He took the chair next to Patsy. “Look, this happened in my office, in my building. Akimov came to see me. I'm responsible.”
“No, Mike,” Patsy said with a lawyer's firmness. “Whoever shot him was damned clever . . .
they
were damned clever. There's no way it's your fault.”
“You're sure Dennis is all right?”
“They were transfusing him and said they'd know for certain once that was done. The doctor didn't seem too concerned, except that he'd lost an awful lot of blood.”
“Poor bastard looked like a wounded hippo.”
One of the doors swung open. A police sergeant held it, waiting for a man who was not in uniform to follow him into the room. “Mr. Carson?” the sergeant said.
Mike acknowledged that he was.
The plainclothesman produced a wallet and identification which showed his name was Peter Crowley, his rank was detective, and he was attached to the 6th Precinct of the Nassau County Police. He recited the information in an indulgent tone that carried the suggestion that Mike Carson couldn't read. He went on to say, “I've got to put something in writing about the shit that happened this afternoon in that new showroom of yours. Mind if I ask a few questions?”
Mike glared at the young detective. He had learned to detect the glimmer of superiority that shone off people of real or imagined authority, the same way some self-proclaimed elitist Americans looked down on poor souls so unfortunate as to have been foreign-born. It was clear to Mike that Detective Crowley had crammed a bunch of oversize prejudices into an average-size body. His cheeks were blotched with acne scars and the kind of little red sores that seemed to never go away.
“Can we do this tomorrow?” Mike said.
“We can, but I want to do it now.” Crowley stood in front of Mike, and with his eyes, signaled for the police sergeant to stand next to him. His mouth twisted into a smirk. “Let's do it now, Mr. Carson, then we won't have to do this same shit again.”
Mike glanced from one to the other, then, speaking softly, described to the two police officers how a young woman wearing a Carson Motors uniform had come into his office, produced a gun, shot Sasha Akimov, and ran away.
“How old was she . . . was she tall, skinny, red hair . . . ?”
“She was nice-looking, I can't say how oldâit all happened quickly. She was tall. Blond hair.”
“Nice-looking? My aunt's nice-looking. What do you mean, nice? Pretty, beautifulâ?”
“She had a beautiful face. How's that?”
“Built? You know what I mean?” Crowley said, putting both hands on his chest.
“I said it happened too quickly for details.”
“It's a detail most men notice,” Crowley said as if he had made a profound observation. “Did she say anything?”
Mike shook his head. “No. The only noise she made was with the gun. Two shots at a man standing twenty feet away.”
“You're certain it was two shots? Not three, not one. Two. You're sure?”
“That's what I said,” Mike answered.
“Was she an employee of yours?”
“Of course not.”
“You said she was wearing a company uniform.”
“Two of my salespeople were found in the used-car sales office. They had been tied up and their mouths taped shut. I'm sure your people know that.”
“Mr. Carson, I don't know what other people know or don't know. My job is to start at the beginning and gather as many details as possible.” Crowley fussed with another cigarette that he didn't light. “Tell me about this Akimov person.”
“Tell you what about him?” Mike said.
“Is he a friend, a customer, a business acquaintance, that kind of shit.”
“That kind of what?”
“Excuse me, Mr. Carson,” Crowley said acidly. “I'll try again, very simple. Did you know this guy Akimov?”
“Yes. When I was very young.”
“He's Russian?”
Mike nodded.
“You're Russian, too, right?”
“I'm an American citizen.”
“But born in Russia?”
“Does that matter?”
“Mr. Carson, I don't really give a shit where you were born, I'm merely trying to make a little sense out of what happened in your office this afternoon. Let me try again. What do you know about Akimov?”
Mike stared hard at the young detective, noticing the yellow stain on the fingers of his right hand and imagining that Crowley was dying for a cigarette, concluding also that he was the exception that proved the rule; most of the police Mike had come in contact with, including detectives, were civil, reasonable people.
“Sasha Akimov knew my parents,” Mike said.
“Did he come to see you on business?”
“You could say that.”
“What kind of business?”
“Personal.”
“Do you think your personal business had any connection with the fact some good-looking broad busts into your office and shoots him?”
“If I knew who she was, who sent her, then I might find a connection.”
“You said you hadn't seen him since you were a kid, then he shows up after all these years. That's kind of strange. Agree?”
Mike chose not to answer.
“Hey look, Mr. Carson, you gotta admit it's pretty damned strange this guy comes all this way to pay a visit, then gets shot right in front of you. Maybe if we know why he came to see you, then maybe we'd have an idea.”
“I'll think about that,” Mike answered.
“Well, ain't that great shit. You'll think about it.” Crowley fumbled for a cigarette, got it halfway to his lips, then angrily shoved it back into the package. “So, after you've thought about it, are you going to let me know, or what? Call a news conference?”
Patsy Abromowitz's eyes rolled up, then closed, and she pursed her lips as if words were about to come out. None did, and instead, she smiled, Mona Lisaâlike.
A man in a surgical gown came through the double doors, his mask and cloth cap hung loose from his neck. There was a weariness around his eyes and a day's growth of a dark beard and he spoke without looking up from a piece of paper he held. “Is one of you Mike Carson?”
Crowley pointed a thumb at Mike. “I'm Pete Crowley. County police.”
The doctor turned to Mike. “My name's Kaplan. I was making rounds when I was paged to emergency. We've done what we could for Mr. Akimov, but there's considerable damage in his throat. In fact I'm
surprised he's alive, and he wouldn't be except the bullet missed the carotid artery and didn't shatter his spinal cord. Another miracle.”
“He'll live?” Mike asked.
“If the tracheotomy holds, he should make it.”
“Will he be able to talk?” Patsy asked.
