Robert Knightly - The cold room

‘Sir, will there be anything else?’

I yanked the binoculars away from my eyes and put them back in the case. The waitress was a twenty-something brunette with her midriff exposed from her waist to below her navel. She was holding an espresso pot in one hand and my check in the other, her professional smile exposing a set of the whitest teeth I’d ever seen.

‘Are you, like, a private eye?’ she asked.

I watched the Portolas cross Columbus Avenue, then disappear along 86th Street. I might have followed, but I had a better use for my time.

‘Private ass is more like it.’ I motioned her to leave the check as I retrieved my cell phone and dialed Bill Sarney’s office number.

Shaved and showered, I met Inspector Bill Sarney at five o’clock in a bar on Lispenard Street. Although the bar had a neon shamrock in the window, it appeared not to have a name. Maybe that was because it had no character. The men at the bar huddled protectively over their drinks, mostly drafts and shots. They didn’t turn their heads when I came in, as if somewhere on the downhill side, they’d renounced curiosity itself.

Sarney was standing at the end of the bar, leaning back against the wall, grinning. Message sent, message received. This was one joint his boyos from the Puzzle Palace were very unlikely to enter. I walked the length of the bar, my mood so elevated I found myself admiring Sarney’s unabashed theatricality. Playful was as much a part of his charisma as inscrutable. After a quick shake, I ordered a bottle of Bud. The bartender fetched it, popped the cap, then laid it on the bar without offering a glass.

‘So, what’s up, Harry?’

‘I didn’t report to the Nine-Two this afternoon,’ I told him, ‘and I don’t expect to report for at least a week. I want you to fix it.’

‘And what’s my motive?’

‘There was someone else in the warehouse when Barsakov was killed, another adult. Do you remember?’

He thought about it for a moment, then said, ‘The woman with the red hair.’

Credit where credit is due. Inspector Bill had studied the case file. ‘I’ve seen her again, just this morning. Give me a week and I’ll turn her. When she implicates Aslan, as I guarantee she will, you’ll have enough ammunition to arrest him if he refuses deportation. After a few days in Rikers, he’ll likely change his mind.’

Behind me, I heard raised voices. The bartender was evicting one of his patrons.

‘Go on, Vinnie’ he said, ‘go on home. I don’t want your psycho sister comin’ in here to drag your ass out. She’s got a dirty mouth.’

Vinnie slid away from the bar. ‘Don’t I know it,’ he muttered as he stumbled toward the door. ‘Don’t I fuckin’ know it.’

Sarney was smiling when I turned back to him. ‘What are we talking about here?’ he asked. ‘Harry and Hansen? Or just Harry?’

‘Forget Hansen.’

‘Why?’

‘Because neither you, nor the First Dep, wants to be associated with what I’m gonna do. Because if I’m caught in the wrong place at the wrong time, you won’t be able to claim ignorance if Hansen’s with me.’

Silence is a tool interrogators use to get under a suspect’s skin. Sarney and I both knew this. But rank does have its privileges and some tools are definitely bigger than others. I was first to speak.

‘This squad you’re running, does it have a name?’

Now Sarney was grinning again. ‘Not officially.’

‘How about unofficially?’

‘Unofficially, we call ourselves the Conditions Squad.’

I nodded in appreciation. At one time, there was a conditions squad in every high-crime precinct. The squad was designed to handle acute, short-term problems, from an open-air drug bazaar, to a ring of chop shops, to a crew on a robbery spree, to a serial rapist. Given wide latitude to conduct investigations, each of these squads maintained its own network of informants and was generally made up of the most talented cops in the precinct.

Conditions squads were already disappearing when I graduated from the Academy, replaced with specialized units subject to central control. But the concept had apparently remained alive at the highest levels. Sarney’s squad would respond whenever conditions demanded that the commissioner have an ear to the ground.

Sarney sipped at his drink, bourbon or scotch by the look of it, then smacked his lips in mock appreciation. ‘So, what did you think of Theobold and my little hideout in Far Rockaway?’

‘I was impressed. As I was supposed to be.’

‘Well, you’re nothing if not dutiful.’ Another little chuckle, followed by a searching look. ‘Power and the privileges that come with it, Harry. We can reach into any bureau. We can bend Chiefs to our will. I was wondering if that appealed to you.’

I thought it over for a moment, then said, ‘Are you trying to recruit me?’

‘With a bump to Detective First Grade. That would make your pay equal to a lieutenant’s. With overtime, you’ll knock down one hundred grand a year.’

The bartender took that moment to wander over. He looked at our glasses, then at Sarney. Finally, he walked away.

‘Why me?’ I asked. ‘Why recruit a man who’s been breaking your balls for years?’

‘Because I need a talented interrogator to complete the team and Harry Corbin is the best interrogator I know. You’ve got a gift, Harry. If you’d only use it to benefit yourself.?.?.’ Sarney’s expression hardened as he shoved his hands into the pocket of his nicely-tailored suit. ‘I’m gonna fix it for you. I’m gonna put you out there on your own. But one thing you need to consider: the bosses don’t trust you because they think you’re a boss-hater at heart. Are you? Do you even know? This is your last chance, Harry. You fuck it up and you’ll be lookin’ for a new career.’

I started to respond, but Sarney was already headed for the door. A moment later, I followed.

My workday far from over, I went from Bill Sarney to the Sixth Precinct where I approached a sergeant named Callahan. I was determined not to make the same mistake twice. I had until the end of the week, when Aslan returned to collect his workers. By then, I would be well prepared.

I flashed my shield. ‘Busy night?’ Behind me, the squad room was deserted.

‘The worst.’ Callahan ran his finger along a mustache thick enough to pass for a broom. ‘What could I do for ya?’

‘I was hoping to borrow your computer, Sarge. I only live a few blocks away, in Rensselaer Village, and I’m on foot.’

Cops like to grant each other favors, especially when those favors entail no costs. Callahan gestured to a far corner of the squad room. ‘Knock yourself out.’

I began at the Department of Motor Vehicles, limiting my initial search to the Portolas’ street address on Riverside Drive. Within seconds, I had three hits. Margaret Portola, age 45, who owned a 2003 Jaguar, in addition to holding a New York State driver’s license. Ronald Portola, age 24, who owned a 2004 Saab convertible and who also had a driver’s license. David Portola, age 17, who possessed a learner’s permit.

I printed the information, then checked each of the Portolas for a rap sheet. David came up clean. Not so Margaret and Ronnie. Margaret had been arrested twice, both times for assault. Her first brush with the law, a misdemeanor, was dismissed on the following day. Her second arrest, in 1995 for second-degree assault, was more serious. A charge of second-degree assault requires extensive physical injury. Not a black eye or a split lip, but injuries sufficient to require immediate medical treatment. Nevertheless, though it took nine months, this charge, too, was dismissed. But dismissals seemed to run in the Portola family. Ronald Portola had also been arrested twice, both times at a gay bar called Montana, both times for soliciting a male prostitute, and both times the charges had been tossed out. Now closed, Montana was a bar notorious for rough trade.