Adele complied meekly, which brought a smile to Ronald’s fleshy mouth, a smile that revealed several blood- stained teeth. I gave him a little poke.
‘Hey,’ I said, ‘didn’t I promise to show you a good time?’
The squad room at the Nine-Two was deserted when I led Ronald though the maze of corridors that fronted the little cubbyholes we called home. As I’d worked on Sundays in the past, I knew that only one pair of detectives was on duty. Who they were and what they were doing, I couldn’t say. I was just glad they weren’t at their desks, counting the minutes until they clocked out. Their presence wouldn’t have changed the outcome, but it would have ruined the atmosphere.
‘In here, Ronnie.’ I opened the door to a small interrogation room, waited for him to enter, then followed, closing the door behind me.
About the size of a prison cell, the eight-by-ten room was everything Ronald could have wished for. Cracked floor tiles, tan walls, a recessed fluorescent fixture, a small table, three plastic chairs. There was even a sprinkling of dark stains on the wall. The stains resembled blood spatter, but were actually marinara sauce from a carelessly handled meatball hero.
Ronnie took the chair behind the table without prompting. He slumped down in the seat of his chair and crossed his legs. One arm dangled in his lap, the other played with his skimpy beard. I followed him around the table and dropped to one knee slightly behind him. Across the room, a one-way mirror reflected our images. Adele was on the other side of the mirror, watching carefully. Her role in the performance was not yet over.
I stared at Ronald for a long moment, allowing a half smile to play across my face. Despite the air of indifference, Ronald’s eyes, when I found them, were jittery. And why not? Adele had spoken Mynka Chechowski’s name aloud, so there was no doubting our ultimate purpose. A murder had been committed, Ronald knew the identity of the killer, we were here to make an arrest. For Ronald Portola, those were the only certainties. He couldn’t know, for instance, despite our assurances, that he was not the prime suspect, that ten minutes from now I wouldn’t put him on a bus headed for Rikers Island.
THIRTY-TWO
‘ Didn’t work, right?’ I began.
‘What?’
‘The bit with my associate. She was supposed to soften you up.’
‘No, it didn’t work. But she was very good.’
‘Wasn’t she?’
‘She was.’ In lieu of applause, he raised a languid finger to his swollen lower lip.
‘That’s why I like usin’ her. She’s such a piece of work. Still, she was in over her head, which was what I told her in the first place. I said, “This kid’s been smacked around by a woman who makes you look like Mother Theresa. You won’t lay a glove on him.”?’
‘Then why did you go through with it?’
‘Hey, nothing ventured, nothing gained. Besides, I knew you’d appreciate the gesture.’
I stood at that point, then picked up the nearly weightless plastic table and carried it to the wall. As I set it down, I suddenly grabbed my left side and dropped to one knee, my eyes squeezing shut as I gasped in pain.
Adele opened the door and looked inside, but I shook my head and waved her away.
‘I’m alright.’
‘You sure?’
‘Yeah.’ I waited for her to leave, then struggled to my feet and offered Ronald an apologetic smile. ‘Ya gotta cut me some slack, Ronnie. I got shot yesterday.’
‘Shot?’
‘By Aslan Khalid. You wanna check it out?’
Ronald’s quizzical smile expanded at the mention of Aslan’s name. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘I would.’
I took off the vest and laid it in his lap. ‘See here? This gouge? That’s where the bullet hit me’ I pointed to a tear in the vest where the fabric was blackened. ‘The doctors tell me that if I hadn’t been wearing my vest, I wouldn’t be talking to you now. You or anybody else.’
Very slowly, very softly, Ronald slid the fingertips of his right hand over the hole in the vest, tracing its edges first, then easing his pinky into the opening. Prurient is the first word that came to my mind as I watched. Perverted was the next. Ronald Portola was a sick puppy and he didn’t care who knew it.
Clutching my side, I re-positioned myself behind him, then waited patiently until he dropped the vest to the floor.
‘Can we talk about Mynka?’ I whispered in his ear.
‘Toad?’
‘Think twice, Ronnie. That mirror over there, it’s a window for anybody standing on the other side. Getting your face slapped once might be a thrill, but I guarantee it’s an activity that wears thin pretty fast.’
Ronnie put his hand on his heart. He was staring at the mirror now, clearly fascinated. ‘My sincere apologies,’ he said, ‘but I’m afraid I didn’t keep track of their given names. Which one was Mynka?’
‘Mynka was the one who got murdered in your kitchen.’
I put my right hand on his shoulder, my fingers reaching around just far enough to sense, very faintly, the pulse at his throat. Ronald’s heart was racing.
‘I was just wondering if you’d like to hear a story, Ronald, a kind of travelogue that begins with Mynka Chechowski’s body, then follows a trail to Margaret Portola and her children. It’s a very entertaining story.’
‘Certainly.’ He sounded relieved, almost grateful. I’d turned up the pressure, then eased back. Maybe everything would be all right. I began with the forensic details, the pink lividity, the foreign dentistry, and especially the evisceration. Then I told him about the witness who’d happened on the scene a moment before Mynka’s body was to be consigned to the sea, and about the advertisement in Gazeta Warszawa that broke the case open, and about my consultation with Aslan Khalid in the Eagle Street warehouse. Finally, I described Barsakov in the chair behind Aslan’s desk with half his head blown away and the flag of Chechnya pinned to the wall behind him.
‘Swear to God, Ronnie, when I looked into the wolf’s eyes, it was like he did it. I’m talkin’ about the wolf. It was like the wolf came down off the flag and drilled his fangs into Konstantine’s skull.’
Ronald and I were both staring at the mirror on the other side of the room when I finished the tale. I was watching him, watching him closely, but Ronald was gazing directly into his own eyes.
‘It’s your turn, now,’ I finally said, my voice a whisper, ‘to tell me a story.’
‘About what?’
‘Start with the cold room. Tell me what it was like.’
Ronald tilted his chin up, his eyes shifting slightly to meet mine. Did he want to play this game?
‘Did you ever tell anyone, Ronnie, anyone at all? A friend, a teacher, a therapist?’
‘I had no friends as a child. I hated my tutors. Margaret would never allow me to see a therapist.’
‘Then it was a family secret.’
‘Yes, a secret.’
‘Well, I’ve been there, Ronnie, in the cold room. I already know.’
‘The trick is to make yourself little. I used to imagine that I was a ball of cheese, all folded on itself, with a thick, waxy skin for a blanket.’ Ronald’s tongue appeared between his lips and he sucked in a deep breath as his shoulders relaxed. ‘But the cold room was only for special occasions. Usually, Margaret was more hands-on. Besides, you can get used to anything if you have to.’
‘Don’t bullshit a bullshitter, Ronnie. I was in the cold room with the door closed for five minutes and I nearly panicked.’
‘Panic? Yes, of course, at first. But panic only excited Margaret. Begging, too. No, you had to make yourself infinitely small, so tiny there was no self for the cold to penetrate. Jerk never understood that.’
‘Jerk?’
‘My brother.’
‘Can you say his name?’
