by Steven Henry
“If she did, she's the most helpful perp we've had in a while,” Jones agreed. “Where you going?”
Erin had stood up and leashed Rolf. “To talk to a CI,” she said. “See if I can get some info on human trafficking.”
“Careful out there,” Jones said. “I worked with some CIs on the gang task force. They can be a little twitchy. You want backup?”
“No thanks,” Erin said. “I've got Rolf if things go sideways.”
“I need to know where you're going,” Webb said. “You want to go in alone, that's fine, but if you don't come out again, I gotta know what door to kick down.”
“The Barley Corner,” Erin said, and left before he could object.
The Corner was a classy Irish pub just down the street from Erin's new apartment. As she'd told Vic, it was the closest bar to her residence. It was also the closest Erin had ever come to getting blown to tiny pieces. The proprietor, Morton Carlyle, was a known upper-echelon member of the O'Malley branch of the Irish mob. He was a former IRA bombmaker and deeply involved with organized crime. Furthermore, he'd known her father from Sean's time on the force, and had given the elder O'Reilly some unwanted leverage that helped him survive a corruption investigation. He also owed Erin a personal favor. It was thanks to her and Rolf that his bar hadn't exploded in earlier that year. Carlyle was a lot of things, but he wasn't a man to forget a favor.
The breakfast crowd had thinned out by the time Erin and her dog arrived, which was just the way she wanted it. This wasn't a conversation that wanted an audience. She paused outside, squared her shoulders, and walked in.
The pub was nearly empty. Two guys were talking at a table halfway down the wall, the bartender was polishing glasses behind the bar, and a waitress stood by the door. There was a man in the corner who caught Erin's attention. His haircut, a half-inch buzz, and the look in his eyes screamed military veteran. He calmly looked her over, and she guessed he'd ID'd her as a cop as easily as she'd pegged him. He nodded ever so slightly, then ignored her. She returned the favor. She'd seen him in here before and figured he was one of Carlyle's bodyguards.
Carlyle himself was at the bar in his place of honor, sitting on a leather barstool with his back to the bar, arms resting on it, watching one of the big-screen TVs. He was a slender man of about fifty, silver-haired, handsome and clean-shaven. He was dressed in a charcoal sport coat and matching tie and slacks, his shoes perfectly polished.
He smiled with genuine pleasure. “Erin O'Reilly!” he said, his accent pure Northern Ireland. “I've been hoping you would honor us with your presence.” He stood up and offered his hand.
She approached and shook. His grip was firm. He held on to her hand just a little longer than the moment required. “Morning, Cars,” she said, using his street nickname. “How's business?”
“Oh, grand,” he said. “The lads do love their libations. On that subject, what can I provide for you? You've only to name it. On the house, of course. Your money's not accepted in any establishment of mine.” He turned to the bartender. “Neil, give Miss O'Reilly whatever she might be wanting.”
“It's a little early,” Erin said, “but I'll take coffee. Cream, no sugar.”
“You want a splash of Glen D in it?” Neil asked.
“No thanks,” she said. “I'm working.”
“And an Irish lass doesn't take her drink till the day's work is done,” Carlyle said. “I'm sorry Danny isn't in yet. He works the evenings most days, but I'm sure he's wanting to thank you personally for saving him from a fiery death.”
“Just doing my job,” Erin said. “You and Corky helped.”
“My pleasure,” Carlyle said.
“What is Mr. Corcoran doing these days?” Erin asked.
“Since you've no information regarding that on your end of the business,” Carlyle said, “I'm assuming he's getting away with things.”
“Fair enough,” Erin laughed.
“He does ask after you,” Carlyle said. “He'll likely be in this evening, if you're wanting to speak with him.”
“That's okay,” Erin said. “I don't think talking is what would be on his mind.”
It was Carlyle's turn to laugh. “You've the right of it, to be sure.”
“Your coffee, ma’am,” Neil said, sliding it across the bar.
