by M. P. Cooley
“That’s not . . . don’t you make the same mistakes I’m making, June. Don’t assume he’s guilty.”
“Wouldn’t it be better if he was?”
“It doesn’t make things right,” he said. “Vera is dead, but we have no proof as to why or how. Natalya has the answers—”
“You’ve done enough, Dad.”
“But—”
“Enough. You will not be there when I question Natalya.” I laughed bitterly. “The way things are going, it’s questionable whether I’m the cop for this job, but I don’t want to restart the investigation. So I need you to leave.”
“The papers,” he said frantically. “She used to do the papers of people on the Island. I bet she got papers for Luisa and Theo.”
I wrote it down in my notebook—it matched up with what Vera’s “friends” had said. “If you think of anything else, call me, and I can move on it. Right now you need to go home. Got it?”
HALE LEANED AGAINST THE CAR, LOOSE AND CASUAL. HIS UNCHARACTERISTICALLY relaxed attitude and the peepers croaking away around us were calming, much needed after the run-in with my father.
“I’m pretty sure you can take an old lady,” he said.
“Not this one. Plus you’ll need to run interference if Lucas or Dave show.”
“I’m pretty sure you can take them, too.”
“Not funny, Hale.” My voice echoed in the empty street. “This could destroy Dave.”
“Hey now. Let’s listen to what she has to say first.” Hale brushed nonexistent dust off the arm of his jacket. Keeping his eyes fixed on Natalya’s house, he said, “Something else going on here?” He slid his leg forward, touching his foot to mine. “C’mon, June. You don’t lose your cool. Not ever.”
I tried to regain the supposed cool I possessed, taking deep breaths before launching into the background of the Pinto and how my dad was able to find the information by reading my notebook.
“Your dad got a little overeager—”
“Obsessed, you mean.”
“OK, maybe. But obsession is a strength sometimes.”
“Deliberate police work is a strength. Obsession leads to mistakes.”
“And it would be terrible if your dad made a mistake, huh?”
His comment felt like a punch in the gut. I had few illusions about my father, but one thing I always believed was that he was a good cop. The best cop.
“This case. His behavior.” I struggled to find the right words. “And all along, my mother squawking in my ear about how screwed up my father is.”
“Were those her exact words?”
“No. But when she talks about how cut off he was from the world, how the job was such a big deal to him, how he didn’t have a life—”
“You thought she was talking about you?”
“No!” I spun around, taking a deep breath before facing him again. “Maybe. But I’m having a hard time redoing his work.”
“June, your father and I have only met briefly, but I can say without hesitation that he would never choose being right over the truth.”
“And how do you know that?”
“Because he raised you. And that’s what you would want.”
I pointed at Natalya’s house. “We should go talk to her before Dave and Lucas gets home.”
“Your father also raised you to avoid emotionally charged conversations,” Hale said, not unkindly, and walked toward the house. “C’mon killer, let’s go talk to Natalya. I’ll put on my kid gloves and try not to rough her up too much.”
“No, we’re about to get rough,” I said. “Natalya has avoided capture her whole life, from the Nazis to the police. We’re taking her head-on. She can’t run.”
CHAPTER 23
HALE AND I WERE HALFWAY UP THE STEPS WHEN NATALYA opened the door. She couldn’t hide her disappointment.
“I thought you were one of the boys.” She peered down the street. “Dave is out searching for Lucas.”
“Can we come in?” I asked. “We have some questions.”
She frowned briefly but opened the door wide, offering us tea before the door was even closed.
“No tea,” I said.
“I insist. A host always—”
“This isn’t social, Natalya.”
Natalya hesitated, watching Hale. He had moved to the middle of the room and stood, dropping into the wide-legged “at rest” he learned in military school. She placed her hand on her chest and asked, “Is there news about Vera?”
“No. Luisa.”
I could see her running rapidly through her options. She went for concerned friend. “She woke? A good sign.” She paused. “She told you what happened?”
“No, Natalya. But I bet you can.”
