My sister. A twin.
Angie’s heart skipped a beat at the concept. The Asian guy, Ken Lau from the Pink Pearl Chinese Kitchen—his grandmother had seen a woman with only one child on her hip. But there’d been a curtain obscuring the bottom half of the woman. What if the young woman in the snow had been holding the hand of another little girl as they’d fled across the road?
Ah-ah-ah … two little kittens … there were once two little kittens.
Uciekaj, uciekaj! … Run, run!
Wskakuj do srodka, szybko … get inside.
Screams.
Angie struggled against a sudden urge to throw up.
“Have you attempted to search for your biological parents, Ms. Pallorino? Ever been contacted by a biological family member?”
“I only learned that I was the cradle child a few weeks ago,” Angie said. “I’ve never been contacted, and I’ve only just started my own search for my biological parents.”
“I understand from Detective Voight’s widow that you’ve taken possession of the angel’s cradle case files along with the evidence that Voight removed from the locker prior to scheduled destruction,” said Pietrikowski.
Something inside Angie went stone still. Her gaze snapped back to his. “That’s correct. I took my case files.”
“The RCMP requests that your transfer those files and evidence to us. We’re reopening the cradle case in conjunction with the discovery of the child’s foot because of the DNA match.”
Adrenaline, conflict whipped through Angie. Yes, she wanted her investigation reopened. She wanted the full resources of the RCMP thrown at the floating foot case. And her own. But she also didn’t want her personal inquiry to be cut off at the knees. She could not handle being completely disempowered. Not now. She regarded Officer Pietrikowski, taking in his cold, classic cop demeanor. His overt lack of emotion and empathy.
“I’d like to be involved in that investigation,” she said.
His gaze touched quickly on her uniform, then returned to her eyes.
“I’m a detective,” she said. “I’m with MVPD sex crimes. I’m just wearing this uniform temporarily.” And she hated herself instantly for having stooped to explain her predicament to this cop.
“It’s an RCMP investigation at this point, ma’am. As the victim, we will keep you apprised of—”
“I am not a victim.” She leaned forward, gaze drilling into his. “Let’s get that one thing straight, Officer Pietrikowski. I’m a survivor. That’s special victims one-oh-one.” She paused, waited for him to blink. “You don’t call them victims to their face. You don’t give them the burden of that label. Then again, you’ve probably never worked sex crimes or with special victims, have you?”
He repositioned himself in his chair. Tranquada remained motionless. The Mountie held Angie’s gaze, then reached into his pocket, taking out a card. “As I said, the RCMP will keep you apprised of any developments. And the IDRU will let you know the results of the buccal swab in about four to five days. Feel free to call me if you have questions or if you remember anything from the cradle event or your childhood prior to that.” He pushed his card across the table toward Angie. “When I have further questions, I will be in contact. Now, if you could hand those case files and evidence over, Ms. Tranquada and I could potentially head back to the Lower Mainland before the last ferry leaves.”
“The file boxes are not on these premises,” Angie said, coming to her feet. “And I need to return to my workstation. I could possibly have them here for pickup in the next few days.” Urgency crackled through her. How long could she stall this Mountie? Long enough for Anders Forensics to complete the tests?
“I can come by your residence this evening.” Pietrikowski closed his file and stood up.
“They’re not at my residence, either. They’re off-site, in safe storage. I’ll need to retrieve them, and my hours are currently budgeted.” She snagged his card off the table, held it up to his face. “I’ll call when they’re ready to be collected.”
A wariness sharpened his eyes. His shoulders stiffened. “Those are police files in a now active investigation. Obstruction is a—”
“Those files were as good as destroyed, Officer. They were no longer VPD property. They were given to me and are now my property. I’ll get them to you as soon as possible.”
“I’ll return to collect them tomorrow,” Pietrikowski said coolly. “Do I need to come with a warrant?”
