David Duffy - Last to Fold

“Pulse very faint,” he said.

“Odds aren’t good. Bastard worked her over with that box cutter and put kerosene in her wounds.”

“Jesus! What kind of…”

He didn’t finish. He didn’t need to. His shoulders started shaking, and a new look came over his face, one of barely controlled fury. He was close to explosion. Time to get him and Eva out of here.

“Take the girl and go somewhere safe, before the entire New York City police establishment arrives. She’s the target now. That fire was set; the door was booby-trapped. She was supposed to set it off—burn her mother to death before her eyes, herself, too, maybe. I’ll deal with the cops.”

He kept his eye on me as he stood, cool returning. “I don’t disagree with your assessment, but why are you doing this?”

“Why are you?”

Hard to make out in the dim light, but I think he smiled. “Perhaps we’re on the same side after all.”

“You’re the only one who ever doubted that. Does anyone know where you’re staying, anyone at all?”

He hesitated.

“I’ll take that as a yes. Don’t go back there. Someone knew about Chmil, remember?”

I dialed the office. Foos was still there. “Emergency. I need hotels with vacancies, fast.”

“Give me five.”

“Call this number.” I gave him Petrovin’s cell phone.

Eva didn’t want to leave. She started screaming and dove at her mother. I put myself between them. Polina’s back was to her—Eva couldn’t see the extent of her wounds. Petrovin talked quietly in her ear from behind. I couldn’t hear what he said, but his calming influence took hold.

“Polina’ll be at New York Hospital,” I said. “Don’t answer your phone after my friend calls back. If I want to talk, I’ll call twice. I’ll hang up after the third ring the first time. Answer the second call on the second ring. You’d better move.”

Petrovin nodded and took Eva’s hand. He pulled her to the door. He turned back when he got there, looking at Polina on the ground.

“You know as well as I do there’s only one—”

“I know,” I said.

The police got there first, the ambulance second.

I called Bernie as soon as Petrovin left. “I need a lawyer. Someone who can keep me out of jail.” I told him where I was.

“I heard about that place, back at Langley. We never touched it, waiting for someone to return. How bad is it?”

So much for my irony. “Bad.” I gave him the details. “I’ve called Mulholland. Ambulance and cops are on the way. But your former partner’s going to have my ass.”

“Word is, she already has.”

“I’ve got newfound respect for the CIA. I still need help.”

“I’ll send Franklin to hold the fort while I arrange more heavyweight assistance.”

Victoria called just before the police arrived. “I’ve done what you asked. I’ve got a ton of questions, but I’m gonna let Coyle ask them on my behalf, at least to start. Remember what we talked about this morning—be straight with him. He’s gonna repeat everything you say word for word.”

The cops moved me outside, searched me, and asked a lot of questions of their own, which I refused to answer.

The paramedics wasted no time in taking Polina away.

“New York Hospital,” I said. “Her husband’s—”

“We know.”

An SUV carrying Coyle and Sawicki and the taxi with young Malcolm Franklin raced each other down the block and skidded to the curb in unison. Coyle headed straight for me. Sawicki tried to cut off Franklin, but he ducked under his arm and sprinted in my direction.

Coyle walked on by and went inside. Franklin slid to a stop by my side. “Don’t admit anything. I’ll do the talking.”

“Good advice,” I said.

Sawicki caught up and pushed himself in our faces. “I own your ass tonight.”

I did my best to smile. Franklin did his to look stern. We stood there until Coyle came back out.

“How much did you touch?”

“Don’t answer that,” Franklin said.

“That’s okay,” I said. “Pretty much everything. The door was rigged to knock over a kerosene lantern, which ignited a fire, which was going to burn the woman—Felix Mulholland—at the stake. She’d already been cut up bad. I got her out of the fire. I put out the fire. I called for help. Beyond that, talk to my lawyer.” I looked at Franklin, who didn’t look happy.

“What were you doing here to begin with?” Coyle asked.

I looked at Franklin.

“My client will answer all questions in due course.”

“Your client’s full of shit.”

“C’mon, Coyle, look at me. I’m cooked better than a backyard steak. I told you what I found and what I did about it.”

“I’m still asking what you were doing here to begin with. Taking a walk in the rain under the Brooklyn Bridge?”

I thought about trying to bluff. I might pull it off. I thought about my conversation that morning with Victoria and her admonition about playing it straight. I thought about the fact that I’d likely need her help—and Coyle’s—before this was finished. I weighed all that against the fact that this was Cheka business, family business—none of hers, none of his. I decided to tell the truth. Up to a point.

“Eva Mulholland—the daughter—got a call from her mother, telling her to come here. I followed her.”

“So you must have seen the guy who set the fire.”

“Uh-uh. I was late. I was in Brighton Beach—you can confirm that—and I had to trace the call through her cell phone. By the time I got here…”

“Where’s the girl?”

“You know the Russian working with Victoria? Eye patch, curly hair. Calls himself Petrovin, at least to me?”

Coyle nodded.

“He was following Felix Mulholland. She led him here. He didn’t like the setup, waylaid the girl.”

“Bull. He would’ve seen the guy come out.”

“There’s another exit, ladder to the bridge ramp.”

“So where are they?”

“The girl was in shock. He took her to get help.”

“You’re full of shit.”

“Think about it, Coyle. Guy brings Felix Mulholland here. Works her over. Makes her call her daughter. Daughter doesn’t show. He sets the trap and splits. I trigger it.”

“Okay, so who’s the guy? What’s he want with the Mulholland babe or her daughter? And how’d he know about this place?”

I’d gone as far as I was prepared to. I looked at Franklin. “Your move.”

He stepped forward. “My client will answer no further questions.”

He was trying to sound important, but he came across as silly. Not his fault—he was being trained to argue the finer points of securities regulation with the SEC. Coyle got that, too, and did his best not to laugh.

“All right, counselor. You and your client can accompany me and my partner back to the office. We’ll continue our conversation there.”

We continued until sometime after 2:00 A.M. Franklin was spelled at eleven by a criminal lawyer named Lieb who wasn’t any more effective in cutting off the questions, but when he said I wouldn’t answer, he sounded like he meant it. Coyle made me call Petrovin a couple of times, but he didn’t answer, as agreed. Sawicki wanted to lock me up overnight, but Coyle let me go—after I promised not to leave town and to produce Petrovin and Eva the next day, and Lieb promised that my promise was one they could bank on.

We rode a slow elevator to the street and walked out into the hot, damp night. Lieb flagged a lonely cab and offered me a lift. I said I’d walk. I wanted time to think.

The streets were empty. I should have gone home—I was tired and aching and scorched. I was also too keyed up for sleep and keenly aware that a clock hanging over the head of Eva Mulholland—maybe others, too—was close to running out. I thought about calling Victoria, but she was probably debriefing Coyle. The office was quiet, but I woke up Pig Pen when I turned on the lights.