It doesn’t always work, of course, but I wasn’t expecting Konstantine to be that difficult. The truth, though it wouldn’t set him free, would reduce his potential sentence by more than twenty years. That’s the difference between second-degree murder and illegal disposal of a body, the worst violation I could charge him with, since accessory after the fact is not a crime in New York. My primary task was to convince him that he’d go down for the murder unless he told me the truth; that was the necessary first step from which all else would flow.
According to Clyde, disposing of Jane’s body was just a job to Barsakov, no more distasteful than tossing bags of garbage into a vacant lot. Hardened criminals can’t be cajoled. Nor will an appeal to conscience do the trick, not when your suspect doesn’t have a conscience. I would have to present the case against him, remaining firm, though dispassionate. Here are the facts of life, Konstantine. Read ’em and weep.
The presentation would begin with my leading Barsakov to a line-up room. There he would be made to pose with five other men, all cops. Step forward. Turn to the right. Turn to the left. Look straight ahead. Konstantine, of course, knew he’d been observed on the night he carried Jane to South Fifth Street. The line-up would only confirm his worst fears.
‘It’s the eyes,’ I’d explain, once I got him back in the little room. ‘They’re like havin’ a tattoo on your forehead. You can’t say, “it wasn’t me.” No jury would believe you. And by the way, we’re gonna search the warehouse before the night’s over. If the victim was butchered inside, we’ll find evidence. I don’t care what you cleaned up with. Plus, I have witnesses who put a squinty-eyed, fat man with the woman you dumped on South Fifth Street. You know, back when she was still alive. Whatta you wanna bet they identify you, too?’
By the time Clyde showed up, a little before ten, I was outside on the sidewalk, pacing. He came to within a few yards of me, then stopped abruptly. ‘Clyde Kelly,’ he declared, his tone cheery, his breath misted with the odor of cheap booze, ‘reportin’ fa duty.’
SIXTEEN
‘ Hey, Harry, bad break guy,’ Bobby Bandelone called as I led Clyde past his office.
‘What’re you saying?’
‘You don’t know? Barsakov’s lawyer waltzed your boy outta here ninety minutes ago.’ He winked. ‘After a long discussion with the lieutenant.’
I closed my eyes for a moment, rocking back on my heels as though I’d been kicked. Millard had promised to hold Barsakov at least until his arraignment on the following morning. Instead, he’d cut the man loose a few hours after I brought him in.
‘Bad break, guy,’ Bandelone repeated. ‘But you’ll find him, sooner or later.’
My first instinct was to charge into Millard’s office, to vent my frustration in an entirely unacceptable manner, say by slapping his face until he started crying. But something in Bobby’s tone, a mocking element he lacked the courage to openly display, brought me back to earth. Bandelone had come through with the Polaroids, snapping the photos before Barsakov’s lawyer arrived. Now it was Clyde Kelly’s turn.
I set up the photo array in my little cubicle, placing Barsakov’s in the upper right-hand corner, then brought Clyde into the room. He identified Konstantine without hesitation.
‘You sure?’ I asked. ‘Take a closer look at the other men.’
‘Nope, that’s him. I’d know the squinty-eyed prick anywhere.’
Five minutes later, after a quick knock, I stepped through Lieutenant Millard’s door to find him in conference with an Assistant District Attorney named Monica Baird. Just a couple of years out of law school, Baird was tall, attractive, and as blond as she was ambitious.
‘Spare me the righteous indignation,’ she declared before I could speak, ‘there was nothing to be done.’
Millard, apparently, felt I was due a fuller explanation. ‘I brought her in,’ he told me, gesturing to Baird, ‘so we’d be ready with the warrants. Then Barsakov’s lawyer showed up.’ He sighed. ‘If Monica hadn’t been here, I would have snuck Barsakov out the back way, shipped him over to the Nine-Four.’
‘And faced a lawsuit for false imprisonment,’ Monica quickly added. ‘The charge was bogus from the beginning.’
I took a breath as I struggled to re-gain control. Monica Baird had no authority to order Millard to do anything. Cops and prosecutors are employed by different agencies of government. Another squad commander would have kicked her (and Barsakov’s attorney) out of the precinct.
‘My witness, Clyde Kelly,’ I finally told them, ‘has formally identified Barsakov from a legitimate photo array. That should be enough to get the warrants, right?’ I waited for Baird to nod agreement before continuing. ‘Barsakov is a foreign national and I’m afraid he’ll rabbit. That’s why I’m driving into Greenpoint where I can sit on his residence until the warrants are signed.’
‘C’mon, guy,’ Millard said, ‘you don’t wanna break anybody’s door down. Unless you actually see Barsakov, you gotta promise me you’ll stay put.’
In fact, I didn’t know what I was going to do, only that I was going. But I promised, nonetheless, as Millard promised to arrive with the Crime Scene Unit and enough cops to make a show of force.
‘By the way,’ Millard added, ‘we did manage to get Barsakov’s prints, which we’ll run tomorrow morning.’
For a moment, I thought Millard was going to offer his hand, but he simply thrust it into his pocket. His attitude was definitely sympathetic, though, as was Monica Baird’s when she called out to me as I turned to leave.
‘I’ve seen the crime scene photos,’ she declared, ‘and I know how much you want this man. I’ll have the warrants ready within the next three hours. I promise you. And I promise you this, too. Once we take Konstantine Barsakov into custody, he won’t be going anywhere for a very long time.’
Smiling now, I looked back over my shoulder. ‘That’s assuming, of course, he isn’t already on a plane back to Russia.’
Domestic Solutions was dark, upstairs and downstairs, when I parked on the far side of Eagle Street. I shut off the Crown Vic, then got out of the car and crossed the sidewalk, to the glass-brick window that concealed Dimitri and Giselle’s homely residence.
‘Anybody inside?’ I knocked on the window with the heel of my hand. ‘It’s Detective Corbin. C’mon out.’
A few minutes later, I watched Dimitri make his way across the vacant lot. He walked up to the fence and gripped the links. ‘Giselle ain’t feelin’ so good,’ he explained.
‘Sorry to hear that.’ I registered the dusting of white powder beneath his nostrils, knowing it wasn’t sugar and not giving a damn. ‘Tell me what’s happening.’
‘They been takin’ shit outta there all night. Musta made three trips in that van they got.’
‘They?’
‘The skinny bald guy and the woman with the red hair.’
‘When did they bring out the last load?’
‘A half hour ago.’
‘Who was in the van?’
‘The skinny dude was drivin’, with the redhead sittin’ up next to him.’
‘That’s it?’
‘No, the redhead was holdin’ something in her arms. I think it was a kid.’ Dimitri shook the fence, his mouth twisting back and forth, his jaw locked. He was coked out of his mind.
‘Is there something else you wanna tell me?’ I asked.
‘Yeah, okay, but it’s just that Giselle can’t be no kinda witness. She’s got, like, serious emotional problems. She can’t put herself in front of a jury. Believe me, detective, she can’t.’
He stopped at that point, and I began to count, slowly. I got to three before he blurted it out.
‘Little while ago, we heard a shot.’
‘Ah, and when was that?’
‘Maybe ten minutes before the van took off for the last time.’
Without saying goodbye, I approached the door leading into Domestic Solutions, wrapping my hand in the tail of my shirt before trying the knob. It was open, which came as no great surprise to me. Nor was I surprised, once I