Kaplan sighed wearily. “He needs a laryngoplastyâa reconstruction of the larynx. With luck, and a lot of therapy, he'll be able to squeeze out some sounds. I can't say more right now.”
“He's visiting,” Mike said. “He's Russian.”
Kaplan nodded. “They told me. They've got good people over there, but he couldn't tolerate a long trip.”
“Suppose he doesn't go back. Where can a larynxâwhatever it is, where can it be done?”
“Here . . . any good hospital, it's not like open heart. What's important is to have someone with experience do it. There's also the cost.”
Mike said, “I'll cover it.”
“It's an involved procedure,” Kaplan said. “Expensive.”
“I said I'd cover it,” Mike repeated with finality. “How's LeGrande . . . the big guy?”
Kaplan showed animation for the first time. “He's okay, except for a high fever we're not too happy about. Everyone recognized Dennis. At least the Giants fans did.”
“Fever? What's that about?”
“He lost a lot of blood, and they put a lot back. Sometimes that causes it. Or he picked up a bug, or he was coming down with something. They're watching him.”
“And Akimov. They're watching him, too?”
“He's in intensive care where he's monitored continually.”
“Not good enough,” Mike said. “I'll put one of my people with him.”
“Not unless we say you can,” Pete Crowley said. “You got a problem with hospital security?”
“Somebody was clever enough to get into my office wearing one of our uniforms and shoot Akimov. That somebody wants him dead. I want him alive.”
O
utside was a prototypical London day complete with fog and raw dampness, and inside, on the fifteenth floor, in the corner office of Elliott Heston, Deputy Assistant Commissioner, Operations Command Group (OCG), New Scotland Yard, the air was thick with the deep emotions of old friends arriving at a minor crisis in a long relationship. It was mid-afternoon, on Saturday. But that wasn't a consideration; personal matters are given attention, whatever the day. Heston let his tall, lean body slump back in his chair.
“You promised to give this more thought and I'm sure that if you had, you would have changed that damned stubborn mind of yours.” He brushed away the hair that had strayed across his forehead. “It means of course that it's unlikely we'll ever go fishing together.” He let the words hang in the air for a moment, then added a touch of the martyr in his voice, “like old times.”
Detective Chief Inspector Jack Oxby had taken a position by the corner window and was leaning against the sill, his arms crossed over his chest, his head cocked slightly in that reflective way one cocks the head to hear more clearly, or on occasion to create the impression of listening intently. He wore an Oxby smile, the one that was disarming or misleading, depending on his purpose, a smile that spread over his face to a pair of blue-gray eyes that were capable of expressing humor or compassion, eyes that were trained to see beyond the obvious, that at times could intimidate or taunt. He stood five nine but he seemed taller. A rather long nose was a noticeable feature though not one that detracted from his agreeable good looks. He was blessed with a rich voice, one that he had put to good use when he dabbled in television after graduation from Cambridge University. By then, and with the help of his parents and the considerable time he had spent on the Continent, Oxby could speak French with the ease of a Parisian and Italian with
the singsong fluency of a Florentine. He could detect and he could mimic the infinite ranges of accents throughout the U.K., a not inconsiderable talent that would prove useful in the career he finally chose when he joined the Metropolitan Police Service.
“Fishing is what our relationship has come to?” Oxby said, pronouncing the words slowly. “Is that what you're telling me? That I'm expected to plan, provision, select your hooks and flies, then clean any bloody fish you should be so lucky to catch? Are you saying that if that doesn't happen, our friendship is out the window?”
“Don't go on with all that rot,” Heston said. “You know perfectly well I can choose my own flies and clean every fish that I'm very well likely to catch.” It seemed he wanted to go on about fishing because it was a sport that gave him infinite pleasure. But his tone changed. “It's what's needed around here that I'm anxious about. Your experience and the way you train the young guys.” Momentarily his eyes strayed from Oxby's, as if hoping the argument he was about to make would go unchallenged.
“Look, Jack, once the other shoe dropped and the changes were announced, morale around here went to hell and some of the best peopleâyou most of allâopted to bail out.”
“Other shoe? Elliott, what dropped was a fifty-pound jackboot. They've eviscerated the Arts and Antiques Squad in the name of the holy Es: Efficiency and Economy.”
Heston sighed. “You know how they're always tinkering.”
“Good word, Elliott. It's time I did some tinkering for myself. I'm all paid up, I don't have any obligations.”
“So your mind's made up?”
“Pretty much. I've accumulated five weeks' leave and may run up north and be with old friends. Might play some golf.”
“Oh, Christ, not golf. Bad enough you're leaving the service, but you can't be serious about that godawful game.” He pronounced
golf
as if it were a deadly contagion.
“Why not? With a little practice, I'd be good at it. I can golf and fish if I want.” He smiled a little evilly. “You might join me for a few days.”
“You know I can't get away, not until I've put this reorganization behind me.” Heston got to his feet and circled around his desk, then sat against it, facing Oxby.
“I know you feel that they downgraded the squad, but it's happened before and we always brought it back.” He reached behind him for an
envelope marked confidential. “In the meantime, this is my authorization to move you up to Detective Superintendent.”
Oxby glanced skeptically at the envelope. Then he opened it and took out letters and memoranda and forms with official stamps on them; in all there were a dozen sheets of bureaucratic file fodder. Oxby read a few of the pages, then put all the sheets back in the envelope and placed it on Heston's desk.
He looked squarely at the Assistant Commissioner and shook his head. “I've been with the Yard for fifteen years and liked every one of them. Even being shot at, knifed, and scared half to death. But before I no longer like it, I'm stepping out.”
“Forever? You talked about leave time. Good! Get refreshed, then come back. You've got a new spot with more responsibility, more money.”
“I've made my choice, Elliott. All I want is for you to wish me good luck.”