He wants me to know the full story because he knows I’m taking over for him.
“Fred. Fred,” he says. “Under-under-”
“Fred Ciancio,” I say. “The security guard. He let you into that building.”
Koslenko’s head pivots. He checks every angle around him. What he’s looking for, I don’t know.
“She said-don‘t-don’t tell him. Keys. Just-keys.”
“Mrs. Bentley,” I clarify. That makes sense. A woman with money like that, and probably some connection to Russian money and influence here in the city, could find a way to reach out. It’s never surprising when a former prison guard like Ciancio keeps in touch with inmates for less than virtuous reasons. And there were plenty of members of the Russian mafia-the
“You didn’t tell Ciancio anything?” I ask. “Then-how did he figure it out?”
I say it with empathy, like I’m just as disappointed as Koslenko that Ciancio put one and one together.
“Po-lice. Cops. Cops after.”
“He figured it out when the police came to the Sherwood building afterward.”
Right. That makes sense. Of course.
“Listen, Leo-”
I stop, as I hear the same thing Koslenko hears. Noise above us. The sound of glass shattering. Someone breaking into the front of the building.
Shit. I look at Koslenko, then back up at the ceiling.
Koslenko, panicked, fixes on me, the gun pushed farther into Shelly’s ear.
A door slams against a wall. The door to the stairway leading down.
“They don’t matter,” I say quickly. “They trust me, Leo.
Koslenko’s eyes ricochet about, a soft moan escaping his throat. He is mumbling something I can’t hear.
No, I realize, just words I don’t understand.
Footfalls on the staircase now. Less than half a minute before they storm in. All bets are off then. Shelly won’t have a chance.
“I’ll protect her, Leo. I always have.”
“Protect. Protect.”
“Always, Leo. Always.”
But he’s not listening to me, or to the sounds of the men rushing toward this room.
“It’s your time, Leo. Just like it was Terry’s.”
I close my eyes as the sound of a single gunshot echoes through the basement.
53
I AWAKEN the next morning on a small cot, perpendicular to Shelly’s hospital bed. She is in a large, private room, allowing Governor Trotter and his wife the neighboring bed. My head lifts with some difficulty. Doctors are looking over Shelly, who has recovered relatively well from the ordeal.
A tox scan showed that Shelly had been injected with gamma hydroxybutyrate-GHB-a depressant that acts on the central nervous system. They figure she was given two powerful dosages, spaced apart by twelve hours or so, that rendered her functionally paralyzed, almost comatose. But its effects are not long-lasting.
Other than the drugs draining from her system, she probably has a concussion, but nothing worse, from when she was subdued. She was not sexually assaulted. Leo Koslenko had no interest in her other than leverage.
Shelly came to around noon yesterday. She had suffered retrograde amnesia, so she remembered nothing. She didn’t remember the attack. She didn’t remember that day at all. I’m thankful for that. I figure he got her in the shower, where she would be vulnerable, because Shelly is no pushover physically.
I leave around noon. Her entire family is hovering over her, stroking and coddling her. They are lukewarm toward me, which is understandable. I found her, yes, but, then again, she wouldn’t have been victimized at all had it not been for me. Regardless, I feel like an outsider at a family reunion. I kiss Shelly on the cheek and tell her I’ll be back soon.
I use the emergency-room exit to avoid the omnipresent media surrounding the front of the hospital. When I step outside into the late-morning sun, I use my cell phone. I call information for the number. When I’m patched through, a woman answers the phone.
“Dr. Morse, please,” I say. “This is Paul Riley.”
“You need to make an appointment, Mr. Riley?”
“No. I just need one minute of his time. It’s rather important.”
I look around, to make sure I have my space, no reporters, no police, no anybody. I wait for Dr. Morse to take the phone, but I already know the answer.
I DRIVE TO the police station. They tell me McDermott is in the observation room, and, for some reason, no one has a problem with escorting me there. I find him there leaning on the ledge, looking into one of the interview rooms, his collar open, shirtsleeves rolled. He looks over at me with dark, lifeless eyes.
Inside one of the interview rooms, Natalia Lake sits composed, cigarette smoke lingering about her weathered face.
“Natalia here says Cassie killed Ellie.” He nods at her.
I walk up next to him. I wasn’t sure Natalia would say that. I know it wasn’t her idea.
“But she doesn’t know what happened after that. She says they were scared to death of the police coming, but it never happened. She figures Terry Burgos had seen what happened at Ellie’s apartment and went in and removed the body. And she figures, Burgos killed Cassie later to retaliate.”
That’s the story she tried to sell me at her house yesterday. Cassie did kill Ellie, but the rest of what she told McDermott is a lie.
But I won’t tell him differently. Not now, anyway. Maybe never.
“You believe her?” I ask.
He takes a moment, working his jaw. “I guess I don’t know. I’m not sure I could prove anything different.” He nods to me. “For what it’s worth, it sure looks like Burgos killed the
