‘Funny thing about detectives,’ I told him, ‘the best ones have great memories. And what I remember is that the Russian attack on Chechnya took place in the mid-nineties. Now, you, Aslan, you’re how old? Thirty-five? And you were how old when the Russians attacked? Twenty? That’s a long way from fourteen.’
Aslan continued to stare at me for a moment, hatred still apparent in his black eyes. Then he began to laugh, a phlegmy choking laugh that came within an eye-blink of a convulsion. Still he managed to get his message out. ‘Wolfs,’ he shouted, to me, to Konstantine, to his thoroughly humiliated spirit, ‘do not forget rabbits. Again someday we are meeting.’
I might have added, ‘Sooner, rather than later,’ but I was already focusing on the tasks ahead.
We made a show of it, Konstantine and I, when we strolled into the Nine-Two. Konstantine with his burgundy warm-up suit and his lime-green socks, his squinty eyes and his great balloon of a head. Me in ratty jeans, a shirt with dark stains under each armpit, humidity-driven hair that rose from my scalp like a fright wig. Konstantine was cool throughout, absorbing the scrutiny of the various cops we passed on our way to the second floor, his expression unchanging, until I finally brought him into an interview room and sat him down.
‘I want a lawyer,’ he said. ‘I have my rights.’
‘Speaking of rights, are you right-handed or left-handed?’ When he didn’t reply, I uncuffed his left hand, then closed the empty handcuff around the leg of a small table bolted to the floor.
I suspect it was this final humiliation that set him off, that motivated him to throw a clumsy left in the general direction of my head. I avoided the blow easily, then grabbed his wrist on the way back and forced it down onto the table in front of his chair.
Konstantine fought me all the way, his eyes squeezed shut, groaning in frustration. Even when I had his wrist pinned, he didn’t give up, struggling on until he finally ran out of energy. Then I leaned down over him, placing my lips a few inches from his ear.
‘You were observed on South Fifth Street,’ I told him, ‘when you disposed of that girl’s body, observed by a reliable witness. I’m going to find that witness, bring him into the house, have him make a formal identification, then charge you with the crime of murder. Now, I know you didn’t commit this murder, like I know you weren’t smoking that joint. But I just don’t give a shit. That’s because I’ve been a cop long enough to understand that I work in a give-and-take business. As in, if you don’t give me the real murderer, I’m gonna take you instead.’
I wanted to get out the door, right then and there, to begin my search for Clyde Kelly, but I still had a few details to arrange. I went to my locker first, for the spare shirt and trousers I kept for emergencies, then into the washroom where I stripped to the waist and scrubbed myself with paper towels before combing my hair. When I was done, I headed directly for Drew Millard’s office.
Millard was at his desk when I came in, sitting behind a semicircle of 8x10 photographs. The snapshot quality photos were of his wife and his six children. They were all, he’d once told me, that got him through the day.
‘I found him, loo,’ I announced. ‘I found the asshole who killed that Jane Doe last month.’
Feigning a humility that in no way mirrored my inner feelings, I went on to explain that there was nothing miraculous about the break I’d finally caught. It was simply a matter of burning a little shoe leather, of putting the vic’s likeness before the community until somebody dropped a dime. Now I had a suspect and an excuse to detain him while I contacted the witness.
Millard disagreed on only one point, the charge against Barsakov. In New York, possession of less than twenty-five grams of marijuana is a mere violation, punishable by no more than a fine. I wanted to charge Barsakov with smoking marijuana in a public place, a misdemeanor, because I needed an excuse to hold him while I looked for Clyde Kelly.
Maybe, Millard pointed out when I finished my pitch, the door to Domestic Solutions was unlocked, and maybe Barsakov was smoking the joint when I walked in. He wasn’t doubting my word. But the narrow definition of public space in the penal code did not include place of business.
‘Bottom line,’ he finally said, ‘we can put him in the system, but the judge’ll toss the case when it comes up for arraignment tomorrow morning. Assuming you don’t find your witness by then.’
‘Tomorrow morning will be fine. And you could do me one other favor.’
‘What’s that?’
‘Find someone to fingerprint the suspect. I want to make sure he isn’t operating under an alias.’
‘No problem.’
I went from Millard’s office to Bobby Bandelone’s cubicle, there to request a second favor. Procedure required that I show Clyde Kelly a photo array that included Barsakov before I put the suspect in a line-up. I needed someone to snap Barsakov’s photo, and the photos of five other white men who looked reasonably like him, with the precinct’s Polaroid.
Bandelone put up only a token resistance when I asked him to perform this little service. Maybe it was something in my eyes, something he recognized. Bandelone was a very good detective. Or maybe he was a bit afraid of my reputation as an IAB snitch. Or maybe he just thought it better to stay on Crazy Harry’s good side. I didn’t much care. I was already focused on Clyde Kelly.
FIFTEEN
The Karyn Porter-Mannberg Senior Residence on Wythe Avenue was typical of others scattered through the five boroughs. Four stories high, the building spread across three lots and was virtually without architectural detail. Red brick, green window frames, white sills beneath the windows, absolutely regular, absolutely functional. But whatever Porter-Mannberg lacked in style, it was clean and solid. The hot water would be hot, the toilets would flush, heat would be forthcoming in the winter. For the elderly poor, like Clyde Kelly, it was the difference between a tolerable decline and the absolute hell of a men’s shelter.
The white-tile lobby I entered was just large enough to hold the mailboxes and a small desk. A security guard sat behind the desk. Tall and thin, he wore a blue uniform with a nametag over the left breast identifying him as OFFICER ROBERTSON. A thick leather belt around his waist held a canister of mace, a pair of handcuffs and a folding knife.
‘I’m looking for Clyde Kelly.’ I displayed my shield for the customary three seconds. ‘Is he upstairs?’
‘Nope. Went out about one o’clock and ain’t come back since.’
‘Will he return for dinner?’
‘Mostly, he does.’
I glanced at my watch. It was almost six o’clock. ‘What time is dinner served?’
Robertson smiled. ‘Well, it ain’t exactly served, but you can get a hot meal between six and seven. After that, it’s peanut butter and jelly. But you ain’t gotta worry. Clyde always comes back in time for the curfew at ten o’clock. Sleepin’ in the street makes him nervous.’
With little choice in the matter, I settled down to wait.
A few minutes before seven, a short black man hustled through the door. I locked eyes with the guard who nodded at the new arrival. He wore a camouflage T-shirt over a pair of cargo pants and he caught an attitude when I stopped him, despite the gold shield I held in my hand.
‘Ain’t got time for no bullshit,’ he declared. ‘Ah’m gonna miss my dinner.’
‘This’ll only take a second.’ I stepped between him and the stairs. ‘I just need a little help here. I’m looking for Clyde Kelly.’
Officer Robertson spoke up. ‘Ain’t nothin’ bad, Percy. Jus’ speak to the detective.’
Percy tossed Robertson a hard look that spoke of grievances past, grievances unresolved. ‘Last time I took notice,’ he said, ‘I wasn’t in your army and I don’t got to take your orders.’