She staggered a step toward Hale, letting him catch her. “Luisa’s burn injuries? I do not understand what you think I might know.”
“Not the fire, Natalya. Her escape to New Mexico.” Her eyes went wide, mock confusion.
“The Pinto, Natalya,” I said. Her eyes darted between Hale and me. “You gave her your Pinto. You faked the theft right after Vera was killed and handed the vehicle over to Luisa.” Natalya’s expression became blank, a wall in the face of authority. “Vera didn’t steal your car, Natalya. Your original story was a lie.”
“It was not!” She edged along the wall, but Hale blocked her way.
“The VIN number,” he said. “Luisa got rear-ended in 1985, and we have a copy of the ticket.”
Hale was lying. Today there might be a chance the information was in a computer system somewhere, but back then a ticket like that would have been disposed of within a year.
“And the fake IDs,” I said. “We’re betting you’re the source of Luisa Lawler’s—or should I say Louann Bazelon’s—Social Security cards.”
“We have a group of agents going through her home, top to bottom,” Hale said. Natalya’s face went blank as he continued talking. “Her tax records could be a wealth of information.”
The stillness in her face spread to the rest of her body. I remembered my dad telling me that many of the Ukrainians had a distrust of any official authority, and Natalya’s wall was going up, brick by brick. I circled her, staying close until we were again face to face, Hale fading back toward the dining room. This time I wasn’t going to try to batter her with reason or facts.
“Natalya, I think you had a very good reason for doing what you did. You were trying to protect Luisa in some way. Forget leaving town, it would have been tough for her to get a divorce. You need to tell me what happened.”
She raised an eyebrow at me, as if to say “Make me.”
“If you don’t, there will be repercussions,” I said. “I’m betting whoever went and kidnapped Luisa, it was payback for what happened to Bernie. And if this person was willing to drive across the country to grab her, they will have no problem driving across town to grab you once they figure out you are involved.” I paused, wanting my last words to hit home. “You are playing God, but you are not infallible.”
“I am not!” She pulled back, not flinching but furious. “Vin tse zasluzhyv.”
“What?”
“He deserved it,” she said.
“Who?”
“Bernard.”
“Why?”
“The remains.”
Hale came and stood next to us, overshadowing both me and Natalya. “You saw the body?”
“Not Vera dead, but after. Her absence.” She took a halting half step away from Hale. “At my home, my real home, Ukrayina. I learned to spot signs of”—she flicked her hand in the air—“vanishings. Stalin and Hitler, master teachers they were in making those you loved disappear. Bullet holes in wall. Drag marks leading to field. My brother’s . . . favorite pen in hands of another.” She balled her hands into fists. “When I saw blood everywhere, Vera’s purse discarded, I knew. I know.”
“You found Vera’s purse?” I couldn’t hide my frustration. “Natalya, why didn’t you go to the police. My father—”
<
br /> “Your father was not in charge during that time. Even if he were . . . Bernard was rich. powerful. He hired his childhood friends at factory and made them crawl, begging for jobs. Luisa’s family . . . they sold Luisa to him. His brothers counseled him, and he ignored them. Even Maxim! Maxim the judge!” She advanced on me. “No law would keep a man like Bernard locked up.”
Her read on the situation was wrong in every way. My father would have ensured that Vera got justice. I decided to stick to the facts. “How did you find the purse?”
“I did not find it, not really. Luisa did.”
“Where did she find it?” Natalya didn’t answer. “C’mon, Natalya. We have all the puzzle pieces. Show us how to put them together.”
She didn’t speak.
“I don’t know about you, June,” Hale said, “but I could go for some of that tea right around now.” He waved to the kitchen. “How about you tell us the story in the kitchen, Natalya?”
Standing in front of the stove, Natalya relaxed. She pointed to chairs at the table, two large, for Lucas and his brother, and two small, Natalya and Tara size. We took the large ones.