Carlyle had a cup of his own at his elbow. He raised it, and Erin caught a whiff of whiskey from his cup. “Cheers,” he said. “Now, what can I do to assist my very favorite detective?”
Erin had let herself forget how smooth Carlyle could be. She had to remind herself that he was one of the bad guys. “I'm working a case I was hoping you could help me with,” she said. “I need some information.”
Carlyle kept smiling, but Erin practically saw shutters clamp closed behind his eyes. “If you're asking me for knowledge of illegal activities, I don't see how I can help you, Miss O'Reilly.”
“Relax, Carlyle,” she said, trying to keep her tone casual. “This doesn't have anything to do with your people. I need to know about some Russians.”
“Why don't you ask that oversized comrade of yours, Detective Neshenko?” Carlyle suggested. “He hails from that part of the world, if I'm not mistaken.”
“I need to know about mob guys who might be involved in human trafficking,” Erin pressed on. “Russian Mafia types.”
Carlyle wasn't smiling anymore. “Erin, these sound like dangerous men,” he said quietly. “Men who wouldn't be wanting their doings discussed over coffee in a public house. I'd be very careful about such conversations, were I in your position. These men might not conform to your American ideas of how criminals ought to behave. Here, you've your own code of behavior, which even outlaws are bound to respect. That sort of men fail to make such distinctions.”
“Look, Cars,” Erin said, leaning forward and looking him straight in the eye. “These guys killed a man who was just trying to help someone out. And they killed a teenage girl. A pregnant girl.”
“Really?” Carlyle sat forward, a look in his eyes Erin hadn't seen there before. “What information, exactly, are you seeking?”
“I have to find out who the girl was,” Erin said. “And who she was working for.” She took a deep breath and made the move she knew her dad wouldn't want her to. “I'd consider it a personal favor if you could ask some questions, find out what you can. After all, you owe me one.”
Carlyle toyed with the handle of his coffee cup without taking his eyes from hers. “And you're prepared for the consequences, whatever they may be?” he asked.
“Always,” Erin said, matching him stare for stare.
He nodded. “I know a few lads,” he said. “I'll talk to them and see what I can discover. But I'll not be testifying, so that we're clear. And I'll speak only to you on this, not to any of your colleagues.”
“This is between you and me,” Erin agreed.
He smiled again. Erin put out her hand, but Carlyle shook his head. “No need for that, Erin,” he said. “If we can't be taking one another at our word, then why are we even discussing this? Enjoy the coffee, darling. Come back tomorrow after supper. I should have something you'll be interested to hear.”
“Thanks, Carlyle,” Erin said. “I appreciate it.”
“My pleasure,” he said again.
Chapter 10
Natalie Markov had been as good as her word. Jones had three file boxes open at her desk when Erin got back, and she was up to her elbows in Gregory Markov's records. Vic was helping. He'd perked up a little and looked almost human again.
“How's it going?” Erin asked.
“If this detective thing doesn't work out, I think I might have a career with INS,” Jones said.
“Don't even joke about that,” Vic said. “Jesus. They oughta change the slogan on that statue in the harbor. Give us your poor, your weak, your huddled masses... so we can give 'em right back.”
Erin hadn't ever worried too much about illegal immigrants. She'd always figured her time was better spent chasin
g real criminals, the ones who hurt other people. “Do we have a name yet?” she asked Jones.
“Not yet,” the other woman replied. “But I think I'm closing in. I've got hospital records. Looks like there were a bunch of people who'd call him when they needed help with medical bills. That's where most of the five Gs went every month. He's noted down all the people he helped. It's in Russian, of course.”
Vic nodded. “Shorthand, with shitty penmanship. This is worse than the birthday cards my grandma used to send me.”
“We're making a list of names,” Jones said. “We'll let the rest of you know. But there's more than one pregnant girl listed here.” She looked up at Erin. “You really think he wanted this girl's kid?”
Erin shrugged. “Best theory I've got.”
“I liked it better when he was a sleazy john and she was a no-good hooker,” Vic said.
“Because it fits your cynical view of human nature?” Jones asked.
