“We’ve also got a kidnapping this morning. Bubbling Well Road, next to the Italian consulate. Young boy, about eleven, dark hair. Father’s quite high up in Fraser’s. Chinese, obviously. Not sure why they’ve reported it. I’m sure they’ll pay up in the end. No message in the paper yet, but probably the Green Gang again. There’s a picture of the boy pinned to the back wall there, so take a look at it on the way out. Now . . . there was a Russian girl murdered yesterday in the Happy Times block on Foochow Road.” Captain Smith was smiling as he said this and there was a jeer from the men. Sorenson whistled at the back. “I give you Detective Caprisi.”
Caprisi got up and walked to the front as the men continued to cheer and whistle. He wasn’t smiling when he turned and faced them.
“The Russian girl’s name,” Caprisi said, having waited for them to stop, “was Lena Orlov. She was tied up, stabbed almost twenty times. There does not appear to have been a sexual assault.”
“He couldn’t get the handcuffs undone,” Sorenson said. There was a guffaw of laughter.
Caprisi ignored it. “Has anyone ever heard of anything similar . . . not murder, but violence against Russian girls . . .”
“I’ve got a thousand,” Sorenson said. “A thousand cases.”
“I’ve got two,” someone else added, and there was another guffaw of laughter.
“The flats belong to Lu,” Caprisi said, his mood souring further. “So do the women in it. The doorman was taken away and executed yesterday, and everyone else in the neighborhood claims not to have seen a thing.”
Field noticed that Maretsky had come in and was leaning against the back wall, also scowling. Field assumed he’d heard the laughter.
“Chen and I are dealing with any direct leads,” Caprisi went on. “Along with Richard Field from S.1. But we want to hear about anyone who could give us a sense of this falling into a pattern.”
“I’ll raise you two thousand,” Sorenson said. “Two thousand Russian tarts being slapped about . . . two thousand cases . . . no, three thousand . . .” There was more laughter, and Field watched Maretsky turn and walk out, his face a picture of disgust.
“Try not to be an Ohio boy all your life, Sorenson,” Caprisi said easily as he thrust his hands in his pockets and walked back from the lectern.
“That’s it,” Smith said. Chairs and desks scraped across the floor as everyone got to their feet and began talking. Sorenson stood and picked up his jacket and helmet. He hadn’t shaved this morning, his short hair and bullet head making him look like a convict. “You’ve never used handcuffs?” he asked Caprisi.
“Sure, Caprisi was fucking her,” Prokopieff said, standing up next to Sorenson. “Little Russian girl, little bit of pain . . .”
“You should keep a hold of the keys, old man,” Sorenson taunted.
“I was fucking her, too, of course,” Prokopieff went on. “She danced at the Majestic, right? The spoiled little princess screamed.”
Caprisi stood still, his head tilted to one side, staring at the floor. Prokopieff took a step closer, towering over the American. He was a huge man, with the body of a wrestler, short, spiky hair, and a bulbous nose above big lips.
“Back off, Prokopieff,” Field said quietly.
The Russian turned to stare at him. “Ah, the new boy.” Everyone was looking at Field now. “You couldn’t even find your dick in a storm, or maybe . . . I see now . . . Good for you, Caprisi, just like Slugger, just like old—”
Caprisi launched himself into Prokopieff’s stomach, so that the Russian was caught off guard and spun back over a desk, smashing into the officers who’d gathered behind him. Field took a step forward, saw Sorenson turn, and watched the punch coming. He ducked easily and struck him with a powerful left on the side of the jaw, so that he fell onto Prokopieff.
“Enough!” Granger shoved the men aside and yanked Sorenson roughly to his feet. “You should know fucking better. All of you. Get up, Prokopieff.” He waited as the Russian got up and dusted himself down, glowering at both of them. Field wondered if Granger would discipline them, but he said simply, “As if there isn’t enough trouble out there.” He turned and pushed Caprisi out of the door, glancing at Field and indicating that he should follow. The two of them walked past the desk sergeant and climbed the stairs beside the lift, not stopping until they had almost reached Crime on the third floor.
Caprisi bent over, as if trying to catch his breath. “Give me a minute, would you?” he asked. “In fact, make that an hour.”
“Sure.”
The American straightened and looked out of the small, slitted window at the smoke drifting across the rooftops. “I’ll be in here if you need me.”
Field took out his cigarettes and offered Caprisi one, but the American shook his head. “What did Prokopieff mean?” Field asked. “About Slugger.”
“Forget it, Field.”
“Sure.” He took a pace back. “I’ll . . . I’ll meet you in an hour.” Field turned away and began to climb the stairs.
“Dick.”
Field stopped.
“Where did you learn to punch like that?”
“My father taught me.”
“Thanks.”
“It’s hard,” Field said, “not knowing . . .”
