Текст книги "The Devil's Garden"

Автор книги: Richard Montanari

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THIRTY-FIVE

Kolya came down the stairs, closing his phone, a smug smile on his face. He had in his hand a sandwich. Abby could smell the hard salami from across the room. The smell nearly made her gag.

Kolya poked around the basement room, feeling the couch cushions, opening and closing the drawers on the old buffet. He flipped on the small television, ran through the channels, flipped it off. To Abby he looked like someone at a house sale, browsing the contents, seeing if things worked. Except, people like Kolya didn’t go to house sales.

He leaned against the washer, studied her, took another bite of the sandwich. His gaze made Abby want a shower.

“Your husband said something about money,” he finally said.

The words sounded strange. Money, after all this. “What are you talking about?”

He picked up a pair of crystal candlesticks Abby had been meaning to polish, looked underneath. He looked like a gorilla in a Waterford boutique. “He said he could get his hands on some serious money. You know anything about that?”

“No.”

He glanced around the basement again. “Now, not for nothin’, I mean, this is a nice house and all. More than I got. But you don’t look rich. Is there a safe in this place?”

Abby thought about the safe in the office. There was never more than two thousand dollars or so in there at any given time. Emergency cash. Abby could not imagine that such a small sum would be enough to make this all go away. Still, she had to try.

“Yes.”

“No shit. How much is in it?”

“I . . . I’m not sure. Maybe two thousand dollars.”

Kolya mugged, as if two thousand was beneath him. On the other hand, he didn’t turn it down. He turned to the corkboard next to the workbench. On it were calendars, greeting cards, family photographs. Kolya pulled out a push pin, studied a picture of Charlotte and Emily from the previous Halloween.

“So, the little girls are adopted, right?”

“Yes.”

He considered the photo for a while, push-pinned it back. “What, you couldn’t have kids?”

Abby didn’t say a word. Kolya continued.

“How old are you? I mean, I don’t mean to be rude or anything. I know you’re not supposed to ask a woman’s age. I was just wondering.”

“I’m thirty-one.”

“Yeah? Thirty-one? You don’t look it.”

Abby almost said thank you, but she soon realized who she was talking to, and what this might be leading up to. She remained silent.

“See, most women your age, they’ve got two or three kids. I mean, kids they actually had. Their bodies are a fucking mess. Stretch marks, saggy boobs. A woman your age, in pretty good shape, no stretch marks. You may not believe me, but that’s my thing.”

He smiled again and it made Abby sick. Kolya crossed the room, peeked out the basement window, returned, took out a pocket knife. Abby struggled to move the chair away from him. She nearly toppled over. He put a hand on her shoulder.

“Relax.”

He cut her loose.

Abby rubbed her wrists. The ropes had made a deep red welt. After a few seconds, she began to get the feeling back in her arms.

“Thank you,” she said.

Kolya sat on a bar stool. “What can I say? I hate to see a pretty woman suffer. I’m sensitive that way.”

Abby just stared. A pretty woman.

“Now take off your clothes.”

Abby felt punched, as if all the air had been sucked out of her lungs. “What?”

“I think you heard me.”

Abby wrapped her arms across her chest, as if she was suddenly freezing. She glanced out the high basement window. From this vantage she could see part of the driveway. “He’s going to be back soon.”

“He?”

“Yes. Aleks.”

“Aleks? You guys friends now?” Kolya laughed. “Don’t worry. It ain’t gonna take that long.”

Abby thought about making a break for the stairs. She shifted her weight in the chair. “Is that what this is all about?”

“Shit. For me it is. I’m just an employee. You know how it is. You take what you can get. You know what I’m talking about, don’t you?” He pulled back the hem of his jacket. Abby’s eyes were drawn to the butt of the large pistol in his waistband. “Besides, I just met this guy. He’s a fucking dinosaur. Old country, old school. I hate that shit. Reminds me of my old man, who was so fucking stupid he trusted a Colombian.”

Abby glanced again at the steps, her mind reeling. “You don’t have to do this.”

Kolya killed a few moments, rearranging some jars of nails and screws on the metal shelf next to him. “You work outside the home?”

“Yes.”

“What do you do?”

