by Otho Eskin
“You mean practice.”
“It takes more than practice. Your weapon must become part of your body and your mind and you must have total psychic concentration. When that moment comes—when you face a killer, your mind and body are one, totally focused on one thing—destroy your opponent. You must not think. It’s almost a spiritual thing. It takes years of learning to achieve that degree of concentration. It’s hard to describe.”
“I don’t think I could do that—shoot somebody in the head. I’ve never shot anybody. Never had to face that. I don’t think I could.”
“You’re thinking. Thinking is fatal. The most important thing in a confrontation with an armed killer where someone’s pointing a gun at you: never allow yourself to think, never hesitate. Hesitation is death.”
“I can’t.”
“You don’t know what you can do or can’t do until you’re in the real situation.”
Lucy is more anxious than I’ve ever seen her. I pretty well know what she’s going through. She’s thinking about what I just told her, running the scene through her mind—imagining herself facing an armed opponent.
I’ve made my point. I now need to get her to think about something else.
“Let’s look at the surveillance footage I got from the embassy,” I tell Lucy. “And get the tapes we got from the Chicago police showing the two killers entering the chess club in Chicago.”
When we meet in the projection room, Hanna has already cued the embassy security tapes to start about ten p.m. on the evening Yulia Orlyk, the embassy code clerk, was murdered. We watch the scene in silence, and for a long time, we see no one enter or leave the embassy. We make out the lights of passing cars. Traffic’s light at this time of night and there are no pedestrians.
“There it is,” Lucy says softly, urgently. She leans forward and points to a black, or dark-colored, SUV pulling into the driveway in front of the embassy.
“Can you make out the plate numbers?” Lucy asks.
“No way,” Hanna answers. “The picture quality’s crap.”
A moment later the door to the embassy opens and a figure at the bottom of the screen steps out onto the front stoop and stops. Although the image is dark and grainy and the figure has her back to the camera, I know it’s Yulia Orlyk. She’s wearing a raincoat and clutches a purse and an umbrella in her hands.
“Time?” I ask.
“Eleven fifteen,” Lucy says.
“Why is she just standing there?” Hanna asks. “Why doesn’t she get into the car?”
“That’s because she’s confused,” I say. “She called for a taxi, but this is no taxi. She’s not sure what to do.”
Nothing happens for several seconds. The woman stands motionless under the glass canopy above the embassy door and there’s no movement inside the car. Then both front doors of the SUV open and two men emerge.
The driver walks around the front of the SUV and talks to Yulia. He’s short and slight and wears a dark raincoat. He gestures angrily and it looks like he’s yelling at her.
The man who’d been in the passenger seat is big. As a car passes, for a second, the man’s bald head and face are caught in its headlights.
The bald man steps forward, grabs Yulia by her left arm. Yulia tries to pull away and reaches for the embassy doorbell. The two men pull her away violently, and there’s a momentary struggle as she tries to free herself. Then she’s pulled into the back seat of the SUV, where she’s seated next to the bald man. The small man jumps into the front seat and the SUV moves quickly out of the picture frame.
We sit in silence for a minute, hardly breathing, then run through the film again, and again a third time.
“Can you identify the car?” I ask.
“Probably a Ford Bronco,” Lucy answers. “Probably black. There are maybe a thousand like that in the metropolitan area.”
“Let’s look at the Chicago surveillance tapes,” I say.
Hanna pops in the tapes and we’re looking at a busy street scene in any large city. It’s a bright, sunny day and the sidewalk is crowded. Mostly men and women looking at their cell phones. Normal people walking along a normal street. Two men appear and stop. Unlike the embassy tapes taken at night in subdued lighting, the images here are clear and sharp. I don’t recognize one of the men. Just an average young guy in a hoodie. The other man I know immediately. He’s older, maybe thirty, tall and bulky, and he’s bald. The same guy who abducted the embassy code clerk we just saw in the embassy CCTV tape.
The two men disappear from the scene.
“The two men are about to enter a chess club in Chicago,” I say. “They’re about to commit murder.”
