‘And the bad news.’
‘It also seems to indicate that he’s starving her to death.’
Chapter Forty-Six
Harper stood up in front of Blue Team. ‘Let Lukanov go. Sign him out, tell him we’ve got nothing.’
The rest of the team looked up. ‘What’s the story?’ said Garcia.
‘He’s giving us nothing.’
‘He’s our prime,’ said Swanson. ‘Let’s get the judge to give us some extra time. We can break him.’
‘He’s a foot soldier,’ said Harper. ‘Maybe he bought the barbed wire, maybe he took it to the compound, but he isn’t our guy. He gave us Heming. We need to concentrate on finding Heming.’
‘What about the compound?’ said Garcia.
‘We checked it out. It’s been torched. Presumably because of the heat on Section 88.’
‘What makes you so sure Lukanov wasn’t part of it?’
Harper looked across at Denise Levene. She nodded. ‘He’s part of the organization, all right, but he’s not the killer. Marisa Cohen was killed after he was arrested.’
‘He attacked Denise and you. We don’t let some sick racist scum out for nothing. He’s still the only suspect we got.’
‘He’s our only link to Heming. We got to take a chance.’
‘There might’ve been a few guys. This guy might’ve been there, watching.’
‘Eddie, give them the low-down.’
‘His girlfriend puts him at home all night.’
‘His fucking girlfriend. The bleach blonde in the hot pants with the Nazi tattoos? Like she’s a good fucking alibi.’
Harper nodded and looked across. ‘There’s enough to discount him. But listen up. He’s involved somehow, he’s just not the main man. And I want the main man. He’s our lure. Leo Lukanov will lead us to the killer.’
Harper set the surveillance operation going. The team set up the rota for a tail on Lukanov. They would let him go before midnight.
At 11.57 p.m., Leo Lukanov was released and left standing on the steps of the precinct in a state of confusion. He looked like he wasn’t sure whether it was a sick joke by the cops or just luck. He went straight home to his apartment. Behind him, just out of sight, Swanson and Greco kept up the tail.
Twenty minutes later, Lukanov took off. He got the bus to his mother’s place. Ratten and Garcia were already sitting outside in a car. No doubt he was surprised to find that the media hadn’t been anywhere near his mother.
Ten minutes after arriving he left and visited his girlfriend’s place. Harper and Kasper were sitting right outside.
Lukanov made several phone calls from his girlfriend’s house. The cops couldn’t trace them, but they could be used in evidence later.
After four hours, in the dead of night, Lukanov left his girlfriend’s building and walked home. It took him an hour to walk the streets. Harper and Kasper had to get out and follow on foot.
He entered his own apartment building for the second time at 5.08 a.m. Harper returned with Kasper to their car and headed back to the bunkhouse. Likewise, Garcia and Ratten. Swanson and Greco were the unlucky ones. They sat outside his apartment, with an unmarked police car at the service entrance at the back. At 5.42 a.m., the lights in Lukanov’s apartment finally went out.
Chapter Forty-Seven
Lukanov wasn’t stupid. He knew he had a tail. Anyhow, even if he had missed it, Heming had told him he was being tailed. They had a routine. He called a cell number three times, waited forty minutes then called a public booth from his girlfriend’s place. By that time, Heming was there to answer the call. Heming had told him to keep his mouth shut, go home and stay put.
Lukanov intended to follow the instructions. He opened the door to his apartment. The lock had been busted, so he only had to push it. He pulled off the remnants of the police security stickers pasted across the frame. The cops must’ve kicked the door down, fucking assholes.
He entered the room for the second time that morning. Most of the room was wrecked. Everything was tipped out, the floorboards ripped up, wallpaper torn down. A note from the police department had been left, with details of how to get compensation. Assholes. This was what Heming had told them all about. The cops were part of the problem.
Lukanov stared at the mess and then heard a noise in his kitchen. He turned. He suspected cops. Maybe they were going to get in a reprisal for attacking Denise Levene or for punching Detective Harper.
He called out, ‘Who’s there?’ No one replied. Was it just rats? The cops had left food and shit all over the floor with the door open. Could even be cats. He hated cats.
Lukanov heard a low cough from the kitchen. Not cats, then. An open apartment in this kind of building with the door kicked in would be quite a temptation. It might be kids or some hobo.
Lukanov picked up his baseball bat from the floor and headed towards the kitchen.
He pushed open the kitchen door and peered in. Someone was there, staring out of the window. A figure.
‘Who the fuck are you?’ shouted Leo, and he raised his bat.
The man spoke. ‘How long does it take you to find someone in your own apartment?’ He turned. ‘Hello, Leo.’
Leo let the bat fall. ‘Is that you, Martin? You scared the shit out of me.’
Martin Heming stood tall and powerful in front of him in a suit. He was clean-cut and had shaved. ‘I look a little different. I had to be careful. Police are tailing you and they’ve been hunting me. They’re searching for some tank-top-wearing, unshaven thug, so I just put on a suit, carry a briefcase and wander around Manhattan.’
‘That’s a great idea, Martin, but why are they tailing me?’ said Leo. ‘They let me out.’
‘They let you out to lure someone else out. I can’t think of one other fucking reason, Leo, why they’d let kike-hating scum like you out of the slammer. Why would they? You raced down a cop. You hit a cop. You got caught. Ellery pulled a knife.’
‘I didn’t hurt anyone.’
‘It doesn’t seem right to me, Leo.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I just got a nose for it. What did you tell them?’
‘Nothing. But they told
‘You think I’d do that? Why?’
‘To pin Capske on us.’
‘Like they’re going to believe you lot could kill Capske. You can’t even rough-up a woman.’
‘They found us, somehow.’
‘They probably tailed you.’
‘I promise, Martin, I said nothing to them.’
‘You lying piece of shit.’
‘No, Martin. Not a thing.’