Tension twisted through her. He was probably going to put in for a warrant anyway at this rate—it had to be the reason he wasn’t forcing her hand right now. She needed to get home—copy and digitize everything tonight, save it all to her computer before morning. If the Anders Forensics techs could document the evidence and take whatever samples they needed for testing, and if they could make copies of all the lab reports, she could perhaps hand the boxes over tomorrow without having to forgo her own independent investigation. “Fine. They’ll be here. Now, if you’ll excuse me?” She reached for the door, opened it, and waited for the pair to exit, her heart slamming against her ribs.
Tranquada gathered up her bag and DNA kit, and the two departed the room. Angie followed them down the hall. Once she was certain they’d left the building, she returned quickly to her now-empty office. The others had clocked out for the day, much to her relief. Hurriedly she dialed Anders Forensics. She paced up and down in the tiny space between the desks while the phone rang.
CHAPTER 23
“There, that’s it,” Holgersen said, rolling his chair aside to show Maddocks an enlarged image of a pale-blue crab tattoo on his computer monitor. “A known symbol for a subsect of the Russian crab industry historically involved in organized criminal activity. They’ll do anything and align with anyone for profit. Rough dudes, those—like chop-your-body-parts-to-send-a-message rough. This group originated out of Vladivostok but evolved through them so-called bitch wars in Stalin’s gulags, according to that law enforcement intel.” He nodded toward the computer screen.
“Bitch wars?” Maddocks said, taking a seat beside Holgersen and pulling his chair in closer to examine the details of the tattoo.
“Yeah. Says there that powerful criminals worked their way up in them Soviet labor camps to becomes ‘thieves-in-law.’ But when ol’ Hitler invaded the Soviet Union, Stalin gots desperate for more warm bodies to fight the war, so he offered gulag inmates freedom if they joined his army.” Holgersen popped a tablet of gum into his mouth, chewed, and spoke around it. “Them thieves-in-law showed their status through a system of tattoos and symbols still used by the Ruskie mobsters today.”
Maddocks scrolled to an image of another tattoo. Same size. Same detail. This particular one had been photographed on an inmate from Montreal, incarcerated for firebombing a hair salon owned by the wife of the rival Irish Mafia in Quebec.
“Identical to the tats Sophia Tarasov described to Cass Hansen,” Maddocks said.
“That Stalin was a thug,” Holgersen said, nodding toward the monitor. “Gang database says when the war was over, just like that, he ships all them prison vollies back to gulags. Wham bam, thank you, ma’am. So those who’d refused to fight for Stalin and remained in prison, they go calling the returnees traitors—bitches—and them bitches get sent to the bottom of the prison hierarchy. Those bitches then go forming their own power bases by collaborating with prison officials. That gets them nice cozy positions on the inside, and it turns the old-school thieves-code guys even more bitter. It erupts into a series of bitch wars from ’45 to ’53 with heaps of inmates killed every day. Prison guards egg the violence on—a real easy way to get rid of inmates and free up prison cells.” He spat his gum into the wastepaper basket.
Maddocks flicked a glance up at him.
“Overdosing on the nicotine,” he said, waggling his fingers at his mouth and pulling a face.
“Go on,” Maddocks said.
“When Stalin finally kicks the bucket, around eight million gulag inmates are suddenly set f
ree. Them who survived the bitch wars becomes a new breed of criminal no longer bound to the old thieves’ code of conduct—an every-man-for-himself bunch who cooperate with government when necessary. Black markets thrive. Then, as the Soviet Union starts to collapse in the seventies and eighties, the United States goes an’ expands immigration policies. These guys begin to leave Russia in droves for places like Israel, the United States—many popping up in an area of south Brooklyn. Brighton Beach—Little Odessa. From there Russian organized crime began to spread in the United States.”
“Good job,” Maddocks said, checking his watch and coming to his feet. He reached for his coat. “Flint contacted the RCMP gang unit on the Lower Mainland, told them about our barcodes. They immediately connected him with a lead investigator on a special integrated task force—”
“What task force?”
“Investigator wouldn’t say. Apparently he was guarded. They’re sending two members over to the island to meet with us in person tomorrow afternoon to see what we have.”
Holgersen angled his head. “What did Flint give them?”
