Richard Montanari - The Devil_s Garden

Michael knew that Desiree Powell was one of the best detectives in Queens Homicide and, for her to have had probable cause to enter the house, given all the surrounding circumstances of the case as it sat – combined with the facts that no one would be able to contact Michael and Abby Roman, not at the office, not at the clinic – it would not be long before they put two and two together.

There was only one reason Powell had showed up in Eden Falls, and that was because she had made the connection between Michael and Viktor Harkov.

They stopped at the red light on Northern Boulevard at 82nd Street. The sun was warm, the sky was gemstone blue, and people walked with a spring in their step. It was all too surreal. It had never been darker in Michael’s heart.

Since leaving Eden Falls Charlotte had not said a word. She was sitting in the passenger seat, her hands folded in her lap, looking out the window. Michael had no idea what had happened in his house, had no idea what Charlotte had seen. It appeared that she had not been crying. That was the only positive thing.

As they waited for the light to turn green, Charlotte turned slightly in her seat, scanned the messy back seat. She looked at Michael.

“Whose car is this, Daddy?”

Her tiny voice roused Michael from his black reverie. “Uh, it belongs to a friend of mine.”

“Which one?”

“You’ve never met him, honey. It’s somebody I work with.”

Charlotte wrinkled her nose.

“What’s wrong?” Michael asked.

“It smells funny.”

She was right. Michael had smelled it the moment he had dumped Omar in the park. The man had soiled himself.

“Where are we going?”

“We’re going to see another a friend of mine. A friend of ours.”

Charlotte didn’t ask who the friend was this time. Emily would have, but not Charlotte. Once Charlotte sensed a pattern developing, she tried to find a way around it. “Are Mommy and Em going to be there?”

Michael looked over at his daughter. The open window had blown her hair into her eyes. He reached over, smoothed his daughter’s hair. “No, baby. We’re going to meet up with them later.”

Michael went silent for a few moments, organizing his thoughts. He knew he had to ask. The possibilities were eating him from the inside. “That man back at the house,” he began, not knowing how he was going to broach the subject. “The tall man. Was he nice?”

Charlotte just shrugged.

“He didn’t… hurt you or Emily or Mommy did he?”

Charlotte hesitated for a moment, and Michael’s heart began to sink. Then, “No.”

There were a million more questions, but there was no way to ask them without scaring Charlotte even further. He would have to get the answers on his own.

As they drove down 94th Street Michael rehearsed what he would say to Dennis McCaffrey, his boss. He had placed a call to the office and found, as expected, that McCaffrey was still there. Michael visualized pulling into the back lot, leading Charlotte down the sidewalk. She had never been to his office. What a first visit this would be.

When they turned onto Roosevelt Avenue, they pulled directly behind a NYPD sector car, lights flashing. The entire street was blocked.

Michael looked past the police car. Ahead was a fender bender, probably a little worse. Two cars sat at right angles to each other. A second police car sat in front of the scene. A patrol officer was directing cars around it.

As they approached the officer who was diverting traffic, Michael pulled his cap down low, put on a pair of gradient lens sunglasses that were sitting on the back seat. The shades were a woman’s style, and looked far too feminine, but this was New York. Michael chanced a glance, peering over the top of the frames. The police officer on the street was only ten feet away now, looking straight at him. Was he made? Would the cop draw his weapon, command Michael to get out of the car and lay down on the pavement?

Michael had spent so much time on the other side of things, garnering so little sympathy for the criminals and their mindset, that

The cop held up his hand. Stepping in front of the car, nearly at the hood. Michael glanced in the rear-view mirror. There was no one behind him. If he slipped the transmission into reverse, floored it, he could back up the twenty or so feet needed to get away. They could get a few blocks, get out, and take the subway.

The cop was just a few feet away now.

Michael eased the gearshift into reverse, trying not to make it obvious. The cop still had his hand up. Michael was just about to put his foot on the gas when a vehicle turned the corner and drove up behind him, a dark SUV. He was blocked in.

The cop eased up to Michael’s window, twirling his finger in a circular motion, indicating to Michael that he should roll down his window. Michael thought of the illegal handgun under the seat, the blood in the trunk of the car. He heard the next few seconds unfold in his mind.

Can I see your license and registration, please?

I’m sorry. I don’t have them with me.

You have no identification with you?

No, sir.

Is this your car, sir?

No.

Please step out.

“Good afternoon,” the officer said. He was in his late forties, a veteran patrol officer. Michael knew a lot of men who were on the job more than twenty-five years, men who never took the test, men who were not consumed by advancement. They were savvier in many ways then half the detectives out there.

“Good afternoon.”

The cop looked at Michael, at Charlotte, at the back seat. Cops of this experience could take in an entire scene in seconds. “You know your front license plate is about to fall off. It’s hanging on by one screw.”

Michael felt a cool wave pass over him. “Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

“That plate falls off, someone picks it up, they could use it for all manner of nefarious purposes.”

“I understand.”

The officer held him in his cop stare for a few more seconds – direct, street-hardened, unconvinced. This was his nature. He then looked over at Charlotte. “What’s your name, little darling?”

Charlotte beamed. “Charlotte Johanna Roman.”

The cop smiled, winked at Michael. Michael took a breath, held it. He knew if this cop decided to run the plate, it would not come back registered to anyone named Roman.

“That’s a lot of name for such a little girl,” the officer said.

Charlotte nodded. She loved to say her full name.

The cop gazed up the street. He tapped his hand on the roof of the car. “Get that taken care of right away, sir.”

“I will. Thank you, officer.”

As the cop walked away, Michael rolled up his window, finally exhaling.

The cop spoke into his two-way, stood to the side, held up his hand again, stopping traffic. Twenty feet up the street a concrete truck pulled out of an alley blocking the road. The cop turned his back on Michael, waved the truck along.

When Michael looked again in the rear-view mirror, his blood froze in his veins. The man driving the black SUV behind him was Aleksander Savisaar. Michael’s eyes instinctively went to the passenger. It was Abby.

They had followed him from Eden Falls.

Michael scanned his mirrors. He was blocked. He couldn’t go forward, and he couldn’t back up. Should he tell the police? Should he just jump out of the car and tell the police that the man in the H2 had kidnapped his wife and daughter and was responsible for a number of homicides?

Too much could happened in the blink of an eye. He thought of Viktor Harkov, and Kolya, and Desiree Powell. He thought of the knife. He couldn’t take the chance.

The concrete truck ambled to the curb ahead of him. The cop blew his whistle, waved Michael on. Not knowing what else to do, Michael reached forward, and turned the car off. The cop waved again. When Michael didn’t move the cop looked at him with impatience. He ambled back over.