Orest Stelmach - The Boy Who Stole from the Dead

“For what?” Robert Sr. said. “You came looking for us. You told the mayor you were looking for someone who could tell you about the Kungenooks. We took you ice fishing as a friendly gesture. Then we drove you home. You think something else happened?”

“Do you have any idea who you’re dealing with?”

“It’s your word against ours.”

“Exactly.”

Robert Sr. shrugged. “All right then. Make sure you spell my name right.” He unzipped his parka to reveal an olive shirt. It boasted a pair of gold stripes on each collar and a gold Kotzebue police badge with a turquoise centerpiece. “That’s Captain Seelick,” he said. “With a C .”

When Lauren got back to the room it was 6:35 p.m. She poured herself a Scotch from the flask in her suitcase and knocked it back with a trembling hand. She decided to keep the day’s events and her discoveries to herself. She didn’t want to get scooped by anyone at the sports station, or heaven forbid, one of the news networks. Besides, she had a lead now. Seelick had referred to Bobby’s guardian as “she.” Lauren had never told him the guardian was a woman. Seelick knew Nadia Tesla.

It was 10:35 p.m. in New York. Too late to call. Lauren pulled up the contacts on her cell phone and dialed Nadia Tesla’s number on the landline anyway. Nadia had agreed to give Lauren an exclusive if she waited until June. It was only April. Waiting, however, was not one of Lauren’s virtues. Perhaps if she saw the 907 area code she’d answer, Lauren thought.

The call rolled to voice mail. Lauren hung up and called her assistant. Laughter echoed and glasses clinked in the background. Her assistant sounded excited.

“Have you heard the news?” she said.

“What news?” Lauren said.

“Bobby Kungenook was arrested two hours ago.”

“You’re kidding me.”

“No. Isn’t it awesome?”

“What’s the charge?”

The word rolled off her assistant’s lips in a husky whisper. “Murder.”

NADIA TESLA KEPT her eyes glued to the elevator of New York City’s Sixth Precinct Police Station in Greenwich Village. When a man in a checkered sports jacket emerged and locked eyes with her, Nadia sprang from her seat near the front desk. His hair was the color of coffee but his moustache was gray. He held a clipboard in his hands. He introduced himself as Gregson, the detective who’d called to tell her Bobby had been arrested.

“How’s Bobby?” Nadia said.

“He’s fine.”

“Is he hurt?”

“No. He’s fine.”

“I want to see him.”

“You can see him in criminal court when he’s arraigned.”

“When will that be?”

“Probably tomorrow. Eighteen to twenty-four hours in most cases.”

“Tomorrow? That’s unacceptable. I’m Bobby’s legal guardian. I demand to see him now.”

“You can’t. Bobby’s in police custody.”

“I have a right to see him.”

“No, ma’am. Actually, you don’t.”

“He’s seventeen, for God’s sake. He’s a minor. I must have a right to see him.”

“If he was sixteen or under, you’d have a right to see him. But he’s not. You’ll be able to see him at arraignment.”

“That’s unbelievable.” Nadia studied Gregson. She forced a smile. “Look, the police must have discretion in cases like this, right? Can’t you let me see him for a minute?”

Gregson shook his head.

“What if you were in the room with me the whole time?”

“I’m sorry—”

“So I can see he’s okay. So he can see that I’m here.”

“Your boy is being charged as an adult.”

“He’s actually going to be charged? This can’t be happening. This must some sort of misunderstanding.”

“I doubt it.”

“What makes you think he did this thing? What evidence do you have?”

“I can’t discuss that with you, ma’am.”

“He must be scared to death. You have children, Detective?”

“Yeah, but not in police custody on a murder charge.”

“Who did he supposedly—Who’s the victim?”

Gregson shook his head. “I’m sorry.”

The station doors swung open. Johnny Tanner burst inside. His golden ponytail shone against his black pinstripe suit. As a man, he was too crude and too much a showman for Nadia’s tastes. As a friend, he was too thoughtful and reliable for her to live without.

“They won’t let me see him,” Nadia said.

“Why not?” Johnny said.

Nadia looked at Gregson. “This is Bobby’s attorney.”

“I want to see my client,” Johnny said. “Now.”

“The suspect hasn’t asked to speak with an attorney.”

“I don’t care what he did or didn’t ask for. I’m his attorney. Take me to him now, or those reporters out front—I saw the Post and the Daily News out there—they’re going to hear about how the NYPD denies minors their constitutional rights. Have you seen this kid skate on YouTube? He’s got a following, you know.”

Gregson considered Johnny’s comment. “Can I speak to you in private?”

Johnny put his hand on Nadia’s shoulder. Her pulse slowed.

“Wait here,” he said. “And don’t worry. I’m here now.”

Johnny and Gregson spoke for a moment and disappeared into the elevator. Nadia paced. A uniformed cop behind the front desk spoke quietly on the phone. Two men in plain clothes sat at their desks working. The rest of the workstations were empty.

The depth of her fear for Bobby surprised Nadia. It shouldn’t have. He was her cousin, not her son, and she’d only known him for a year. But they’d shared a harrowing journey when she’d helped him escape from Chornobyl to New York. The experience had created a bond of such depth that here, in the police station, she wished she could swap places with him. For he was all she had, just as she was all he had.

Johnny returned ten minutes later. Too soon, Nadia thought. He was back too soon.

“Did you see him?” Nadia said.

“For a minute.”

“And?”

“He looks okay. But he wouldn’t talk to me.”

“What do you mean he wouldn’t talk to you?”

“Gregson asked him if he wanted his attorney present. Bobby said no. He didn’t want me present.”

“He said that?”

Johnny sighed.

“That doesn’t make any sense. He knows you. Maybe he was scared because Gregson was in the room. Why couldn’t you demand to speak with him alone?”

“Because it’s his fifth amendment right to request counsel during police interrogation. But he waived that right with me in the room.”

“This is insane.”

“Have you had dinner yet?” Johnny nudged her toward the exit. “Let’s go find a diner.”

Nadia didn’t budge. “I’m not leaving him here alone.”

“Nadia.”

“I’m not.”

“They’re going to take him to Central Booking at Centre Street. He’s going to get fingerprinted and interviewed by CJA—the Criminal Justice Agency. They make recommendations to the judge on bail. He’ll spend the night there. He’ll be arraigned tomorrow. There’s nothing we can do about it.”

Nadia lowered her voice. “Johnny, he’s got issues.”

“He’s allowed three free local phone calls. He used one of them. And no, I have no idea who he called. But he has two calls left. I left my card on the table in front of him. If there’s an emergency, he can call either of us.”

They dodged a pair of reporters and took a cab to the Manatus Diner on Bleecker. They sat in a private booth. Johnny asked for a beer. When Nadia didn’t join him he changed his order to coffee. Johnny chose the hot open turkey sandwich. Nadia tried to order the Greek salad but succumbed to the baked ziti.