The last thing Abby wanted to do was let this animal even further into her life. But she knew she had to keep him talking. The longer she kept him talking, the sooner it would be that Aleks got back. “I’m a nurse.”

“A nurse! Oh! Jackpot,” he said, sounding like a little kid. “You wear the whites and everything?”

Abby knew he was talking about the dress-style uniform. Nobody wore them anymore. At the clinic, she spent most of her time in solid-color scrubs. But she would say or do anything to get out of this basement. “Yes.”

Kolya rubbed himself. Abby wanted to be sick.

“So, what, you’re saying you have your nurse’s uniform here?”

The truth was, she did not. Her three sets of scrubs were at the cleaners. It was going to be one of her stops on the way to the clinic. She glanced at the clock on the workbench. She was to start her shift soon. When she did not show up, they would call. “Yes,” she said.

“Where is it?”

“Upstairs,” Abby said. Her face burned with the lie. She was sure he could read it. But she had to buy time.

Kolya glanced at his watch. “So let’s go upstairs.”

THEY WALKED UP THE steps, across the kitchen, into the foyer. Kolya motioned to the stairs. Abby hesitated, then started up. She had no choice.

Kolya smiled. “You’ve done this before, haven’t you? You bad girl.”

As they went up the stairs she could feel his eyes on her. She was certain that, if she wasn’t a Pilates-freak, her legs would be giving out on her.

“Damn, girl. For a skinny little thing you got back.”

Get me to the bedroom, God.

“Most women your size have no fuckin’ hips at all. You know what I mean? Built like boys.”

Just get me near that closet.

They stepped into the bedroom. Kolya directed Abby to sit on the bed. He opened the closet door, rummaged through the suits, the shirts, the sweaters, the slacks. “There’s no fuckin’ uniforms in here.”

Abby stood, backed to the wall. “I forgot. They’re at the cleaners.”

“Where’s the ticket?”

Abby pointed to the small wicker tray on top of the dresser, the catch-all for parking stubs, receipts, claim checks. Kolya found the dry-cleaning ticket, read it, put it back. He then started looking through the dresser, tossing out underwear, socks, sweats. He reached the third drawer from the bottom. In it were neatly folded camisoles and teddies. He pulled a few out, examined them. He arrived at a scarlet red slip, one Abby had not worn in a few years, one of Michael’s favorites. Crazily, she tried to remember the last time she had worn it for her husband.

“Nice.” Kolya threw it across the room. “Put it on.”

Abby glanced at the closet. She remembered. The previous night she had not locked the gun back into the case. It was underneath her sweaters on the bottom shelf. It was less than five feet away.

“I’ve got something better than this,” Abby said.

“Oh yeah?”

Abby made no moves. She raised an eyebrow, as if to ask permission. Kolya seemed to like this. “Yeah,” she said. “A new cocktail dress. Short. High heels to match.”

“Sweet,” Kolya said. “Let’s see.”

Abby turned, slowly, walked to the closet.

She slid open the door, and reached inside.

THIRTY-SIX

The Millerville post office was a quaint standalone building with a mansard roof, multi-paned windows, two chimneys. The walkway was lined with driftwood posts connected with white chain. On the sculpted lawn was what looked like a Revolutionary War-era cannon. Two large evergreens flanked the double main doors.

Aleks had located three other post offices that were closer to Eden Falls, but he could not take the chance that the girls would be recognized. Or, for that matter, his new name and identity. According to his driver’s license he was now a thirty-five-year-old New Yorker named Michael Roman. He walked into the post office, both girls clutching his hand. How many times had he thought about scenes like this? How many times had he envisioned taking Anna and Marya somewhere?

There were eight or nine people waiting in line, another half-dozen people tending to their post office boxes or glancing at the racks of commemorative stamps and mailing supplies.

Aleks glanced around the ceiling. There were three surveillance cameras.

They inched their way to the head of the line. The girls were very well behaved.

“May I help you?”

The woman was black, in her forties. She wore silver eye shadow. Aleks approached with Anna and Marya. “Hi. I need to apply for a passport.”

“For yourself?”

“No, for my daughters.”

The woman leaned slightly over the counter. She waved at the girls. “Hi.”

“Hi,” the girls replied.

