‘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.’
‘They’re not one and the same?’
‘I’m certain that my vic was killed at her job. That lets Aslan off the hook. But what I’m thinking is that if I build a decent case against Aslan for Barsakov’s murder, you can talk him into accepting deportation. That way, I get my killer and Aslan’s not around to embarrass your bosses. In fact, if I get lucky tonight, he’ll take a punch at me sometime over the weekend and you’ll have him for assaulting a police officer.’
Sarney chuckled at that. ‘Just remember,’ he told me, ‘if you wanna put that one over, it’d be good if you let him hurt you enough for it to show.’
I sat in my car, alone with my thoughts for the next half an hour until Hansen Linde arrived. I expected him to be pissed off. I’d gone over his head directly to his boss. But Hansen was as jovial as ever, flashing me one of his radiant, corn-belt smiles as he closed the door.