“Luisa and Teddy had returned from a seashore trip. Bernard had joined them for one week and two days, leaving morning after Vera was last seen alive, and they gave me week off from housecleaning, which meant extra work when they returned. Dirty house, dirty clothes—Luisa and I had much to do after her time away.” Natalya measured spoonfuls of tea into a pot. “That first morning back, I heard Luisa scream.”
“Scream?”
“Shout. Profanity. ‘That dirty whore!’ Luisa yelled.” Natalya looked down at the ground when she repeated Luisa’s curses. “Luisa was proper and quiet lady, but on that day, Luisa shouted like she was stabbed with ten thousand knives.” Natalya paused from pulling teacups out of the cupboard. “Most days, I walked slowly down stairs, but on that August day I raced, not caring if I fell.” Natalya shook her head. “Never in my life have I wished to be whole as I did that day. Never.”
“What happened when you got down there?”
“Luisa was holding purse in her hands, garish and red. ‘Taras’s wife!’ she shouted, and demanded to know if I had suspected that Bernie and Vera had an affair. I could not understand what made Luisa ask such question, until I went to purse”—unconsciously, Natalya took a step toward us—“and looked inside. It belonged to Vera, holding her driver’s license, her wallet, her lipstick.
“Vera’s disappearance was family matter still. Shame kept us silent, and knowledge that when the hungry wolf inside Vera killed satisfied dog, she would return to us again. We waited. But that day I saw Vera’s purse and I knew. She would leave family, job, home, but she would not leave purse behind. Our Vera, pishov. Dead.”
“What did Luisa say when you told her?” I asked.
“I told her nothing at first, and Luisa paid me no attention. Luisa acted wilder and wilder. Luisa threw cushions to ground, tearing at seams, the handbag forgotten. She shoved couch, hard and furious, her nails broken, her arms scratched. She was small, but the furniture moved releasing from wall, along with layer of paint stuck to the back of leather.”
“Paint?” Hale asked.
“Bernard did arrogant man’s job of covering up crime. A little paint, and done!” She waved her hand back and forth. “Did not wait for wall to dry, and his laziness, it undid him. When couch moved, paint came with it. Underneath, there was blood.”
I thought of the stains that had appeared when Annie sprayed luminol in the basement, illuminating through the paint, revealing the crime. To the naked eye it looked like a few flecks of blood. With the luminol, it looked like carnage.
“And your father found what we found, June. The destroyed rug, hidden under couch. A large hole cut through, old black blood soaked to roots of rug.” She shook her head. “And smell of death over everything. Old blood.” She squinted at me. “You know.”
I did. It was sometimes hard to distinguish at a murder scene. The smell of rotting flesh fills the room, but the scent of blood hangs on the edges, acrid.
“All of it. A struggle ended, a life taken. That is what rug and wall and purse told me. And that is what made Luisa realize who she married. And she wept, her heart broken. She didn’t love him because of his selfishness, but she realized that the father of her child was a monster and she must escape before he realized that she was carrying another child.”
“Is that when you two came up with your plan?” Hale asked.
“It was. Luisa had not wanted to marry Bernie, and to defy him was impossible. He was rich, and his family powerful. We two, we decided that we would punish Bernie for killing Vera, and we would do it in way that Luisa would be free.”
“Natalya, we have reports of a party at Bernie’s house the Friday she disappeared. Any one of them could have done it—”
“Why must you complicate this?” she said. “Vera was in Bernie’s home. And then she wasn’t. He killed her, and I had proof.”
Natalya explained how she had brought the purse to Taras so he would stop waiting for Vera to return. “When Vera was teenager, he planned to court her when she reached marriageable age. She seduced him, an innocent man, and refused to marry him for six months into pregnancy, a lifetime for my brother, who would die before being dishonorable. Her marriage vows came only when she had huge belly, Lucas almost born without his father. And then torture for whole marriage. Going away. Returning. And he waited, always.”
I wasn’t sure I wanted the answer to the next question. “What did he do with the purse?”