“It’s double the giggles and double the grins, and double the trouble if you’re blessed with twins.”

Anna and Marya giggled.

“How old are you?” the woman asked.

The girls held up four fingers each.

“Four years old,” the woman said. “My, my.” She smiled, leaned back, looked at Aleks. “My sister has twins. They’re grown now, of course.”

A man standing behind Aleks – the next person in line – cleared his throat, perhaps indicating that Aleks’s small talk was wasting his time. Aleks turned and stared at the man until he looked away. Aleks turned back. The woman behind the counter smiled, rolled her eyes.

“I’ll need to get the applications,” she said. “I’ll be right back.”

The woman disappeared into the back room for a few moments. She returned with a pair of forms. “Do you have photographs of the girls?”

Aleks held up the manila envelope. “I have them right here.”

The woman opened the envelope, took out the photographs. “They’re so adorable.”

“Thank you,” Aleks said.

“They look just like you.”

“And now you flatter me.”

The woman laughed. “Okay. First off I’ll need to see some identification.”

Aleks reached for his wallet. He handed the woman his newly minted driver’s license. It had Aleks’s photograph, and Michael Roman’s name.

This was the first test. Aleks watched the woman’s eyes as she scanned the license. She handed it back. Hurdle cleared.

“Next you’ll need to fill these out, and I need you to both sign at the bottom of each form.” She handed Aleks a pair of application forms for the issuance of a passport to a minor under the age of sixteen.

“Both?” Aleks asked.

“Yes,” the woman said. She glanced around the crowded room. “Isn’t the girls’ mother here?”

“No,” Aleks said. “She had to work today.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” the woman replied. “You seemed so organized, I thought you knew.”

“Knew what?”

“Your wife needs to be present.”

“We both need to be here at the same time?”

“Yes, I’m afraid so. Either that, or she needs to fill out form DS-3053.”

“What is that?”

“That is a statement of consent form. It needs to be filled out, signed, and notarized. Would you like to take one with you?”

“Yes,” Aleks said. “That would be most helpful.”

The American bureaucracy, Aleks thought. It was at least as wearying as the Soviet edition. He now knew that everything had changed. He would not be able to get the girls out of the country legally. He also knew that the girls would not need a passport to get over the border into Canada, only the equivalent of their birth certificates, which he already had. The Canadian border was not that far away.

The woman returned in a moment with the form, handed it to Aleks.

“I’ll be back tomorrow,” he said.

“That will be fine.” The woman stole another glance at the girls, smiled at them. “Where are you headed?”

Aleks tensed at the question. “I’m sorry?”

“On your trip. Where are you headed?”

“We are going to Norway,” Aleks said. “We have family there.”

“How nice.”

“Have you ever been to Norway?”

The woman looked up. “Gosh, no,” she said. “I’ve only been out of the country once, and that was on my honeymoon. We went to Puerto Rico. But that was a few years ago.” She winked at him. “I was a bit younger then.”

“Weren’t we all?” The woman smiled. Aleks looked at her nametag. Bettina.

He extended his hand. “You’ve been most kind and helpful, Bettina.”

“My pleasure, Mr Roman.”

Aleks took the girls by the hands and, noticing the security camera over the door, lowered his head. Once out in the parking lot, Aleks put the girls in the back seat, fastened their safety belts. He got back into the car.

“Ready?”

The girls nodded.

Aleks turned the key, started the car. And it came to him.

He would take Abby with them. As long as he had her husband, and she could see that the girls were safe, she would go along. It would make crossing the border that much easier.

Canada, he thought. Once they were safely over the border, he would cut the woman’s throat, bury her, and he and the girls would disappear for as long as it took. He would be one step closer to his destiny.

They would leave tonight.

PART THREE

THIRTY-SEVEN

Abby stood at the foot of the bed. The dress was laid out in front of her, along with a pair of black stiletto heels. Kolya sat on a chair at the other side of the room, next to the windows that looked onto the street. Every so often he would part the curtains.

Abby turned to face Kolya, held the black dress in front of her. Vera Wang. She’d only worn it once.

“Oh, yeah. That’s the one,” Kolya said. “Put it on.”

When she had taken the shoebox from the shelf she had slipped the .25 inside. The box now sat on the bed.