“Because I wouldn't feel as bad about them getting whacked,” he said. “This guy's like Mother freaking Teresa.”
Since she couldn't read Russian, Erin didn't have much to offer in the research department. She sat down at her own desk and scratched Rolf behind the ears.
“How about you?” Webb asked her.
“My guy's going to talk to one of his guys, then he'll call me tomorrow,” Erin said.
“Which guy was it?” Webb asked. “Carlyle or Corcoran?”
Maybe it was residue from Carlyle's caginess, but Erin didn't want to talk about it in an open office. “He warned me about the Russian mob,” she said, dodging. “He seemed to think they'd come after him, or even the cops, if they felt threatened.”
“That's crazy,” Jones said. “You get one nut job, sure he'll shoot it out, but even the real bangers know better than to take on the NYPD.”
“I dunno,” Vic said. “Russian Mafia, they're different. Where they come from, the cops are just the biggest, best-armed gang. You know how much corruption there is in Russian police departments? If these guys are overseas talent, we want to take 'em, we gotta be ready to go in with ESU.”
“You sneaky little bitch, I got you!” Jones shouted. Everyone else turned to stare at her.
She gave an embarrassed laugh. “Ludmila Petrovna,” she said, holding up a sheet of paper. “Bellevue Hospital, two weeks ago.”
“Hey, my brother works there,” Erin said.
“He an obstetrician?” Jones asked.
“Trauma surgeon.”
“Then he didn't see her,” Jones said. “This is our victim. I'm sure of it, but we can double-check blood type and some other medical indicators to confirm. It says she's nineteen, but that might be a lie. I've got blood pressure, pelvic exam, pap smear, the works. Looks like she was pretty healthy, in spite of the whole heroin thing.”
“Lot of good it did her,” Vic muttered.
“Is an address listed?” Webb asked. “How about emergency contact info?”
“There's an emergency phone number,” Jones said. “It's... shit, it's Markov's cell.”
“I was afraid of that,” Webb sighed.
“But there's an address, too,” Jones said. “Apartment, Brighton Beach.”
Webb was on his feet. “I'll call Brooklyn,” he said. “Get some uniforms there. And a CSU team. Let's move. Jones, you're with me.”
“I'll ride with you and the mutt,” Vic said to Erin.
“I moved to Manhattan so I wouldn't have to cross the East River every day,” Erin said as they entered the Brooklyn-Battery Tunnel yet again.
“Funny how life works out,” Vic said.
Ludmila's apartment wasn't far from the Markov residence, but it was obviously a less upscale part of Little Odessa. The signs of storm damage were more apparent, as cleanup had been less of a priority, and the buildings were more run-down to begin with. There were guys on the corners that triggered Erin's Patrol instincts.
“See all the dealers?” she asked quietly.
Vic didn't answer.
“Vic?”
“Huh?” He blinked and looked at her. “What's up?”
“Never mind,” she said. “You still a little hungover?”
“Maybe.”
As they got to Ludmila's address, the dealers magically vanished. This was probably due to the two blue-and-whites parked out front and the pair of uniforms on the steps of the apartment building. It was a five-story brick walkup with several boarded-up windows. The detectives and parked outside.
“Everyone got vests?” Webb asked. “Good. Let's go. The apartment's number 419. There's two more uniforms up there already, so the place should be secure.”
“Guess we should be grateful it's not all the way at the top,” Jones said as they went inside.
Even though she knew there were cops already on scene, Erin had a hand on her Glock. She had a bad feeling. Part of it was Vic. She'd kicked in a few doors with him, and his focus had always impressed her. Now he seemed distracted.
“Vic!” she hissed.
“What?”
“What the hell is the matter with you? Get your game on!”
“Yeah,” Jones said. “We run into a bunch of Russians with machine guns, I'm using you as a human shield.”
“Thanks,” he said.
“Knock it off,” Webb said. He'd drawn his gun, a classic .38 Police Special.
