Robert Knightly - The cold room

‘Do you have any idea how much cholesterol there is in that sandwich?’

I looked up at Sarney, then down at my watch. ‘I got in a little early,’ I said, ‘hoping to eat in peace. Now you’re in my cubicle, giving me indigestion.’

‘Do I hear a guilty conscience speaking?’ Sarney looked as if he expected an answer, but when I didn’t supply one, he added, ‘I read the file, Harry. Unknown to your supervisor, you’ve been conducting you own investigation.’

‘There are DD5s in the case file accounting for every single minute in the investigation.’

‘Which you wrote last night.’

‘Better late than never.’

Sarney burst out laughing, the thin lips of his small mouth nearly vanishing in the process. Needless to say, I wasn’t fooled by his good-old-boy guffaws. Nor did I believe that an inspector from the Puzzle Palace was in a Brooklyn precinct to discuss a case file.

‘You think the bosses hate you, but it’s not like that,’ Sarney explained. ‘They think you’re a cop’s cop, Harry, and they secretly want to be like you. You can trust me on this because I’ve been among the bosses for some time now. In fact, I’m a boss, myself.’

I demonstrated my indifference with a shrug. Even if true, the compliment was meaningless. The bosses might admire Harry Corbin, but if he threatened them, they’d stomp him like a cockroach.

‘What are you doing here?’

Sarney leaned over my desk. ‘When Konstantine Barsakov’s fingerprints were run this morning, somebody’s computer was flagged.’

‘Whose?’

‘I don’t know, Harry, and I don’t care. And you shouldn’t care either. What’s important is that the somebody whose computer got flagged called a number of other somebodies, and one of those somebodies called me.’

As I awaited the falling of the axe, I kept chomping away. The case, I was certain, would be taken from me. What I would do next was anybody’s guess. But Sarney still had some cards to play, including one he’d been hiding up his sleeve.

‘I vouched for you,’ he announced. ‘I told my boss that you’d do the right thing. You hear what I’m saying?’

That caught my attention. ‘Yeah, I do.’

‘This is the chance you’ve been waiting for, the opportunity to prove yourself.’ Sarney tucked his chin into his chest, displaying a wide swath of naked scalp as he stared at me through his eyebrows. ‘If you fuck it up, you’ll never get another.’

I thought this over for a moment, then asked, ‘You still with the Chief of D?’

‘Nope, I’m working out of the First Dep’s office these days.’ Chief of D is cop shorthand for Chief of Detectives. The First Dep is the First Deputy Commissioner, who sits at the foot of the Commissioner’s throne. Power in the NYPD flows from the Commissioner, to the First Dep, to the Chief of Department. From there it fans out to the chiefs of the various bureaus, including the Detective Bureau. Thus Sarney’s climb, from the Chief of Detective’s office to that of the First Dep, was a two-rung advance.

‘Do I understand you right? I’m keeping the case?’

‘With a little addition. Starting tomorrow, you work with a partner.’

‘Who?’

‘You don’t know him, Harry. His name’s Hansen Linde. But don’t worry. As long as you play it straight, Hansen won’t be a problem, though you’ll most likely find him annoying.’

Warning delivered, Sarney turned away. I let him reach the door before I set down my sandwich.

‘You wouldn’t wanna tell me,’ I asked, ‘what “playing it straight” actually entails?’

‘That’s simple,’ he said without looking back at me, ‘just don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.’

I finished my dinner and disposed of the garbage before heading for Drew Millard’s office. When I appeared in the doorway, I thought he was going to get to his feet and salute. Whatever fears he’d entertained regarding Harry Corbin had been multiplied to infinity by the appearance of an inspector from the Puzzle Palace.

‘Sorry to bother you, lieutenant, but I was wondering about Barsakov’s prints. Did they get run?’

‘Yeah, they were run this morning and they came back clean. Something else, by the way. You’re taking the rest of the tour off. Inspector’s orders.’

‘That anything like doctor’s orders?’

‘More like God’s orders, Harry. More like they were written on the stone tablets. Peons like us, all we can do is read ’em and weep.’

The next morning, at ten o’clock, after a restless night, I rang the bell of Blessed Virgin’s rectory, a single-family home to the west of the church. A buzzer sounded from inside, followed by a click as the lock on the door released. I entered to find myself in a small outer room, facing a slender woman seated behind a desk. The woman’s autumn-gold dress set off her mahogany skin, as did the amber stones in her large earrings and a tiny cross at the end of the chain that encircled her neck.

‘Yes, may I help you?’ Her voice held the merest hint of the Caribbean.

‘My name is Detective Corbin. Would you let Father Manicki know that I’ll be needing a few minutes of his time?’

‘Can I tell him what it’s about?’

‘That won’t be necessary.’ I flashed my best smile. ‘We’re old friends.’

After a short wait, I was ushered into the priest’s spacious office. A large desk set before a window held a computer, an in-out box and a coffee mug decorated with a photo of the Vatican. The rest of the space was given over to a long couch and four easy chairs. Two of the chairs were set directly across from the couch, two at right angles. Father Manicki was seated in the chair at the far end of the couch. He didn’t rise when I stepped into the room, nor did he offer his hand, and it was obvious that he’d spoken with Sister Kassia. I should have thanked him for the tip, the subject’s current state of mind always being of interest to the interviewer. Instead, I took the chair to his right, perching on the edge of the seat, and let my briefcase drop to the floor.

‘How have you been, Father?’

‘Fine, how about you?’ The priest’s tone was sharp enough to walk the border of flagrant sarcasm.

‘Myself, I’m having a little problem with my conscience, something I need to get straightened out.’

‘Are you a Catholic?’

‘No, Father, but I’m not anything else, either. Besides, nobody understands that confession is good for the soul better than a detective. I’m talking about the relief that follows a confession. I see that relief, plain as day, in the suspects I interrogate. They always feel better once they get that burden off their chest.’

A portrait of the Madonna holding the infant Jesus hung on the wall facing my chair. The infant’s attention was on a book resting on his mother’s lap, which he examined closely while his mother gazed down fondly. Above her, a small angel held a gold crown with both hands. I found myself wondering, as the silence built, why the angel, with his black wings and sumptuous charcoal-gray robes, was so dark. Was there a hidden message, something about vanity perhaps? Or was the artist only working a contrast between the angel and the Virgin’s blond hair and sumptuous blue robes?

‘Are you here to confess?’ Father Manicki finally asked. ‘Because, if you are, I’ll be hearing confessions tomorrow afternoon in the church.’

‘I’m not here to confess,’ I said. ‘Not yet, at least. No, before I can make a confession, I have to know whether or not I’m a sinner. That’s the first step, right? To examine your conscience?’

‘It is,’ he admitted.

‘Then that’s what I’m here for. I want to know if I’m living in a state of sin.’