Abby turned away from Kolya, slipped out of her sweats and fleece top. She was grateful she was wearing a bra.

“Don’t get all shy on me now,” Kolya said.

Abby stole a glance at Kolya in the dresser mirror. He parted the curtains for what seemed like the tenth time, glancing down at the driveway. He was worried about Aleks returning.

“I’ll do anything I have to do for my daughters, you know,” Abby said.

“Yeah?” Kolya asked. “Anything?”

She slipped the dress over her head, moved the shoebox closer to the edge of the bed. “Anything.”

“I’ve got a few ideas.”

Abby backed up a few inches, pulled her hair out of the way. “I need you to zip me up.”

Kolya laughed. “Why? You’re just going to take it off in a minute.”

Abby shifted the top of the shoe box, but didn’t open it fully. “Please,” she said. “This is how it has to be.”

She sensed him getting up behind her. He ran his hands along her hips. The revulsion she felt was complete.

“Goddamn you are one fine looking woman,” he said. “This is even better than the nurse uniform.” He reached over, zipped up the back of her dress. She slipped on her high heels.

When Abby turned around to face him, she picked up a small atomizer of perfume, spritzed twice. She put the atomizer down, slipped her arms around his neck. “I don’t like it rough, okay?”

“You can have it any way you want it.”

Abby glanced down at Kolya’s waist, back up. “I don’t think I can relax if you have that gun on you. Guns scare me.”

“Forget it.”

Abby ran a hand through his hair. “Look. Kolya. What am I going to do? Aleks has my girls. You have me. I’m not going to do anything stupid.” Abby ran a finger over his lips. “If I’m nice to you, maybe you’ll be nice to me. Maybe we can work something out.” She moved even closer. She could see Kolya’s nostrils widen slightly, taking in her perfume. “You said yourself that you just met Aleks. Maybe you don’t have any loyalty to him. Maybe you could be loyal to me.”

Kolya studied her for a few moments. He wasn’t buying all of this, but other engines within him had been engaged. He peeked out the window one more time, turned back to Abby. “You try something, I’m gonna get really fuckin’ mad.”

“I know,” Abby said. “I won’t.”

Kolya, took the pistol from his waistband, ejected the magazine. He flipped on the safety, racked the slide, checked the chamber. Seeing it empty, he put the magazine in his jeans pocket, the pistol on top of the dresser. He turned back to Abby, sliding his hands around her hips. He squeezed her hard, pulled her into him. Abby could feel his thickening erection. “That’s not a full clip in my pocket, lady. I’m just happy to see you.” He laughed at his own joke.

Abby leaned in, kissed him gently on the lips. When she pulled back, Kolya’s eyes glazed for a moment, and Abby Roman knew she had him. She shifted her weight onto her left foot, centered herself, and brought her right knee up as hard as she could, slamming it into Kolya’s groin.

Kolya barked in pain, releasing a lungful of sour breath, doubling over. Abby stepped back, grabbed Kolya’s weapon from the dresser, flung it into the hallway. While Kolya’s hands covered his damaged testicles, Abby pivoted and delivered a second blow, this time with her right foot, delivered full force to the center of his face. With her years of Pilates training she knew her legs were toned and strong, and when the pointed toe of her high heel caught 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 seen the article.

She began to skim the piece of writing for details. It was lengthy, so she decided to just do a Find search on the page. She got a hit immediately.

“Interesting,” she said to no one in particular.

Michael Roman’s wife was named Abigail.

SONDRA AND JAMES ARSENAULT sat in the squad room of the 112th Precinct. Sondra had never been in a police station before, and she had no idea how unrelentingly grim they could be.

In her time as a social worker she had met many types of people. Granted, the nature of her work meant that many of the people with whom she came in contact were in some way troubled but, for Sondra Arsenault, this was both the joy and the challenge. While it was true that some people entered the mental health field with a god complex – an exaggerated sense of hubris in which a patient is formed and molded by the therapist into a vision of normalcy – most of Sondra’s colleagues in the field were dedicated people to whom a person entering into therapy was not a blank slate to be recreated in some sense of normalcy, but rather that few behaviors are hardwired, and that adjustment could be made.