Two more officers were waiting in the fourth floor hallway with the building super. He had his keys out and ready. The detectives stacked up outside the room. Erin got Rolf prepped, just in case. The shepherd was tense, ears forward.
Webb nodded to the super, who unlocked the door and stepped to the side. Webb rapped on the door with his knuckles. “NYPD! Open up!” he shouted.
There was no answer. Webb got out of the way. Erin looked at Vic. He'd pulled himself together. He returned her look, shouldered the door open, and went in fast, gun in hand.
It was a studio apartment, old and worn, but clean, well-kept, and empty. Clearing the space took only a few seconds. The tension drained out of the detectives, who holstered their weapons and started looking around.
“This isn't a hooker's place,” Jones said. She was at the closet alcove, which had a curtain across it.
“How do you know?” Webb asked.
“The clothes,” she said. “It's all conservative stuff. No bright colors, no fishnet stockings. The tallest heels are an inch and a half.”
“You can tell a hooker by her wardrobe?” Webb asked.
“Can't you?” Jones shot back.
Webb thought it over. “Fair point.”
Erin sidled over to Vic. “Okay, what's going on?” she asked in a low voice. “Seriously.”
“Craziest coincidence,” Vic said in an undertone. “I was here last night.”
Erin didn't get it. “We didn't ID Ludmila until an hour ago.”
“Not in this room,” he said. “This building. Tatiana lives right down the hall. I had this crazy idea they'd turn out to be roommates or something when we got here.”
“Holy shit,” Erin said. “No wonder you freaked out. Which apartment's she in?”
“423,” Vic said. “Two doors down.”
She shook her head in amazement. “You think they knew each other?”
“Yeah, that's a great idea,” Vic said. “Girls love it when you ask them that. Hey, Anna, guess what? You were living down the hall from a pregnant hooker heroin addict, you know that? She just got murdered. And I thought, hey, maybe the two of you were friends. You wanna talk about it?”
“That's not what I meant,” Erin said.
“Yeah, I know,” Vic said. “And you're right, dammit. We need to ask the neighbors. I'll talk to her, next chance I get. But she's not home now.”
“How do you know?”
“Because she had to go to work, okay?” Vic snapped.
“You were here last night,” Erin said, finally getting it. “That's why you were late this morning.”
“What are the
two of you talking about?” Webb called across the room. “You taking a coffee break?”
“No, sir,” Erin said.
“Then how about doing a little police work?”
They got back to business. Erin wondered whether she ought to mention Vic's whereabouts on the previous night, but decided against it. He hadn't known anything about Ludmila. It was just a crazy coincidence, like he'd said.
“So, what've we got?” Webb asked, later.
“She knew she was pregnant,” Jones said. They'd found some prenatal pamphlets from the hospital.
“She wasn't turning tricks anymore,” Vic said. There was no sign of her previous life. Ludmila's wardrobe, the lack of any sign of drug paraphernalia, no hint of the presence of a pimp, all of it pointed to a girl trying to get herself back on her feet.
“She was just a pregnant girl, sir,” Erin said. That was the most heartbreaking thing about it.
“No, she wasn't,” Webb said. “She had a past. That's the only hint of a motive we've got. And that's what's not here.” He slapped the doorframe in frustration. “Washout.”
They left the scene for the CSU guys, but without much hope they'd find anything. It was a demoralized crew that drove back to Manhattan, in silence most of the way. There didn't seem to be anything else to say.
Chapter 11
The following evening, Erin took Rolf home after work. She grabbed a sandwich from the deli half a block from her apartment, then went to the Barley Corner. She was still wearing her work clothes and her Glock. But she left Rolf behind. She didn't think she'd need backup. It was just a conversation.
The Corner was full of the dinner crowd, ninety percent male, eighty percent Irish, ninety-eight percent intoxicated. The Yankees game was on the big-screen TV, and the place was loud. Erin threaded her way to the bar.
A slim Irishman with flaming red hair, sparkling green eyes, and a truly devil-may-care smile appeared at her elbow like magic. “Erin, love!” he exclaimed. “I've been waiting and pining for this very moment.”