Kolya square in the jaw, she could hear bone break. A spurt of blood shot onto the bedspread. Kolya folded to the floor.
Abby spun around, knocked off the top of the shoebox and took out the. 25. When Kolya rolled onto his back, clutching his stomach, his eyes widened at the sight of the pistol.
“You… fucking… cunt!”
Abby stomped on his crotch, driving in her spiked heel. Kolya screamed, rolled onto his side, a fat cord of foamy pink-and-green bile leaking out of his mouth. Muscles corded in his neck. His face was bright scarlet, raked with blood.
Abby kicked off her shoes, leaned over. She put the barrel of the gun to Kolya’s head.
“Say that word again.”
THIRTY-EIGHT
While the forensic team processed the Arsenault house, Powell and Fontova returned to the office. Sondra and James Arsenault had followed them into the city, and would be looking at mugshots in hope of identifying the man who had broken into their home.
Back in the office, Powell and Fontova had run thirty-five names, and found that many of the people whose cases Harkov had lost no longer lived in New York. Of the seven who did, two were currently in jail, five were gainfully employed, more or less, and had, since their incarceration, kept their noses clean.
None had records that would suggest anything near the propensity for extreme violence seen in that room. This was not an ag assault that had gone too far, or an accidental death that occurred as the result of some pushing match that went terribly wrong. This was the work of a bona fide psychopath.
Things were not always so straightforward. There was recently a case where an employee of a gas station was robbed at gunpoint. Thirty minutes later, while being interviewed by detectives, the man had a heart attack, collapsed and died at the scene. In another instance, one that occurred before Powell became a homicide detective, a man was attacked on a Forest Hills playground, wounded with a knife. The man slipped into a coma, where he remained for years. In the meantime, the attacker was arrested, prosecuted, and convicted of aggravated assault, for which he served eight years on a fifteen year sentence. Three weeks after the attacker’s release the man in the coma died.
Were these homicides? There was no question in Desiree Powell’s mind – or indeed the mind of any detective Powell had ever worked with – that they were. The decision, however, was not up to the police. It was up to the district attorney. Plus, it was one thing for a police officer to be certain of someone’s guilt or culpability in a crime. It was another matter to be able to prove it.
Powell studied the possibilities. Nobody jumped out.
She handed the list to Marco Fontova. The addresses were spread out over Jackson Heights, Elmhurst, Briarwood, Cypress Hills. In other words, all the way across Queens County, and halfway across Brooklyn.
Fontova reached into his pocket, handed Powell a dollar.
“What’s this for?” she asked.
“I have to go to fucking Cypress Hills?”
Powell nodded, took the bill. “Reach out to Brooklyn Homicide if you have to.”
Fontova pulled a face. There was no love lost between Brooklyn detectives and Queens detectives. Sometimes they had to work together, but they didn’t have to like it.
Grumbling under his breath, Fontova grabbed his coat and left the office.
Powell sank back in her chair. Seniority had its perks, she thought, one of which was certainly not the part where she was older than half the people she worked with.
She checked off a list of people she would be interviewing, then poured herself some coffee. Contrary to popular belief, the cop-shop coffee at Queens Homicide was good. Somebody’s wife or girlfriend – Powell could never keep the rosters straight – had signed somebody up for a Coffee of the Month-type club and either on a lost bet, or under threat of exposure for some office indiscretion, the coffee ended up in the small fridge they kept. Today it was a Kona blend.
Powell sat down at the computer.
She popped in the CD that had been duped from Viktor Harkov’s hard drive. It seemed the man saved everything, including JPEGS of menus from all the takeout restaurants near his office. Powell waded through the first half. Nothing.
She was just about to get on the street when she saw that hidden in one of the folders was a database with only a handful of names and addresses. It was separate from the others. It was mixed in with the files of letters and correspondence. The file was called NYPL 15.25 EFFECT OF INTOXICATION UPON LIABILITY. But that’s not what it was at all. Instead, it was a short list of names, addresses, and other data, with the subhead of ADOPTIONS 2005 (2).
What have we here? Powell thought.
In April 2005 Viktor Harkov brokered the adoption of two sets of twins. One, as Powell already knew, went to Sondra and James Arsenault. In addition to the two little girls adopted by Sondra and James Arsenault, a pair of twin girls, born in Estonia, processed in Helsinki, were adopted by a couple then living in the Whitestone section of Queens. A shiver went up and down Powell’s back when she saw the names. It was one of her favorite feelings.
She picked up her phone, dialed.
“Tommy, Desiree Powell.”
“Hey,” Tommy Christiano said. “You ready for us already?”
“From your mouth Jah’s ear, eh?”
“What’s up?”
“Do you know Michael Roman’s wife?”
There was a slight hesitation on the other end. Powell waited it out.
“Sure. She’s great. Michael married up, big time.”
“What does she do?”
“She works at a clinic up in Crane County.”
“That’s where they’re living now?”
“Yeah.”
“Must be nice,” Powell said. “She’s a doctor?”
“No,” Tommy said. “She’s an RN. Why do you ask?”
“Do you know where she worked before that?” Powell continued, steamrolling over Tommy’s question. She knew that this tactic would not be lost on a prosecutor.
“She was an ER nurse at Downtown Hospital.”
B just rounded the corner, sliding into C, Powell thought. She was not quite there, but she could smell it. She felt the rush. She made her notes, kicked the small talk down the alley as far as it would go. She wanted to ask Tommy a bit more about Michael Roman’s wife and children, but it made more sense to be coy at this moment. Tommy Christiano and Michael Roman were close.
“Is Michael still in the office by any chance?”
“No he’s gone for the day.”
“Ah, okay,” Powell said. “Well, Tommy. Thanks a lot.”
“No problem. Let me know if -”
“I sure will,” Powell interrupted. “I’ll keep you posted.”
Before Tommy said anything else, Powell clicked off. She turned her attention back to the computer monitor. She recalled Sondra Arsenault’s words.
I never got her last name, but I remember she was a nurse. An ER nurse. Her name was Abby.
Powell tapped her pen on the desk. She got back on the Internet, did a search for Michael Roman. In a few seconds she got a hit on an article that had been written in New York Magazine a few years ago, a cover story about how Roman had survived an attempted car bombing. Powell remembered the incident well. She had never
