‘God, I hate that prick,’ she said.
‘Aslan?’
‘Yeah, Aslan.’ She nibbled at her lower lip for a minute. ‘What’s the threat? There has to be a threat.’
‘If you don’t cooperate?’
‘If I don’t cooperate now. If I cooperate somewhere down the line, say after I get a lawyer.’
‘I need a statement tonight. If you don’t give it to me, I’ll charge you with extortion.’
‘Extortion?’
‘Any time you compel an individual to refrain from any lawful behavior, you commit the crime of extortion, a D felony. You’ll be charged with five counts and there’ll be a strong recommendation that you be held without bail.’ I ticked the items off on my fingers. ‘You’re a material witness in a homicide, you’re an extreme flight risk, you’ll almost certainly face charges in a federal court that could land you in prison for decades.’
Zashka looked at me for a minute, then laughed. ‘Know something? You’re a prick, too.’
I shrugged. I’d kept my tone matter-of-fact and Zashka seemed relaxed. ‘Zashka, you’re entirely too negative. Remember, you can cooperate now and lawyer-up later. There’s no law against it.’
‘Fine. And if I do cooperate? What then?’
‘If the written statement you give me is complete and truthful, you retain your liberty. That’s assuming you convince me that I’ll be able to find you again when I need you.’
Zashka thought it over, her mouth working as she weighed her options. ‘I have an aunt in the Bronx, in Kingsbridge. She’ll take me in.’
‘And after she does,’ I encouraged, ‘you’ll contact a lawyer and cut a deal.’ I spread my hands apart, palms up. What could be simpler? ‘Keep in mind, anything you tell me is useless without your testimony at trial. So, you can always back out if you don’t like the offer.’
In fact, once she committed herself in writing, the pressure from the DA, should Aslan be arrested, would only grow more intense. Zashka most likely knew that. But the fib I’d told was a social fib, the kind you might tell at a cocktail party. Oh, I just love that tie.
‘First thing,’ she said, ‘me and Aslan, we weren’t partners. I only worked for the guy.’
‘And now you work for me.’
About Mynka’s fate, Zashka knew little. On the night before Mynka’s body was discovered, she’d been roused from sleep by Aslan and Konstantine when they entered the warehouse around midnight. This was unusual since they didn’t live there, but it was none of her business. On the following morning, she was again awakened, this time by a loud argument. Aslan was clearly in a rage, Barsakov more defensive, but as they spoke Russian, she had no idea what they were fighting about. She had her suspicions, of course, because Mynka hadn’t returned from the Portolas on Saturday morning, but she wasn’t about to face off with Aslan. When he told her that Mynka had run away, she’d accepted the explanation and gone about her business.
I broke it off at that point, instructing Zashka to write everything down, then went upstairs to check on Adele. I found her sitting on a straight-backed chair next to Sister Kassia. They were leaning toward each other, engaged in a conversation that ended abruptly when I stepped into the room.
‘How are you feeling?’ I asked.
Adele probed her abdomen with the tips of her fingers. ‘A little sore. No big deal. You almost finished?’
‘Not even halfway. You wanna take the car, go back to the apartment, feel free. I can find a gypsy cab later on.’
‘No, I’ll wait. Sister Kassia and I are having a very interesting talk.’
‘Can I ask what about?’
‘About husbands and lovers.’
I smiled. ‘Well, let me know what you decide. Right now, I’m kinda focused on Konstantine Barsakov.’
As expected, Zashka was eager to distance herself from Barsakov’s fate. She’d been upstairs, she explained, when Barsakov entered the warehouse after his release. Aslan was upstairs as well, packing linen into a cardboard carton.
‘Wait here,’ he’d told her. ‘Don’t come down.’
A half hour later, a single shot was fired. Then Aslan came pounding up the stairs. He loaded her and the children into the van and they drove away. She never saw Barsakov again.
I was far from satisfied with a speech Zashka had obviously been composing for some time. I took her over the details. What was she doing when Barsakov arrived? Packing? What was she packing? Where were the children? What were they doing? How did they react to the move? To the shot? To Aslan’s appearance? Was Aslan composed? Agitated? Was there blood on his skin or his clothing? Do you know where Aslan is currently staying?
The last question, which came from left field, was a test of truth. I knew where Aslan was living. If Zashka lied, if she was still protecting him, I’d arrest her on the spot.
‘In Williamsburg,’ she said after a moment. ‘On North Third Street above a lingerie shop.’
I left with a hand-written statement ten pages long, each page signed and witnessed. That was enough to buy redemption. All I had to do was hand the statement and Aslan’s address to Bill Sarney. What happened next — whether or not Aslan agreed to deportation — was none of my business. Just pass on the information and become the bosses’ fair-haired boy.
But I didn’t call Sarney. I put Zashka’s statement in a manila envelope, then shoved it in a file when I got home. Aslan was for the future. For now, there was only Ronald Portola, a man who wore thousand-dollar blazers and paid to have men abuse him sexually. Earlier, I’d guessed that Ronald was the sort of guy who’d appreciate a bit of theater. When I explained this to Adele, then asked her if she was up to putting on a show, she replied with a grin. We were inside by then. Adele was holding an ice pack to a small bruise just above her navel.
‘What’s my role?’ she asked.
‘Bad cop.’
‘Do I get to slap him around?’
‘Sparingly. Remember, this guy likes a beating now and then. You hurt him bad, he’s liable to get a hard- on.’
‘And that would be counter-productive?’
‘Let’s just say, Ronald being attracted to men, not women, it would put me in a ticklish position. Being as my goal is to make him happy.’
THIRTY-ONE
On the way home that night, at her request, I took Adele to Beth-Israel Hospital’s emergency room, only a few blocks from my apartment. Just in case, was how she put it. I was relieved, although Adele claimed not to be in any real pain. I knew that a bullet stopped by a vest transmits energy forward into the body. Internal injuries are fairly common and deaths are not unheard of, especially when a round impacts the left side of the chest.
That hadn’t happened to Adele. Plus, she’d been well prepared. Not only was her Grade III-A body armor much heavier than that generally worn by cops, it was specifically designed to minimize post-impact trauma. In addition, when I examined Adele’s vest, I found a gouge running across the fabric. The bullet had struck at an angle and some of the force had dissipated as it slowed down.
We used our badges to get immediate treatment, but kept the cause of Adele’s injury to ourselves. A fall on stairs, a collision with the point of a cast-iron handrail, we just wanna be sure she’s okay.
A few minutes later, Adele was sitting on a narrow bed separated from a line of other narrow beds by a set of flimsy curtains. I was standing beside her when the doctor came in, a tall blond who seemed on the point of collapse. She listened to Adele’s story, then asked me to step outside while she conducted an examination. The wait was short, as was the message. Adele would go to Radiology for a few tests. It would be better if I returned to the waiting area.
‘Don’t worry,’ she assured. ‘I haven’t found any injury beyond the contusion. But let’s err on the side of caution.’
Then she was gone, leaving me with no choice except to comply. I’d been out-copped.
