He thought about it for a moment, then said, ‘The woman with the red hair.’
Credit where credit is due. Inspector Bill had studied the case file. ‘I’ve seen her again, just this morning. Give me a week and I’ll turn her. When she implicates Aslan, as I guarantee she will, you’ll have enough ammunition to arrest him if he refuses deportation. After a few days in Rikers, he’ll likely change his mind.’
Behind me, I heard raised voices. The bartender was evicting one of his patrons.
‘Go on, Vinnie’ he said, ‘go on home. I don’t want your psycho sister comin’ in here to drag your ass out. She’s got a dirty mouth.’
Vinnie slid away from the bar. ‘Don’t I know it,’ he muttered as he stumbled toward the door. ‘Don’t I fuckin’ know it.’
Sarney was smiling when I turned back to him. ‘What are we talking about here?’ he asked. ‘Harry and Hansen? Or just Harry?’
‘Forget Hansen.’
‘Why?’
‘Because neither you, nor the First Dep, wants to be associated with what I’m gonna do. Because if I’m caught in the wrong place at the wrong time, you won’t be able to claim ignorance if Hansen’s with me.’
Silence is a tool interrogators use to get under a suspect’s skin. Sarney and I both knew this. But rank does have its privileges and some tools are definitely bigger than others. I was first to speak.
‘This squad you’re running, does it have a name?’
Now Sarney was grinning again. ‘Not officially.’
‘How about unofficially?’
‘Unofficially, we call ourselves the Conditions Squad.’
I nodded in appreciation. At one time, there was a conditions squad in every high-crime precinct. The squad was designed to handle acute, short-term problems, from an open-air drug bazaar, to a ring of chop shops, to a crew on a robbery spree, to a serial rapist. Given wide latitude to conduct investigations, each of these squads maintained its own network of informants and was generally made up of the most talented cops in the precinct.
Conditions squads were already disappearing when I graduated from the Academy, replaced with specialized units subject to central control. But the concept had apparently remained alive at the highest levels. Sarney’s squad would respond whenever conditions demanded that the commissioner have an ear to the ground.
Sarney sipped at his drink, bourbon or scotch by the look of it, then smacked his lips in mock appreciation. ‘So, what did you think of Theobold and my little hideout in Far Rockaway?’
‘I was impressed. As I was supposed to be.’
‘Well, you’re nothing if not dutiful.’ Another little chuckle, followed by a searching look. ‘Power and the privileges that come with it, Harry. We can reach into any bureau. We can bend Chiefs to our will. I was wondering if that appealed to you.’
I thought it over for a moment, then said, ‘Are you trying to recruit me?’
‘With a bump to Detective First Grade. That would make your pay equal to a lieutenant’s. With overtime, you’ll knock down one hundred grand a year.’
The bartender took that moment to wander over. He looked at our glasses, then at Sarney. Finally, he walked away.
‘Why me?’ I asked. ‘Why recruit a man who’s been breaking your balls for years?’
‘Because I need a talented interrogator to complete the team and Harry Corbin is the best interrogator I know. You’ve got a gift, Harry. If you’d only use it to benefit yourself.?.?.’ Sarney’s expression hardened as he shoved his hands into the pocket of his nicely-tailored suit. ‘I’m gonna fix it for you. I’m gonna put you out there on your own. But one thing you need to consider: the bosses don’t trust you because they think you’re a boss-hater at heart. Are you? Do you even know? This is your last chance, Harry. You fuck it up and you’ll be lookin’ for a new career.’
I started to respond, but Sarney was already headed for the door. A moment later, I followed.
My workday far from over, I went from Bill Sarney to the Sixth Precinct where I approached a sergeant named Callahan. I was determined not to make the same mistake twice. I had until the end of the week, when Aslan returned to collect his workers. By then, I would be well prepared.
I flashed my shield. ‘Busy night?’ Behind me, the squad room was deserted.
‘The worst.’ Callahan ran his finger along a mustache thick enough to pass for a broom. ‘What could I do for ya?’
‘I was hoping to borrow your computer, Sarge. I only live a few blocks away, in Rensselaer Village, and I’m on foot.’
Cops like to grant each other favors, especially when those favors entail no costs. Callahan gestured to a far corner of the squad room. ‘Knock yourself out.’
I began at the Department of Motor Vehicles, limiting my initial search to the Portolas’ street address on Riverside Drive. Within seconds, I had three hits. Margaret Portola, age 45, who owned a 2003 Jaguar, in addition to holding a New York State driver’s license. Ronald Portola, age 24, who owned a 2004 Saab convertible and who also had a driver’s license. David Portola, age 17, who possessed a learner’s permit.
I printed the information, then checked each of the Portolas for a rap sheet. David came up clean. Not so Margaret and Ronnie. Margaret had been arrested twice, both times for assault. Her first brush with the law, a misdemeanor, was dismissed on the following day. Her second arrest, in 1995 for second-degree assault, was more serious. A charge of second-degree assault requires extensive physical injury. Not a black eye or a split lip, but injuries sufficient to require immediate medical treatment. Nevertheless, though it took nine months, this charge, too, was dismissed. But dismissals seemed to run in the Portola family. Ronald Portola had also been arrested twice, both times at a gay bar called Montana, both times for soliciting a male prostitute, and both times the charges had been tossed out. Now closed, Montana was a bar notorious for rough trade.
I printed Margaret’s and Ronald’s rap sheets, then turned away from the computer to spread out the Portola family photos as they appeared on their drivers’ licenses. At some point, I’d be taking a shot at one of them. But which one? I couldn’t answer the question, not then, and I didn’t try. Still, it was the essential question. Mynka’s death had occurred nearly a month before and no cop had come calling. More than likely, they knew nothing of Barsakov’s failures, or of the Russian’s subsequent demise. More than likely, they were starting to relax, to believe they’d gotten away with it. My sudden appearance would come as a complete shock, and that was all to my advantage, but I wouldn’t get a second bite at the apple. If I blew it, the Portola family would lawyer up and that would be that.
Again, I looked from Margaret to Ronald to David. Margaret was staring straight ahead, eyebrows slightly raised, lips and nostrils compressed. Ronald’s eyes were fixed on a point slightly below the camera’s lens. His soft smile appeared almost regretful and his lips were very red. His brother’s mouth, by contrast, was hanging slightly open. David seemed almost bewildered.
I glanced at the issuing date on David’s learner’s permit: June 17 of this year. According to Father Stan, David and Mynka were in love and I wondered, as I searched David’s features, if he’d still been looking ahead on the day the photo was taken, if his hopes and dreams were of happily ever after. Mynka was pregnant by then. Maybe the threats had already started. Abort, or else.
A moment later, I turned back to the computer where I ran the plate number of the Ford Explorer I’d seen on Riverside Drive. The vehicle was registered to Zashka Ochirov, living at 121 North Third Street in the borough of Brooklyn. Brooklyn is a big place, but I didn’t need a map to pin down a more exact location. Barely a mile long, North Third Street begins and ends in Williamsburg, home of the Nine-Two.
I pulled up Ochirov’s driver’s license next. The woman who looked up at me was blond at the time her photo was taken, but I recognized her easily enough. I’d seen her twice before, at the Domestic Solutions’ warehouse when I confronted Barsakov, and just that morning when she double-parked in front of the Portola townhouse. Zashka’s rap sheet came last, a long record of non-violent offenses, including larceny, forgery and welfare fraud. This was all to the good. Now I wouldn’t have to do a lot of talking when I explained that Aslan was tied to the tracks and there was a train coming down the line. Better for her, much better, if she was on it, because that train wasn’t-