If Aslan was living in that apartment, I needed to know it. One obvious strategy was to establish surveillance, but that was impossible. Not only was Aslan as wary as a three-legged fox, the Portolas’ townhouse had a prior claim on my time.
As I weighed my options, I got out of the Nissan and took a walk around the block. It was past ten on a Wednesday night, but the trendy restaurants and bars were still open and there were people on the street. All were young, the oldest appearing no more than thirty, and a number were pierced and tattooed. Their very presence was an affront to the Northside’s century-long commitment to hard work and discipline. It was as if the damned hippies had won after all.
My intention was to walk past Dark Passions and the four-story tenement to the east without slowing down, but I hesitated for a few seconds at the mouth of an alley separating the two. In other parts of town, alleys are impromptu garbage dumps peopled by rats and feral cats, by junkies and crack-heads, by whores servicing tricks, by homeless men and women in search of a secluded patch of concrete on which to lay their heads. But that wasn’t the case in gentrified Williamsburg. As far as I could tell, there wasn’t enough trash in the alley to support an anorexic cockroach.
I continued on to Bedford Avenue, strolling north toward the subway station where I found an open cafe with outdoor seating. The cafe’s tables were the size of trivets, the chairs rickety and the staff none too friendly when I ordered a double espresso and a slice of banana cake from the cafe’s all-organic menu. The place was deserted, inside and out, and the workers were cleaning up. But I held my ground for an hour, until Bedford Avenue finally grew quiet at eleven thirty.
When I came back to North Third Street, I again took careful note of the human activity on either side of the road, including the upper windows of several apartment buildings. I didn’t see anyone in the windows, or in the parked cars, and the only people outside at that moment were a trio of men smoking in front of a bar at the corner. As far as I could tell, they didn’t so much as glance in my direction when I ducked into the alley.
I made my way to the end of the alley and turned the corner before squatting down. Across a gap of about fifty feet, the rear walls of the buildings facing North Fourth Street all had multiple windows looking out in my general direction. Two of the buildings were commercial and their windows were dark, but the rest were residential and I knew I couldn’t stay where I was for long, much less climb the drainpipe to my left, without risking discovery. I had a strong interest in that drainpipe because it ran past a lighted window on Dark Passions’ second floor. There was even a toehold on the lip of the concrete ledge separating the two floors, and handholds on the steel bars protecting the window from invaders. I gave the pipe a little tug. Secured to the side of the building by clamps screwed into the brick, it moved just far enough for me to get my fingers behind it.
In a combat situation, any decision, even the wrong decision, is better than no decision. Climb or retreat. Risk discovery or leave without knowing who resided in the apartment. I think I might have chosen the latter course, if only I could have imagined another way to accomplish my primary goal. I had to know who was living in that apartment and I’d never have a better chance to find out.
After another quick check of the windows across the way, I stood and reached above my head to get both hands around the pipe. Then I began to walk up the side of the wall, digging my toes into the recessed grouting between the rows of bricks, pushing off on my legs, raising my arms, one at a time, to pull myself up. I was enough of a narcissist to be flattered by the ease of my progress; all those hours in the pool were paying off. But the fact that I was able to climb quietly — and that the pipe readily supported my weight — was far more important. Within a few minutes, my head was alongside the closed window.
I shifted my head and shoulders to the right and brought one eye to a corner of the window. When I was certain there was no one in my field of vision, I leaned further in and took a closer look at the small bedroom in front of me. Two things struck me. The place was an absolute mess, with clothing scattered over the floor, and all the clothing belonged to a man.
Was that man Aslan Khalid? When I finally looked through the open door on the other side of the room, the answer was staring back at me. The green flag of Chechnya, with its red and white stripes, hung on the wall overlooking North Third Street. At dead center, the Chechen wolf rested on his pedestal, his head still turned out, ears sharp as knives, white eyes arrogant and dismissive.
My heart literally jumped in my chest, my joy so overwhelming my cheeks reddened as if they’d been slapped. I felt the hairs rise on the back of my neck and my fingers lock onto the pipe. If I’d had a tail, it would have twitched. Then, from somewhere inside the apartment, I heard a toilet flush. Time to go. I hesitated just long enough to give the bars a tug, hoping to discover them loose, but they didn’t move by so much as a millimeter. Then I began to work my way back down, finding the descent as easy as the climb.
I was in front of the building, taking note of the lock on the door leading upstairs, when a cruiser turned onto North Third Street. I straightened quickly, easing the billfold containing my shield and ID out of my pocket. Hoping the cops inside the cruiser were simply patrolling their sector, I pressed the billfold against my hip. No such luck. As the cruiser approached, the driver trained his six-cell flashlight on my face. I reacted immediately, altering my path until I was walking toward the vehicle, my billfold raised to expose my shield. But the light didn’t drop to my chest until I came within a few feet of the door. Now I could see the face of the cop holding the flashlight, Officer Frank Gerhaty, the PBA delegate at the very center of the rumors that swirled around me in the Nine-Two. Beside him, in the jump seat, a female officer unknown to me had her arms folded beneath her breasts.
‘I hope it wasn’t you creepin’ that alley, detective,’ Gerhaty said.
I responded by snatching the flashlight out of his hand, unscrewing the head, dumping the batteries into the street, finally tossing the pieces back through the window. I would have taken it further if there hadn’t been a witness. As it was, I satisfied myself with a cryptic remark before walking away.
‘The door you’re knockin’ on, you better pray it doesn’t open, Frank, because what’s inside will swallow you whole.’
TWENTY-EIGHT
There was no good reason to get out early on the following morning. The Portolas wouldn’t be leaving their home until noon. But I was too restless to sit still. I was up at eight o’clock, scrambling a couple of eggs, washing them down with coffee. Then I dragged the vacuum cleaner out of the closet and went to work. I needed to keep busy.
I was in my office, the vacuum cleaner so loud I failed to hear the house phone until the answering machine kicked on, then off. A second later, the cell phone in my pocket began to ring.
‘Corbin, it’s me.’
I glanced at my watch. It was a quarter to nine.
‘Adele, I was gonna call you later.’
When she hesitated, I felt my stomach churn. I was sure she’d challenge me, that she’d claim I was avoiding her. The accusation would be ironic, of course, since she was the one who had left town. But it would also be true.
Instead, she changed the subject. ‘Did you make contact with the maid?’ she asked.
I smothered a sigh of relief. ‘Tynia Cernek. That’s her name. Sister Kassia and I spoke to her on the street for a few minutes. We’ll have a longer session today around noon while the family’s out of the house.’