“Only that we had six barcoded females in our custody who might have been trafficked through the Port of Vancouver from Prague with the assistance of Hells Angels. This task force is interested in cooperating.”
“Cooperating? You mean as in actually sharing the details of their ongoing investigations with us? Or just taking whats we have?”
Maddocks shrugged into his coat. “We’ll see tomorrow.”
“Whoa right there. I knows how it goes—they’s the Mounties, the feds. No doubts they’re already working with Interpol on this one, and maybe the Feebs also, given as the Amanda Rose and its brothel plied up and down the US coast. And we’s just the little ol’ metro force. My bets is they yank this carpet right out from under our asses now and takes our case lock, stock, and barrel.”
“Let’s call it a night, shall we? Deal with it tomorrow.” Maddocks clicked his fingers, calling Jack-O out from his basket under his desk. He scooped the animal up.
Holgersen reached for his own jacket. “Wanna catch a beer and a burger at the Pig?”
“Got a date with my kid. See you in the morning.”
As Maddocks strode from the room, Holgersen stood motionless, watching him. Maddocks pushed through the door, wondering again what drove the guy and just how far he could trust him. Something about the detective always felt off-center and left him uneasy.
CHAPTER 24
Kjel Holgersen pushed through the doors of the Flying Pig Bar and Grill, a joint down the road from the MVPD station named tongue-in-cheek for the police fraternity that frequented it. He scanned the place, his eyes adjusting to the muted light. It was packed. Colm McGregor, the burly Scots owner, was manning the bar himself, as per his custom. Leo, with his thatch of white hair, was hunkered over a glass at the beaten-copper bar counter, his head bent in close conversation with some guy seated on the stool beside him. As Kjel approached, the man behind the old detective came into view. Surprise washed through Kjel—he hadn’t realized Leo was friendly with forensic shrink Dr. Reinhold Grablowski.
As Kjel neared the pair, he saw that Leo was showing Grablowski an A-4-size piece of paper with something printed on it. Leo folded the printout in half, then in half again. He slipped it into the breast pocket of his jacket. Grablowski patted Leo on the shoulder, came to his feet, and turned to leave.
“Heya, Doc,” Kjel said. “Don’t go leaving on my account.”
Eyes as black as night met Kjel’s through silver John Lennon–style frames. “Detective,” Grablowski said in his slight German accent. He gave a quick feral smile that did not reach those beady eyes. “I’m running late. Enjoy your evening.” He brushed past Kjel.
Climbing onto the vacated barstool, Kjel said, “Didn’t know yous and Profiler Grablowski was tight.”
Leo knocked back the dregs of a whiskey and motioned to McGregor to bring him a refill. The detective’s eyes were bleary. He must have gotten an early start today.
“I had something of interest for him.”
“Like what?”
The veteran cop eyeballed him, deliberating whether to tell, which made Kjel even more curious. He switched approach, figuring he’d come at it again later, when the drink had loosened Leo up even more.
“So you’s cleaned up your pants, I see?”
“Fucking bitch, that Pallorino,” Leo muttered. “Had a spare in my locker.”
McGregor set a fresh glass of whiskey with ice in front of Leo. Kjel asked McGregor for a Heineken and a vegetarian burger with onion rings.
Leo grabbed his glass, took a deep gulp, and sat silent. “How’s the barcode investigation going?” he said finally.
McGregor placed the Heineken in front of Kjel. He reached for it, took a deep swallow straight from the bottle. “Ah—nothing like that first sip, eh?”
Leo studied him.
“Investigation’s going good,” Kjel said.
“Just ‘good’?”
“Yeah.” Kjel took another pull on his drink.
Leo swore. “At least you’re still on it. If your boss-buddy hadn’t put me on that homeless guy homicide, I’d still be working it. Figure Maddocks wanted me out ’cause he’s screwing Pallorino and she has it in for me.”
Kjel cocked a brow. “Even them homeless needs justice—someone’s gotta do it.”
“Fucking Pallorino,” Leo said again, and then he glanced over his shoulder, lowered his voice. “You want to hear something good?”
“About Pallorino?”
“Yeah, about Pallorino.”