Until today. As she scrolled through computer screen after computer screen of mugshots she realized she had seen more evil in an hour than she had seen in her previous eighteen years in the field of mental health.

Looking at these faces she was reminded of the difference between working the city and working the suburbs. Perhaps Detective Powell had been right when she asked her about where she applied her science, and whether there might be a difference in what happened in a city, as opposed the comfort and safety of the suburbs.

The detective was right. There was a difference.

POWELL STEPPED INTO THE cramped, windowless room. “How are you guys doing?”

Sondra looked up. “All of these men have broken the law?”

Powell cleared a chair of papers, sat down. “Some more than once,” she said with an understanding smile. “Some more than ten times. Some are working their way through the alphabet – assault, burglary, car theft, driving without a permit.” She winced at her reach on that one, but no one seemed to notice. “Have you seen anyone who looks familiar?”

“This is what frightens me,” Sondra said. “I have seen a few people who look familiar. Or maybe I’m just projecting.”

“Don’t worry if you don’t find the man who broke into your house among these photographs. He may not be in the system. It’s always worth a shot, though.”

Powell opened up a 9 × 12 envelope. She had printed off two pictures from the New York Magazine article. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to show you a couple of other photographs.”

“Sure,” Sondra said.

Powell held forth the first one. It was a picture of Michael Roman, taken from the cover of the magazine. He was leaning against a BMW convertible coupe, black trousers and open white shirt, his suit coat over his shoulder, looking pretty GQ, if Powell had to say so herself. Powell had cropped out the magazine’s logo, and everything else that might indicate it came from a magazine. She didn’t want to give the woman the impression this was some kind of celebrity, even though he probably was in certain New York legal circles. It might taint the woman’s identification, although Powell found Sondra Arsenault to be a careful, meticulous professional, and didn’t think she’d fall for the hype. “Do you know this man?”

Sondra took it from her, looked at it closely. She shook her head. “No.”

“This was taken five years ago. Are you sure?”

“Yes. I’m quite sure.”

“He doesn’t look at all familiar to you?”

More scrutiny, probably just to be polite. “I’ve never seen this man before in my life.”

“Okay,” Powell said. “Thanks. Mr Arsenault?”

James Arsenault shook his head immediately. Powell noticed that his lips were chapped and cracked and white. In his hand was a small bottle of Tylenol. He was probably taking one every twenty minutes, without water. This guy was a wreck.

Powell put the first picture back in the envelope, handed the woman the second photograph. This one too had been cropped. “What about her?” she asked. “Does this woman look familiar?”

Sondra took the color copy of the magazine page. “That’s her!” she said. “That’s the woman who gave me Viktor Harkov’s phone number.”

“This is Abby?”

“Yes. No question.”

“And you don’t know her last name, where she lives, where she works, anything else about her?”

“No,” Sondra said. “Sorry. I met her at the conference, we talked about adopting, and she told me that she and her husband had just adopted, and that she knew a lawyer who did a really good job. She gave me Viktor Harkov’s phone number, and that was about it.”

“Did she say anything to you about his methods, the way he worked?”

“No,” Sondra said, perhaps more forcefully than she would have liked. “I mean, I later got the impression that Abby may not have known that the guy was a little . . .”

“I know what you mean,” Powell said, finding no reason to supply Sondra Arsenault with a pejorative term for a man who was at that moment being dissected on a cold steel table in South Jamaica. They all knew who he was and what he did. The question, if there would be a question, was what did Abby Roman know about the man, and when did she know it? Before she recommended Harkov to the Arsenaults, or after.

There had been two sets of twins illegally brokered by Viktor Harkov in 2005. Two sets of girls. If Harkov’s killer had visited the Arsenault house perhaps he was now in search of the other pair of twins. Perhaps he had already found them. Perhaps there was another family in jeopardy.

Like Cape Fear, Powell thought.

She had to get that movie, check it out.

WHILE THE ARSENAULTS spoke to a police artist, and created a composite of the man who had broken into their house, Detective Desiree Powell left the Homicide Squad, stopped at the Homestead on Lefferts Boulevard for a cherry strudel and a coffee.

Within twenty minutes she was on the Van Wyck, heading toward a small town in Crane County called Eden Falls.