Richard Montanari - The Devil_s Garden

At the bottom of the box was a scrapbook of sorts. Near the back of the book he found a series of articles about Michael. The longest article – indeed a cover story – was from New York magazine, dated five years earlier. The title on the front:

A QUEENS PROSECUTOR ESCAPES DEATH TO PUT GANGSTERS AWAY

Aleks flipped to the table of contents, scanned it, then turned to the article. On the left-hand page was another photograph of Michael Roman, this time leaning against a car on a New York side street. Aleks began to read. The lead was typical fluff, but it was in the fifth paragraph that Aleks found something that fascinated him, something he had never expected.

Mr Roman, 30, has served as an assistant district attorney in Queens County for five years. Born in Astoria, he is no stranger to the world of street violence. When Roman was just nine years old, his parents, Peeter and Johanna, were murdered in a botched robbery of their shop, a specialty bakery called Pikk Street on Ditmars Boulevard.

A graduate of St John’s Law School, Roman came to work for the Queens County DA’s office in 1999, and since that time has prosecuted a number of high-profile cases.

Aleks’s eyes skimmed down the page.

Investigators believe the car bombing was the work of the Patrescu brothers in an attempt to delay the trial. Incredibly, in the blast that destroyed half a city block, Mr Roman received just a few minor wounds.

Aleks looked at the photograph of the bombing. The car was a charred shell; the building behind it was all but rubble. It reminded him of many of the city streets in Grozny. It was truly stunning that the man had not been killed. A miracle.

And that’s when it occurred to him. The man who had taken care of Anna and Marya all these years, the man whom his daughters called Daddy, was just like him. Michael Roman had faced the devil and walked away unharmed.

Michael Roman, too, was deathless.

In the backyard, Abby talked to the girls. She saw the fear in their eyes, but she did her best to allay it. The young man stood at the back of the property, smoking a cigarette. The one who called himself Aleks – the one who claimed to be Charlotte and Emily’s biological father – was still in the house. Abby could not see him, but she could all but feel his predator’s cold eyes on her.

For the moment, the girls still looked concerned, but not nearly as frightened as they had before. “Everything is okay, guys. There’s no reason to be scared.” Abby wished she knew this to be true. “Okay?”

The girls nodded.

“Are we going to Britanny’s house?” Emily asked.

Brittany Salcer was a babysitter two streets over. She also babysat for her own sister’s twin boys, who were just over three years old. “Not today honey.”

“But why?”

“The boys have a cold. Brittany doesn’t want you guys getting sick.”

“Are you going to the hospital?”

The hospital was in fact the Hudson Medical Clinic, an urgent-care facility on Dowling Street. When they had moved from the city Abby had tried to hang onto her job as an ER nurse at Downtown Hospital, but the commute – an hour each way, not to mention the expense – was killing them. Her work at the clinic was not nearly as challenging, but she had fallen into a rhythm there. Throat cultures, lacerations, flu shots, skinned knees – what the job lacked in challenge it more than made up for in satisfaction.

“No,” she said. “Not today.”

Abby suddenly saw movement to her left. She noticed that the young man at the back of the yard noticed as well. A flash of bright red in the woods behind the house.

Abby glanced over. Zoe Meisner was walking through the woods, down by the creek. Her golden Lab Shasta was following a scent. Abby saw the dog stop, glance up the hill, nose high in the air. Was he picking up the scent of the young man? Of Kolya? In a flash the dog came bounding up the hill, churning leaves, kicking dirt, vaulting over logs. Zoe called to Shasta, but the dog did not heed her.

Zoe – she of the outrageously bright floral gardening smocks and even more outrageous floral perfume – noticed Abby and the girls and waved. Abby lifted a hand to wave back, but stopped herself. If she acknowledged Zoe, maybe the woman would take it as a reason to walk up the hill for an over-the-fence hen session. On the other hand, if Abby didn’t acknowledge her, she might come over to see why. Abby waved back.

A few seconds later Zoe started to walk through the woods, up the hill, to the Roman house.

Shasta was already romping with the girls.

Abby saw the young man at the back of the yard toss his cigarette, stand a little straighter. His eyes flicked from the big dog, to the woman walking up the hill, back. He unbuttoned his jacket.

Inside the house, the curtains parted.

No, Abby thought.

No.

Joseph Harkov’s apartment was a third floor walk-up on Twenty-First Avenue, near Steinway. According to the report, Joseph Harkov worked night shift at the MTA station at Broadway and 46th Street.

Michael and Tommy stood across the street in a Super Deli, watching the entrance. Michael had met Joseph Harkov twice, but that had been a few years ago, and only in passing. He wasn’t sure he would remember the man if he saw him.

At just after one, Joseph Harkov walked out of the front door. Michael pegged him instantly. He looked like a younger version of his father and had already taken on the old man’s bent posture, although he was probably only in his forties. He waited at a bus stop on the corner for fifteen minutes or so, every so often dabbing his eyes with a tissue, then boarded a bus.

Michael and Tommy waited five minutes. Joseph Harkov did not return. They crossed the street, and entered the building.

The hallways smelled of frying foods, disinfectant, room deodorizers. The sound of soap operas poured out of more than one room.

Tommy Christiano had developed his techniques of breaking and entering as a street kid in Brooklyn. He perfected them as an undercover officer in the 84th Precinct before taking night law classes at CUNY.

Within seconds, they were inside.

Viktor Harkov’s bedroom spoke of age and despair and loneliness. It contained a chipped mahogany dresser and a single bed with rumpled, soiled sheets. On top of the dresser were a pair of framed photographs, nail clippers, a pair of uncancelled postage stamps, cut from envelopes. The closet contained three suits, all an identical featureless gray. There was one pair of shoes, recently resoled. On the floor were a stack of folded, plastic dry-cleaning bags. Viktor was a saver. Michael’s mother had been the same way. Even something like a dry-cleaner bag had some worth.

“Mickey.”

Tommy Christiano was the only person who called him Mickey, the only person allowed. And he only called him that when something was important.

Michael went out into the living room. Tommy had the bottom drawer in the kitchen open. In it was a rubber-banded stack of 3.5 inch floppy disks, and a small stack of what were either CDs, or DVDs.

“Look.” Tommy held up three of the floppies. They were coded by year. The third disk was labeled TAYEMNYY 2005. “Any idea what this means?”

“I think it means ‘private’ in Russian. Maybe Ukrainian.”

“Private files?”

“I don’t know.”

Tommy looked at his watch. Michael followed suit. They’d been in the apartment more than ten minutes. Every minute they lingered put them in jeopardy of getting caught.

Tommy glanced at the old computer in the corner of the living room. “You know how to make a copy of one of these?” he asked.

Michael hadn’t worked with floppy disks for a few years, but he figured it would come back to him once he got in front of the computer. “Yeah.”