At that moment, the door to the projection room bursts open and the bright room lights switched on.
“Everybody, stay where you are,” Roy Hunt shouts. “Keep your hands where we can see them.”
I’m surrounded by two uniformed police officers, one of whom puts a meaty hand on my shoulder.
“Detective Zorn, I’m arresting you for the murder of Nikos Mazarakis,” Roy announces. Roy is now in full junior-detective mode, a moment I’m sure he’s dreamed of ever since he joined homicide.
“Roy, get out of here,” Lucy shouts. “We’re in the middle of reviewing surveillance tapes in connection with two murders.”
I get to my feet, brushing the cop’s hand from my shoulder.
“You have the right to remain silent,” Roy drones.
“Who is Nikos Mazarakis?” Lucy demands. She’s boiling mad.
“Calm down, Roy,” I say.
“Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law.”
“Shut up, Roy,” Lucy snaps.
I give a hard look at the two cops Roy brought with him as backup, and they step back, a bit abashed.
“You have the right to an attorney,” Roy persists.
“Roy,” I say, “You’re making a fool of yourself.”
“If you cannot afford—”
“Stop it,” Hanna shouts. Hanna is normally soft-spoken.
“What’s going on here?” I demand.
“You heard me. I’m arresting you on suspicion of murder.”
“Tell me again who it is I’m supposed to have murdered.”
“I’m booking you. You can get the charges through your attorney.”
“Roy,” Lucy says loudly, “you’re acting crazy. This is Marko you’re talking to. Have you lost your mind?”
“There’s been a murder and Marko’s our prime suspect,” Roy protests, touching his mustache.
“Who is Nikos Mazarakis and what’s he got to do with Marko?” Lucy demands.
The thrill of arresting me is beginning to wear off, and Roy, facing Lucy’s fury and Hanna’s scorn, is beginning to have doubts about this whole arrest business. But he tries to put on a brave face for the benefit of the two cops backing him up.
“A man named Nikos Mazarakis was found murdered in his room at the Franklin Hotel about an hour ago.”
“What’s that got to do with me?” I ask.
“You were with him.”
“I think I’d better go to the crime scene and take a look around,” I say.
“You? You want to inspect the crime scene?” Roy explodes. “You can’t do that. You’re the suspect. I just arrested you.”
“Roy, you’re an idiot. And I respect that. Just let me do my job. I’m going to the Franklin Hotel now. Lucy, Hanna, come with me. You too, Roy, if you want.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
THE HOTEL SUITE looks about the same as when I left Nikos. Except now it’s full of police detectives and Hanna’s crime scene inspectors. The other difference is the presence of a corpse spread on the floor. Surrounding the corpse are the splintered remnants of an Amati violin.
“You know this man?” Roy demands, pointing to what remains of Nikos. “He some friend of yours?”
“He’s an acquaintance,” I say.
Lucy is watching me anxiously.
�
��The deceased registered in the hotel under the name of Miles Acton,” Roy announces in a tone that makes him sound like he’s testifying in court. “According to one of his passports, his name was also Nikos Mazarakis, Nikos Howard Thornbridge, and Olaf Stein. The front-desk receptionist said a man fitting your description, Marko, entered the hotel yesterday and left about thirty minutes later. He identified himself as Marko Zorn and showed her his police ID.”
“Marko,” Lucy intervenes, “you should have a union rep with you before you answer any more of Roy’s questions.”
“You stay out of this, Detective Tanaka.”
“It’s okay,” I say. “I’m happy to answer Roy’s questions. I came here to pay my respects to the late Nikos Mazarakis. Except he wasn’t ‘the late’ at the time.”
“Why were you here?”
“I heard Nikos was in town and I came to say hello.”
“What was your business with him?”
“No business. Just a couple of old acquaintances talking about old times. We had a mutual interest in musical instruments.”
“There are bits of wood all over the room,” Roy announces. “They look like they come from a fiddle of some kind. What do you want to bet your prints are all over this fiddle?”
