through the grimed front windows, Michael could see his daughter clearly. She was perched on a dusty pillow, one of three.
Michael turned to Abby. Her hands were taped behind her, around a copper water pipe bolted to the wall. Her eyes were wide, terrified. She had a gag stuffed in her mouth. Michael’s hands were handcuffed in front of him, but he was not otherwise restrained in any way.
A moment later Aleks emerged from the shadows. He stood behind Emily. “You’ve interrupted my plans,” he said.
Michael eyed the weapon on the table. He shifted himself in the chair, opened his mouth to speak, but found that the words would not come. If he’d ever needed a closing argument it was now.
“The police are already at my house,” Michael said. “You can’t possibly get away with this. They’ll figure it out. They’ll be here.”
“They are already here.” Aleks reached into his pocket, pulled something out, threw it on the floor in front of Michael and Abby. It was a gold detective badge. Powell’s shield. “Where is Marya?”
“I can’t tell you,” Michael said.
In an instant Aleks was across the room, the folds of his leather coat snapping in the still air. “Where is she?” He pulled Abby’s head back, put the knife to her throat.
“Wait!”
Aleks said nothing, did not take the blade from Abby’s throat. His eyes had morphed from a pale blue to almost black.
“She’s… she’s with a friend,” Michael said.
“Where?”
“It’s not far.”
“Where?”
“I’ll tell you. Just please…”
After a long moment, Aleks withdrew the knife. He reached into his pocket, took out a cellphone. He handed it to Michael. “I want you to call this friend. Put it on speakerphone. I want to hear my daughter’s voice.”
Michael took the phone in his shackled hands, dialed Solomon’s number. When it began to ring, Michael put it on speaker. In a moment, Solomon answered.
“It’s Mischa,” Michael said. “Everything’s fine, onu. It’s all over.”
Solomon said nothing.
“Can you put Charlotte on?”
Again, a hesitation. Then, Michael heard Solomon’s show, shambling footsteps. A few seconds later: “Daddy?”
At the sound of Charlotte’s voice, Michael saw Emily pick up her head. She still looked to be under some sort of spell, but the sound of her sister’s voice brought her to the moment.
“Yes, honey. It’s me. Mommy’s here, too.”
“Hi, Mommy.”
Abby began to cry.
“Are you coming to get me?” Charlotte asked.
“Soon. We’ll be there really soon. Can you put Onu Solomon back on the phone, please?”
Michael heard the transfer.
“Mischa,” Solomon said. “You are coming to collect her?”
Michael knew he had to give Solomon a heads up, but he didn’t know how to do it. Speaking in Estonian would not help.
“No,” Michael said. “I’m going to send someone.”
“Someone from your office?”
“No,” Michael said. He glanced at the gold badge on the floor. “A detective. A detective from Queens Homicide will be coming by to get her. I hope that’s okay.”
“Of course,” Solomon said.
Aleks crossed the space, picked up the badge, put it in his pocket.
“His name is Detective Tarrasch,” Michael said.
Michael glanced at Aleks. He did not react to the name.
“I will be ready,” Solomon said.
I will be ready, Michael thought. Not I will be waiting. Solomon knew there was something wrong. Tarrasch was a chess term, a variation on the French Defense Solomon had taught Michael in the 1980s. If Michael knew Solomon, he knew that the old man was already preparing to send Charlotte to another location.
Before Michael could sign off, Aleks took the phone from his hands, closed it. He crossed the room, and began to put things into a shoulder bag.
Michael looked at Emily. With the index finger of her right hand, she touched the floor, and drew a straight line in the dust.
A few miles away, in a small house in Ozone Park, Charlotte Roman sat at the dining-room table, a fresh white sheet of typing paper in front of her, a rainbow of stubby crayons awaiting her muse. In the background, the television played Wheel of Fortune.
Charlotte surveyed the choices of colors. She picked up a black crayon and began to draw. At first she drew a long horizontal line across the bottom of the page, stretching from one edge to the other. She hesitated for a moment, then continued, drawing first the right side of what would be a rectangle, then the left. Finally, she began to complete the shape, carefully connecting the two sides at the top…
…creating the ridge line of the roof, though Emily Abigail Roman was far too young to know what a ridge line was. To her it was just the top of the house. She ran her small finger through the dust, keeping the line as straight as possible. Underneath the ridge line she made two smaller rectangles, these of course being the windows. Each window had a cross in the center, which made four smaller windows. Beneath the windows…
…she drew a pair of even smaller rectangles, wide and thin, which were flower boxes. Charlotte put down the black crayon and picked up the red one. It was almost halfway gone, but that was okay. Gripping the small crayon tightly, she made little red tulips in the flower boxes, three flowers in each. When she was satisfied, she picked up the green crayon, and filled in the stems and leaves. All that was left to do was the front door. She selected a brown crayon…
… and made a doorway in the dust. With one final poke of her tiny finger, she made the doorknob. A door was useless without a doorknob. Emily Roman looked at her drawing. There was one last touch. She reached forward, and swirled her finger over the chimney. The last little curlicue was the smoke.
FIFTY-THREE
Aleks paced back and forth. He spoke rapidly, drifting from Estonian to Russian to English. He held his knife in his right hand, and as he turned he tapped it against his right leg, slicing the black leather of his coat. To Michael, who had seen his share of unhinged defendants, Aleks was coming apart.
Aleks stood directly in the front window, his back to the room.
“Things go full circle in this life, do they not, Michael Roman?”
Michael stole a glance at Abby. She was rocking back and forth, pulling on the pipes behind her.
“What do you mean?” Michael asked.
Aleks turned to face them. “This place. I can smell the yeast in the air. Once it is in the air, it never leaves, you know. I’ve heard of a bakery in Paris, a shop known for its sourdough breads, that has not used an active culture for more than a hundred years.” He turned to glance at Emily, back. “Do you think things remain? Things like energies, spirits?”
Michael knew he had to keep Aleks talking. “Maybe. I -”
“Were you here when it happened? Did you see it?”
Michael now knew what he was talking about. He was talking about the murder of Peeter and Johanna Roman. “No,” Michael said. “I didn’t see it.”
