahogany chest and closed the top. Then she rose to put the chest away.

‘David is father of Mynka’s child.’

‘I already know that. I want to know what he’s like, as a person.’

Tynia thought it over for a moment. ‘This boy is with anger every minute. Sometimes, I think he is ready to blow up, like bomb. But on nights when I am coming past his room, I can hear him inside and he is weeping. It is for Mynka that he weeps.’

TWENTY-NINE

I
went for a swim that night, hoping to work off some energy. No suck luck. I fell asleep late and woke up early, feeling like a prizefighter on the day before a big match. All those weeks of training, of devising strategies to negate my opponent’s skills, to maximize my own. Would there be a payoff? Or would I end up on the canvas, eyes glazed, tasting my own blood? There was no way to know. After breakfast, I took a small toolbox from a closet shelf, fiddled through the screwdrivers and pliers, and finally withdrew two items: an L-shaped bar about the thickness of a toothpick, and a specialized tool the size and shape of a glue gun. The bar was called a tension bar, the tool a snap gun. They were designed for folks, like myself, who sometimes need to get past a locked door but never mastered the art of picking locks.

I went to the door of my apartment, to a multi-pin, deadbolt lock similar to the one on Aslan’s door. I inserted the tension bar first, rotating the lock slightly, then the blade of the snap gun. When I pressed the gun’s trigger it lived up to it’s name, making a distinct snap, like the snap of a finger, as the blade flew up. The point here was to kick the upper pins into the cylinder. If they became trapped above the shear line, the lock would open. If they didn’t, you could always try again.

The nicest thing about a snap gun is that you can’t screw it up. The lock opens or it doesn’t. In this case, I got lucky on the third try.

I kept at it for two hours, moving from the upper to the lower locks on the door. The point was not just to open the lock. Eventually, I’d be doing this in public. I needed to be quick and casual. Over time, I improved on both counts, but there was no way to get past a snap gun’s ultimate flaw. The process was entirely random. On one pass, it took me twelve attempts before the lock opened.

When my fingers began to cramp, I finally brought the gun to my office and left it on the desk. It was now eleven o’clock. For the first time in weeks, there was nothing I absolutely had to do. Over coffee, I checked the movie listings, considered driving up to Yankee Stadium for an afternoon game, checked the hours of the Metropolitan Museum, considered a long walk in Central Park or a trip to Jones Beach on Long Island. The last was especially attractive. It had been a long time since I’d taken a swim in heavy surf.

But I didn’t drive to Jones Beach, or choose any of the alternatives in Column A. Instead, I took the subway to Riverside Park and once again settled down across the street from the Portola townhouse.

Ronald and Margaret Portola made an appearance at noon, cabbing off to place or places unknown, while David emerged at three o’clock, his skateboard tucked beneath his arm. As before, he headed north. I watched him until he disappeared behind a hill, then sat back.

Tynia’s story had confirmed Father Manicki’s. David had loved Mynka. He loved her still. Men have a powerful need to protect the women they love. The urge is visceral, an impulse as physical as hunger or thirst. David, of course, had failed to protect his beloved. Most likely, he was currently protecting her killer. It had to hurt.

Love and guilt. These would be my weapons, if I chose to interrogate David Portola. But I wouldn’t use them right away. Initially, I’d hold myself in check, endure the vitriol sure to flow from David’s mouth. Only after he wore down would I drive in the stakes. You loved her, David. I know that. But you have to face the facts. You failed to protect her in life. Are you willing to fail again?

I would pound the message home, without raising my voice, over and over, until I felt him give. Then I would show him what happened to his beloved after she left the townhouse. I’d lay the photos out, one at a time, saving the close-ups for last. Are you willing to fail her again?

The sun was going down by the time I broke off the surveillance. I felt more relaxed by then. The lights were on inside the Portola townhouse and I’d caught occasional glimpses of the family through the curtains on the windows. Nothing was out of order, as far as I could tell. Tynia’s resolve hadn’t weakened.

I went from the Upper West Side to dinner at a First Avenue restaurant in the East Village and it was almost nine when I settled the check and walked back to Rensselaer Village. I picked up the mail in the lobby of my building, glanced through it, separating the bills from the usual run of unwanted junk as I rode up in the elevator. I think I was feeling sleepy, from fatigue or from a third glass of wine, but I can’t be absolutely sure. That’s because, when I entered the apartment to find Adele Bentibi asleep on the couch, my heart took off like a rocket and I was overwhelmed by successive waves of emotion. Hope, first, then gratitude, then relief, then fear. For all I knew, Adele intended to stay just long enough to pack her things and quit New York for good.