“Could be. I told you I was here in this room talking with Nikos Mazarakis. I may have picked up the violin while talking to him.”
“What I think happened,” Roy says, “was you and your ‘old acquaintance’ got into an argument and you hit him on the head with the fiddle. Then you strangled him.”
“Why would I do that?”
“I don’t know. I don’t know why you do any of the things you do. You’re already a suspect in the murder of Victoria West and in the murder of that book-writer fellow. Now you’re connected directly with this victim—whatever his real name is—who was clearly an international criminal.”
“Roy,” Lucy says with unsuppressed satisfaction, “when did this murder take place?”
“Approximately two hours ago.”
“Marko couldn’t have been involved,” Lucy says. “He’s been with me for the last few hours.”
Roy looks seriously deflated. Lucy’s exaggerated the time we spent at the shooting range and viewing the CCTV tapes, but I’m not going to point that out.
“Satisfied?” Lucy demands angrily.
“I’m not finished with you, Zorn,” Roy sputters. “I have a lot more questions. Did you know your friend carried a gun?”
“He was not my friend, just an acquaintance.”
“He had a Browning automatic with him,” Roy announces. “Loaded but not fired. And a Luger, a real antique. Also loaded. And a sawed-off shotgun next to his bed. A real music lover, wouldn’t you say?”
I can only shrug
“Take a close look at the body,” Roy says, trying to get his edge back. “Maybe it’ll jog your memory.”
Nikos is spread on the floor, half enclosed in a body bag.
“Cause of death?” I ask Hanna.
“Almost certainly strangulation. Subject to confirmation at the lab.”
“Same as the guard at the theater?” I ask.
“The MO looks identical,” Hanna says. “I’ve found an interesting item,”
Hanna holds up a transparent evidence bag. “A single strand of hair,” she says. “Quite long. Blond. Certainly not the victim’s.”
“Can you get a DNA sample from the root?” I ask.
“There is no root. This is not real human hair. It’s almost certainly a wig.”
Nikos said Domino never left loose ends. It looks as though Nikos was a loose end.
I lean close to what’s left of Nikos. A thin wire is wrapped tightly around his neck.
“What’s that around his neck?” Roy asks, looking over my shoulder
“I’d say it’s a violin E string.”
CHAPTER THIRTY
MEL GIFFORD STRIDES past the “Train Arrivals and Departures” sign in Washington’s Union train station. Lieutenant Bonifacio has dropped me there, and I’ve told him to stand down until I call him. He reluctantly agreed. I need him out of the way: his presence would have compromised my exchange with Mel.
Mel’s eyes flick back and forth impatiently, looking for me in the crowd. He can’t be missed. He stands six foot three and cuts an imposing figure and has heavy, expressive eyebrows. I’ve seen Mel in court looking almost magisterial, pacing in front of a jury box, defending his clients charged with racketeering, fraud, arson, and, occasionally, murder. His eyebrows rise and fall in shock when an opposing attorney dares to object to something. He’s fun to watch in action.
It took major cajolery and threats on my part, including calling in some favors, to get Mel Gifford to come to Washington rather than meet me in New York. I’d already taken a day away to visit Asa in the SuperMax prison, and I don’t want to be away from Nina any more than I have to. At the moment she’s in an interview with CNN inside the embassy, then she’ll be getting ready to go to the reception at the Lincoln Memorial, where I’ll be present to add protection. For the moment she’s surrounded by security in the embassy and is safe.
This meeting with Mel is essential. To do what I have to do—to scare Mel speechless—I need to be face-to-face with him so I can reel him in.
Mel is accompanied by a young woman: lithe, with curly blond hair and a figure that stops traffic. She wears a tight-fitting, tartan miniskirt with matching vest and stiletto-heeled shoes.