“Nothing. I knew my brother, he would obsess, turning it into relic for woman who was no saint.” She raised her chin. “I took it. I have it. Still.”
“What?” Hale exclaimed, at the same time I said, “Where?”
Natalya pointed to a door at the far side of the kitchen. “Basement.”
“And when we found Vera’s body, you didn’t think to hand it over?”
“Bernard was in prison, and coming forward might draw unwanted attention from authorities for me, and for Luisa.”
We asked her to take us to where she had hidden the bag, but she declined.
“No handrail,” she said. “Stairs are not possible without at least one banister.” She walked to the door and held it wide. “I will tell you its location.”
Hale looked at Natalya and then the steps. “Ma’am, would it be inappropriate if I offered to piggyback you downstairs?”
Surprisingly, she laughed. “Gymnastics are . . . unwise.”
“But Officer Lyons and I might get lost down there,” Hale said. “And we need to have some sort of chain, linking the purse in the basement to Vera. When we go to trial to try to send Bernie back to prison.”
Natalya nodded and turned off the burner. We’d convinced her. I created a sling with my hands where Natalya could step, and on her third attempt she successfully climbed onto Hale’s back. I toyed with the idea of going first, catching them if Hale flipped forward, but honestly, I was going to be useless if that happened. Instead I followed behind, ready to support Natalya if she slipped backward and boosting her gently if her arms gave way.
Once in the basement, Hale put her down. We passed a set of bookcases with Tara’s old toys piled neatly on the shelves. A living room set and a TV were wrapped in plastic, Lucas’s share of the furniture split in his divorce. A few racks of men’s clothing that I’d bet had belonged to Dave and Lucas’s dad hung nearby, and in the back corner there was a series of boxes, each labeled in Natalya’s faint Cyrillic script.
Natalya patted a trunk shoved in the corner, mahogany with leather straps. “Retrieve for me.”
Hale dragged out the heavy piece of furniture. He’d flipped the first clasp when she stopped him.
“No.” She indicated a box tucked behind where the chest had been. “That one.”
I crawled back. The basement was dry, and the box and the documents inside were covered with dust and spiderwebs. Natalya du
g in without hesitation, pulling out tax documents from 1952 through 1995, copies of Taras’s will, and insurance documents for expired policies. Underneath was a purse, cherry red, the bright vinyl cracking. No one would mistake it for Natalya’s. Hale produced an evidence bag, and we slid it inside, planning to do a close inspection later.
Upstairs, we heard the door open, footsteps sounding above us.
“Teta!” Lucas called.
“Down here!” She grabbed the purse, dropping it into the box and covering it with files, and Hale scooped up the box, holding it close.
Lucas crashed halfway down the steps and then called again, following Natalya’s voice to our corner of the basement. He stopped when he saw us. “I wondered how you got yourself down here. What are these two doing here?”
Natalya lied easily. “Employment records. From my time with Luisa and Bernie. The police plan to compare document signatures, so I give them documents.”
Lucas smirked. “But teta, what if the IRS audits your 1972 taxes?”
“You are not helpful, Lucas,” Natalya said. “Your brother? He found you?”
“No . . . why?”
“I sent him to bar.”
“No, I was at Felicia’s. She wanted to hear what’s going on.”
“Your ex-wife doesn’t watch news?”
“She does.” Lucas looked offended. “But Tara did some interesting reporting of her own, and Felicia wanted the real story.”
“Well, how wonderful she has true story. It is important she remain informed.” Natalya wasn’t warm and fuzzy, but I’d never seen her be unkind until I realized that she was intentionally trying to drive Lucas out. “Make yourself of use. Retrieve David.”
Lucas stood his ground. “How are you going to get upstairs?”
“Officer Bascom carried me down. He will return me as well.”
Lucas bounced from one foot to the other, unsure whether to stay or leave.
“Go!” Natalya said, and he stopped hesitating, bounding up the steps. Once we heard the front door slam, we moved upstairs. I asked her about the blood the police had found in Bernie’s trunk.