Bill Sarney came next. As his annoyed tone made clear, Harry Corbin was the last person he wanted to hear from at eight o’clock on a Sunday night. But he didn’t shirk his duty. Damage control was in order.
It was Sarney who arranged to transport the prisoners, including Ronald, to the Fifth Precinct, Chinatown, in lower Manhattan, and it was Sarney who brought in an ADA named Wilson Bird. Bird was beyond accommodating and I had to assume that someone of considerably higher rank than Bill Sarney had cashed a marker with the Manhattan DA.
By the time I got David Portola in the box, I was resigned to the task at hand. I wanted to tell him that he’d already said too much, that hiring a lawyer to cut a deal was his one and only move. Instead, I listened to a confession that might better have been made to Father Manicki. Only David wasn’t after absolution. He wanted to dig a hole in which he could lay down and die.
I did my best to prevent this outcome by telling Wilson Bird that David had threatened to commit suicide, a fact I intended to document in my written report. Hopefully, the boy would be placed on a suicide watch and kept far away from the Rikers Island wolves. But you can never be sure with the Department of Corrections. DOC is a world onto itself, cultivating a level of secrecy that makes cops appear frank and open by comparison. Disregarding a simple request from the Brooklyn District Attorney’s office was not beyond its capacities.
I carried David’s confession to Bill Sarney and Wilson Bird, who were huddled inside a small office. I nodded to Bird. ‘Give us a minute. The Inspector and I need to talk.’
‘Sure.’
I waited until the door closed behind him, then told Sarney about Zashka Ochirov and the other women. I needed Tynia Cernek, of course, to make a case against Margaret. Sarney was predictably suspicious, but I assured him that any and all would testify voluntarily, should their testimony become necessary. In the meantime, being as they’d lawyered up, it was better to keep them in the background. The last thing anybody wanted was publicity.
‘Look, between Zashka and the Portolas, you can put Aslan away for the rest of his life. If that doesn’t convince him to leave the country, nothing will. All you have to do is find him.’
Sarney stared at me for a long moment, but I only smiled. I wanted Aslan for myself and I think he knew it. As I knew that Hansen was running his own investigation on the side. Call it a friendly competition. Whoever finds Aslan first gets to take him into custody. And what fun that would be.
‘Okay, Harry, you’ve done what you said you were gonna do. You’ve handed me Aslan Khalid’s head on a platter. I have no complaints.’ Sarney dropped his butt to the edge of a desk. ‘Are you still considering my offer?’
‘It’s tempting, for a lot of reasons.’
‘Like?’
‘Like the rumors are gonna follow me for the rest of my life. I’ll never get back what I had. So why not become the First Dep’s rat? Why not accept the promotion and the pay raise that comes with it?’
Sarney grinned. ‘Well put, Harry. Why not?’
‘Because sooner or later, most likely sooner, you’ll ask me to do something that I won’t be able to do. Then what?’
‘Then we’ll deal with it.’
I had more to say, much more, but I froze when Adele cried out, froze with my mouth hanging open. Adele’s cry was closer to a moan than a scream, a cry of immense loss, a ghost’s cry. I had to gather up all my courage before I opened the door, and to step around Wilson Bird before I was able to see Adele. She was sitting on the floor tiles, her back slumped against the side of a desk, her tan slacks red with blood.
I knew, then, even as I gathered her up in my arms, as I followed Bill Sarney out the door and down to his car. I knew on the ride to Beekman Medical Center and when I was ordered to wait outside and when Bill Sarney came to sit next to me. I knew when Sarney left, at my insistence, an hour later. I knew when Doctor Morris called out my name. Morris wore blood-stained green scrubs and a white mask that hung around his neck.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said, ‘but we couldn’t save the pregnancy.’
‘And Adele?’
‘She’s had a miscarriage. She’ll be out of here within a couple of days.’
Morris started to turn away, but I put my hand on his arm. ‘A boy or a girl? Which was it?’
‘A boy.’
Time and space. That’s what Adele claimed to need. But time to do what? Space to do what? I couldn’t get these questions out of my mind as I made my way down a long corridor. Adele was in room 2A and I ticked off the rooms as I went: 2G, 2F, 2E, 2D, 2C, 2B. Then I heard her, heard Adele. I heard her sobbing as I imagined David and Ronald must have sobbed, years ago, when they were utterly helpless, as I imagined Mynka sobbing when the cold began to penetrate her bones.
I rushed into the room, dropped to one knee by the side of the bed and took Adele’s hand. I didn’t know where any of this was going, but I felt an overwhelming need to protect her. That was impossible, of course. Nobody can be protected from an event that’s already happened. But if I couldn’t protect her, I could definitely avenge her.
Adele gripped my hand, but didn’t stop crying or look at me. Instead, she fixed her eyes on a bag of whole blood hanging from the arm of an IV pole. I wanted to tell her that we’d make it. I wanted to tell her that love would conquer all. But I was too old for that. Eventually, we’d file our grievances. And it would be all the worse if our conversation was polite.
‘Corbin?’
‘Yes.’
‘My IUD slipped. I didn’t become pregnant on purpose.’
This was one grievance that never crossed my mind. ‘I know that, Adele.’
‘I wanted to say it before you left.’
I rose to my feet when a nurse entered the room. She held up a syringe and said, ‘You’ll excuse us?’
I don’t know what the nurse gave her, but Adele was almost asleep when I returned. Her eyes fluttered when I entered her field of vision, but she didn’t really focus. I stood above the bed for a moment, staring down at her pale face, her hollow cheeks. I wanted to take her in my arms, carry her home, tuck her into her own bed. I wanted to care for her.
But I did nothing of the kind. I waited until she was asleep, then walked away.
It was raining hard when I turned onto North Third Street to find the front windows of Aslan’s apartment dark. I circled the block, to get a look at the rear windows, finding them dark as well. Finally, I parked the Nissan about fifty yards from the apartment and leaned back. A dog walker, a woman, was coming toward me from the other end of the block.
I don’t believe the woman spotted me, not even when she paused to let her drenched husky pee against my front tire. The wind had picked up and she was far too preoccupied with her striped umbrella. The umbrella was gigantic, wide enough to protect her legs, but nearly impossible to control in the wind. Meanwhile, the dog was pulling her down the street and her arms were extended in opposite directions. She looked like a Hong Kong traffic cop.
I waited for her to stumble off before retrieving the tension bar, then the snap gun, from my coat pocket. For the next few minutes, I rehearsed the sequence of actions that would unlock Aslan’s door. My aim was to be just another pedestrian hurrying home on a miserable September night. To that end, I would stand erect, with my head raised, close enough to conceal my hands while I worked on the lock. I would have to grope for the keyhole, to rely almost entirely on my sense of touch. If I’d been a little smarter, I’d have practiced in the dark. I closed my eyes for a few seconds, holding the tension bar between my fingers. The snap gun rested in my palm, the blade jutting out. This was the end of the game, the point of the exercise, what my life had been about since that July morning when I first came upon Mynka’s decaying body.
I opened my eyes, checked the mirrors, checked Aslan’s still-darkened windows, scanned the street ahead of me. The block was entirely deserted.