‘But you didn’t read me my rights.’
‘You weren’t informed of your rights because you weren’t a suspect.’
‘But I’m a suspect now?’
‘Listen to me, La Bamba. We couldn’t know you’d incriminate yourself until you actually incriminated yourself. Once you did, you were immediately informed of your right to remain silent. There’s no Constitutional issue here.’
Thus far, everything Adele had said, with a single exception, was a lie. There was, indeed, a constitutional issue — more than one, in fact — and we hadn’t recorded a single word of the conversation. The exception was the threat of arrest.
After a moment, Ronald nodded twice, then turned to look directly into my eyes. I expected to find him afraid; for a man of Ronald’s passive temperament, Rikers Island would make his mother’s house seem like paradise. But he wasn’t afraid, not at all.
‘Am I under arrest?’ he asked.
‘Technically,’ Adele replied.
‘Technically?’
‘Well, you can’t leave, so the situation is obviously custodial. On the other hand, nobody’s in a hurry to start the paperwork.’
‘So there’s still a way out?’
Adele carefully avoided the question. ‘Why don’t we begin with you telling us what happened after the murder. In great detail.’
I sat back and let Adele finish up. I was already convinced that Ronald’s tale was essentially true, that the wrong perpetrator had, indeed, murdered the wrong victim. My little fantasy had been murdered as well. The one that had me plucking Margaret Portola and Aslan Khalid like rotted tomatoes from a vine, that had me tossing them into the compost heap of a maximum-security prison. Given all that had gone before, I made the odds against David Portola surviving in jail at least five to one.
Though it was no consolation whatever, I’d gotten the aftermath right. According to Ronald, Margaret had wasted no time. Within minutes of discovering Mynka’s body, she’d shrouded the girl’s head and torso with a black garbage bag, then dragged her into the refrigerator for safekeeping. Aslan Khalid showed up late the following morning, appearing cheerful. He huddled briefly with Margaret, viewed the body, then took his leave, returning at ten o’clock that night with Konstantine Barsakov. Without fanfare, they carried Mynka to a waiting van and drove away. Supposedly forever.
The physical clean up began within minutes of the door closing behind Aslan. With David in his bed, virtually unmoving, Ronald was assigned the task of scrubbing the kitchen from top to bottom. Margaret wasn’t about to pick up a scrub brush, though she subjected his work to several critical evaluations.
‘I hope that doesn’t make me a criminal,’ Ronald finally said.
‘Why would it?’ Adele asked.
‘Because I’d be obstructing justice.’
‘Just like mom?’
This time, Ronald’s smile was genuine. ‘Well, it did occur to me that covering up a murder can get one into trouble. That’s why I want to put this on the record. I cleaned the kitchen because I knew my brother’s mental health was in jeopardy. I was afraid that the sight of his lover’s blood would finally break him.’
‘That was noble of you, La Bamba, but we only have your word for what happened. How do we know you didn’t contact Aslan yourself?’
‘Margaret’s checkbook.’ Ronald scratched his chest and yawned. ‘Margaret wrote a series of checks after Aslan took the body away. Each was in the amount of $3,000, and each was cashed by Margaret at her bank. I know because I sneaked into her office and looked.’
‘How many checks so far?’
‘Eight.’
‘And you’re certain you can put your hands on this checkbook?’
‘Of course.’
‘How about the murder weapon?’
‘The pot and the ladle? In the front parlor next to the fireplace.’
‘She kept them?’
‘Pre-revolutionary, both pieces. Margaret would never part with anything so valuable, especially after Aslan told her that Toad’s body had been successfully disposed of.’
I chose that moment to interrupt. Ronald Portola had made a choice, a choice he could not take back. The state would profit by that choice, no doubt, and Ronald would profit as well. I’d been a cop long enough to shake off most of the grime associated with the moral sewer in which I work, but this outcome was truly revolting. Nevertheless, I stirred the sludge running through that sewer without hesitation.
‘Suppose we do this. Suppose we all go back to Riverside Drive and ask Margaret and David for their versions? If their stories agree with yours, David will be arrested.’
‘And me?’
‘You’ll go back to being a witness.’ I leaned forward. ‘But, look, just to be completely fair, I’m even willing to let you ask the questions. As long as you’re willing to have a small recording device taped to your bare skin.’
Ronald hesitated only for an instant before nodding agreement. I nodded back, then said, ‘If you need to use the facilities, now would be a good time.’
Ronald Portola’s eyes lit up, as I’d hoped they would. I hadn’t searched Ronald because he was witness, not a suspect. Now I knew he was carrying dope and that he would use it in the bathroom. There would be no elegance to the act — he would not inject it into a tiny vein below his ankle with a needle small enough to pierce a hair. No, this was about need, about the effort necessary to maintain a facade of indifference when your real future is really on the line. Ronald would stick that heroin up his nose and be glad for it.
When the bathroom door closed behind Ronald, Adele came into my arms for a hug. I held her close, neither of us having to say a word. We both knew that some evils can’t be addressed in a court of law. That sometimes what cops do is rough enough to leave scars.
‘You think he’s using in there?’ Adele asked.
‘That’s why I suggested a trip to the bathroom in the first place. Ronald’s ultra-cool stance? He’ll need some help if he’s going to maintain that stance when he has to face his mother.’
‘That’s good. You’re going to let Ronald confront David.’
‘Not David. Margaret. Ronald’s finally going to confront his mother.’
‘How do you know that?’
‘Call it prophecy.’
Ronald took that moment to emerge. The pupils of his eyes were reduced to a pair of black dots, but he was still in control. That, too, was predictable. For all his talk of wretched excess, Ronald Portola was a young man who kept a close watch on his best interests.
Margaret Portola’s eyes flew up like yanked window shades when Adele and I followed Ronald into her front parlor. She was sitting on a pale yellow sofa, a sectional that effectively partitioned a corner of the room. David was sitting off to the side, slouched in a leather chair with one leg thrown over the arm. Quicker than his mother, he knew exactly why we were there. His eyes flickered for a moment, then grew resigned as his sullen expression vanished. He’d been waiting a long time for his punishment, trying and convicting himself over and over again. When finally pressed, he’d offer no resistance.
‘I’ve told them everything about Mynka,’ Ronald announced as he took a step toward his mother. ‘The before, the after, the event itself.’
Margaret’s lower jaw bobbed up and down as she struggled to frame a response. In an instant, her world had come crashing down, all her fears realized. Still, she made a stab at gaining control of the situation.
‘Get out of my house,’ she said to me and Adele, ‘before I call my lawyer.’
I ignored the remark as I dropped to one knee beside David’s chair, leaving Adele to follow Ronald as he drifted in his mother’s general direction. Given Margaret’s volatility and Ronald’s determination to provoke her, Adele was prepared to intervene if Margaret became violent.
‘You’re not listening to me,’ Ronald continued. ‘I told them how Toad became pregnant and how Jerk was the
