David Duffy - Last to Fold

“She’s been asking about her mother. Any news?”

“No.”

“She wants to go to the hospital.”

“Bad idea. My Cheka friends are almost certainly watching.”

“Agreed. The same could be true of your place.”

“I’ll come to you. I’ll be sure I’m alone.”

“Holiday Inn, West Fifty-seventh.”

“Big spender.”

“It was that or the Pierre. I’m a poor Russian policeman.”

“Give me an hour.”

A call to Bernie confirmed Felix Mulholland was still in a coma at New York Hospital. The doctors weren’t optimistic. The Basilisk verified I had indeed been talking to a cell phone on West Fifty-seventh between Tenth and Eleventh avenues. This was a time to be doubly careful.

Which is one reason I made it at all.

If Five-by-Five had been Russian—or halfway competent—he would have walked up from behind as I left my building, put his gun to the base of my neck, pulled the trigger, and sent my soul to meet its maker, wherever such meetings take place, my SIG Pro still tucked securely in the back of my belt.

As it was, he tried to run me down from a hundred yards away. Then he tried to follow me back inside. While he was still in his car.

I was crossing Water Street when I heard the racing engine, accelerating fast, getting louder as it closed. A green Range Rover coming straight at me from the south. Some piece of memory reminded me Mulholland owned one of those. I ran back to my building. The Range Rover skidded and squealed into the crosswalk, turning in my direction. The engine raced again. I made it through the door just before the car jumped the curb and crashed into the steel and stone of the facade.

The front of the SUV collapsed like an accordion. The windshield shattered. The rest of the cab remained remarkably intact. Five-by-Five was conscious, if dazed, in the driver’s seat, cocooned in multiple air bags, which now hung deflated around him.

I was able to open the driver’s door. A small crowd gathered behind. Five-by-Five reached for his armpit, but he was much too slow. I yanked out his Colt automatic and tossed it to the back of the car.

“I didn’t kill no one,” he said.

“Can you get to your seat belt?”

“I didn’t kill no one. You fooking lied.”

“Okay. Seat belt.”

“I didn’t kill no one. You lied.” He was shouting.

“That’s why you tried to run me down?”

“Told you, don’t like fookin’ snoops. Don’t like fookin’ snoops who lie.”

I reached for the latch. Jammed. I pulled and twisted to no avail. His breath said he’d been drinking beer. A lot of it.

“I didn’t lie,” I said.

“He fired me. You did that.”

That stopped me. “Mulholland? Fired you?”

“I didn’t kill no one.”

“When? When did he fire you?”

“Yesterday. Said you said I killed that kid. I didn’t shoot him. He was dead.”

I gave up struggling with the seat belt. A voice behind me yelled, “We called nine-one-one. Ambulance on the way. Is he all right?”

“He’s okay,” I called back. I said quietly to Five-by-Five, “Tell me quick, what happened at that loft?”

“Don’t like fookin’ snoops.”

“I can get your job back. He’ll listen to me.”

He looked at me with blurred eyes, half hateful, half desperate. The beer, the impact, and the air bags slowed his processing ability, never swift, to a crawl. I wanted out of there before the cops arrived. They’d have me back in front of Sawicki and Coyle in no time.

“Lachlan, if I made a mistake, I’ll make good on it. I mean that. Tell me what happened last Wednesday. I’ll talk to your boss, tell him I was wrong.”

He looked me over one more time before blurting out his account of events at Greene Street. A few more pieces fell into place.

“I’ll take care of it,” I said when he finished. “Help’s coming. They’ll get you out of here.”

I backed away into the crowd. “He’ll be all right,” I announced to anyone and everyone. “More shock than anything else.”

“What’d he say?” somebody asked.

“Trying to explain what happened,” I replied, continuing to back up until I found myself at the rear of the group, which was collectively pushing forward to get closer to the carnage. I heard sirens as I walked a block south, crossed Water (looking both ways), and trotted up Wall Street. I didn’t stop until I reached the subway platform.

I used the entire New York transportation system, excluding only ferries, to make sure I arrived at the Holiday Inn free of tails. The hotel looked out of place in Manhattan, as do almost all chains, but the white brick, balconied, utilitarian architecture appeared true to its brand. The frayed carpet in the lobby and the smell of institutional cleanser in the hallways may have been more true than the brand wanted. Petrovin had rented two adjoining rooms on the fourth floor, the door between them open. He greeted me with a handshake, Eva with a hug and tears. “I kn… know you’re trying to h… h… help, m… me, but it’s all m… m… m… my f… fault.”

I said, “Your mom’s still in a coma. The doctors aren’t sure what will happen. She was badly hurt last night—which wasn’t your fault at all. Someone else did that to her. You have any idea who?”

She shook her head. She was dressed in clean jeans and a T-shirt. Petrovin had bought her some new clothes.

“We can’t take you to see her until we figure out who wants to hurt you. You understand that?”

She nodded slowly.

“You’re going to have to talk to the police, tell them what happened last night. Okay?”

She nodded again.

“I brought you something. I’ll put it in the other room.”

I went next door and laid out Lena and her case on the bed. Petrovin followed me. I held my breath and called her.

She saw the doll and collapsed in the doorway. Petrovin and I moved to help, but she pushed herself up and fell again across the bed, holding what was left of Lena in her fingers. She started to cry. Petrovin sat on the bed, moving ever so slowly, and put an arm around her shoulders. “We know about you and Lena and that day in the barn. But we want to hear your story. Will you tell us what happened?”

She looked up at him and then at me.

“He’s right, Eva. I want to hear it, too.”

She looked back and forth between the two of us, her eyes heavy with tears. “I t… t… tried to do s… something! I d… did! I tried so h… h… hard. But the ropes… The fire was too h… hot. I t… tried…”

She collapsed again, crying without control. Petrovin cradled her.

“This was your father, right, your real father?” I asked as gently as I could. “You tried to free him. He died in the fire at the barn.”

She stopped crying just long enough to nod. Then she returned to the Gulag of memory.

Eva cried herself out and fell asleep. Petrovin and I let her rest. We ordered sandwiches from room service and ate next door, not saying much, each of us working through his own thoughts. I wondered if his were that much different from mine.

She slept for more than an hour before she appeared at the doorway.

I said, “Hungry?”

Half a sandwich disappeared in a flash. She was working on the second when Petrovin said, “Feel like talking?”

She nodded slowly and sat on the corner of the bed. It took a couple of false starts, but once she got going, the story came tumbling out. Having decided to tell it, she wanted to get through it as quickly as possible. The sandwich was forgotten. Only her stutter slowed her down.

I had pieced most of it together in my own mind—I assumed Petrovin had, too—and her account contained no surprises. As she told the story, Petrovin paced the room. At first I thought he was just antsy. He’d been holed up here for hours. In fact, it was anger. The cool customer was losing his composure, like he had last night. Or perhaps he hadn’t pieced it together after all.