“This better be good, pal,” Mel says as he wades toward me through the crowd of passengers arriving from New York. He does not look happy. As a matter of principle, he does not like to talk to cops and he does not like to leave New York. And he especially doesn’t like talking to me in some foreign city like Washington. We’ve crossed paths from time to time, so he’s learned I’m not someone he wants to antagonize. But he has an overwhelming need to know why a DC cop wants to warn a New York attorney urgently about an immediate threat to the five New York Mafia families.
I hold out my hand to the pretty blond lady. “I’m Marko Zorn.”
We shake hands. She has a firm grip.
“Nice to meet you, Mr. Zorn. I’m Gloria Felt. I’ve heard so much about you.” She smiles sweetly, but her eyes are hard and intelligent. I decide I better not mess with her.
“Gloria’s my right-hand man,” Mel announces, laughing at his little joke.
Gloria looks sour.
“Let’s get outta here,” he says. “This place is worse than Penn Station. Is there anywhere around here we can get a decent drink? We were on the Acela and the levee was dry.”
“Why didn’t you take a flight out of La Guardia?” I ask as I lead them to the main station doors.
“Mel’s afraid of flying,” Gloria whispers to me under her breath.
Gloria’s new to me. I can’t quite figure the relationship between these two. She speaks with a pronounced Long Island accent and looks smart. For now, that’s all I’ve got to go on.
“There’s a place nearby,” I say. “The coffee’s okay. I’d steer clear of the food.”
I take Mel and Gloria to a bar across the street. They’re both visibly shocked at the ambiance and wince at the loud, pulsing music on the loudspeakers. The place is almost empty except for one guy at the bar, nursing a beer. We take a seat at a table in the corner far from the bar.
Gloria wrinkles her nose. “What’s that smell?”
“Don’t ask,” I say.
“Can we get the management to turn down the sound?” she asks.
“The noise is a good thing, honey.” Mel says. “If Zorn’s wired, whoever’s on the other end won’t be able to hear a damn word we say.”
A middle-aged woman with big hair shows up at our table to take our orders. Mel asks for a Manhattan. Gloria and I pass.
Gloria looks around at the bar with distaste. “What a dump,” she says. “You come here often?”
“It suits me,” I reply.
“What’s this a
bout?” Mel asks loudly over the music. “You said you had to tell me something about a threat to one of my clients. Why couldn’t you just come see in my office in New York to tell me? It’s a lot nicer than this hole.”
“I’m busy.”
“Ever heard of the telephone?”
“Not good for what I have to say.”
Mel heaves himself forward. “Understand, I don’t normally travel farther than 100th Street. Four hours on a goddamn train. Who rides on a train anymore? This had better be good.”
“You won’t be disappointed. There’s something your clients need to know,” I tell him. “Something that might involve the United States Attorney for the Southern District of New York.”
Mel winces at the words “the United States Attorney” as if I’d uttered an obscenity. Gloria, who’s been slumped in her chair looking bored, sits up and studies me closely. She tugs modestly at her miniskirt that only draws attention to her shapely legs. I make an effort to keep my eyes politely averted.
“Could you be more specific?” Mel says. “What is it my clients need to know?”
“Some of them may soon be in serious trouble.
The woman with big hair serves Mel’s Manhattan. “You want peanuts?” she asks but doesn’t wait for an answer and leaves.
The glass doesn’t look clean. This is not a Manhattan kind of place.
“What is it you want to tell us, Detective?” Gloria is losing patience. “We’ve come a long way to accommodate your schedule. Mel had to clear his calendar for the day. Not good.”
“I thought Guido Profaci might have a special interest in what I have to say.”
“I’ve never heard of anybody by the name of Guido Profaci,” Mel says.
“The law firm of Gifford and Sullivan is listed as counsel for Guido Profaci in seven criminal cases a few years ago. Did I get that wrong?”
“What business is it of yours who our clients are, Detective?” Gloria asks. “That kind of information is confidential. Attorney-client privilege, you know.”
“I doubt that your client list is privileged, Ms. Felt. But, just as a hypothetical, let’s say you had some association with Mr. Profaci. Perhaps you’d like to pass along some information to him about what one of his contract employees is up to.”