“If it’s gonna get me in trouble,” he said, tipping the beer bottle to his mouth, “then maybe I don’t wants to know. I prefers my coffee inside my mug, not down my crotch.” He chuckled, then took a swig.
“Or maybe you’re brownnosing, eh? Trying to stay in new-guy Maddocks’s good graces.”
“Oh, fuck off. Tell me. What is it?” Kjel knew Leo would come around to it soon enough.
“So I was in that little observation room next to interview room B, and suddenly in walks Pallorino with an RCMP officer and this woman from the coroner’s office in Burnaby, and they start to talk.”
“She walked into the interview room?”
“Yeah. And audio was on.”
Kjel held the detective’s gaze. “Audio was … just like … on?”
“Yeah. Yeah, someone had left it on.”
He studied Leo, a wariness creeping into him. “What was you just happening to be doing in the observation room?”
Leo slid his hand into his jacket pocket, pulled out a slim silver hip flask.
“You’s shitting me. Jeezus fuck, Leo—you wanna get your hairy ass fired before you max out on your retirement plan or what? Why you telling me this? I don’t wanna know you tipple on the fucking job.”
“I’m telling you so that you don’t figure I followed her in there on purpose to fucking spy on her, that’s why.”
Kjel weighed the old detective. There was more. Had to be. Leo was feeding him this information as some kind of test.
“So,” Kjel said quietly, “what you hear?”
“Pallorino’s DNA is a dead match to that little kid’s foot found at Tsawwassen.”
Kjel stilled his beer midair. “What?”
“Yeah, God’s truth. The Mountie and the coroner’s woman came over to inform her they got a hit, and they wanted another sample for proof. They’ve opened an investigation into the foot, and she’s a part of it.”
“You’s shitting me.”
“And why would I do that?”
“Pallorino’s got, like, two feet—real feet. I mean, not like I actually seen her bare feet with my own eyes. But—”
“A twin maybe,” Leo said. “Pallorino’s adopted. She was left in that baby box at Saint Peter’s Hospital in Vancouver back in ’86 when she was four. The Mountie was questioning her about it. I looked it up after.” He pulled the piece of paper from his breast p
ocket again—the one he’d been showing Grablowski. Unfolding it, he laid it in on the bar counter. “Printed it from the Internet.”
Kjel pulled it closer and read the article, a dark sensation leaking into him. He looked up at Leo. “How long was you just sitting in that observation room that you’s managed to hear all this?”
“Long enough.”
“You showed this to Grablowski?”
He shrugged.
“What in the hell for?”
“Pallorino fucked up his book deal by going and killing the Baptist. The doc had to pay back his mega advance because his deal was contingent on face-to-face interviews with Spencer Addams—to talk direct with the Baptist about all his rapes while traveling the world aboard a floating brothel and about his upbringing, his mother, father, all the freaky religious stuff. So I figured as compensation Grablowski might like first shot at breaking the Mystery Twins story—one twin sliced across the face with a knife and stuffed into an angel’s cradle during a gunfight on Christmas Eve, the other twin’s foot found floating in the sea over thirty years later.” He took a hard swig of his drink, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “And then the cradle child ends up a sex crimes cop? The same cop who goes and overkills a serial killer. No memory of her past until now, bam, this foot floats up? Tell me there’s not a major true crime book in that. Who better to write it than Grablowski, who helped profile the killer she shot and who worked with the cop twin on the case?”
“You angling for a cut on this new book deal?”
“I don’t need the money. But hey, if it comes my way, I ain’t gonna turn my back on it.” He sucked back the last of his whiskey, plunked the glass down a little too heavy-handedly. “No matter how you slice it, Pallorino is the cradle kid. And once that story breaks, it’s gonna run away from her anyway. Might as well give Grablowski a shot first.”
CHAPTER 25
Angie worked fast, like someone in the manic phase of bipolar disorder, racing to outpace the vortex of emotions threatening to overwhelm her in the aftershocks of the DNA bomb dropped on her by Pietrikowski and Tranquada.
The Lullaby Girl (Angie Pallorino Book 2) Page 15