Spectrum (The Karen Vail Series) (26 page)

Someone grabbed her arm and pulled her away—a uniformed cop. “C’mon, you gotta get outta here!”

She turned and ran beside the officer, but in seconds they were engulfed in a thick white dust cloud. He pulled her into a Burger King and slammed the door closed behind them.

They watched as the dense haze filled the street, high and wide. In the back of her mind she was aware of the smell of french fries. It seemed oddly out of place with what she was seeing. But before she could process that thought, the door swung open and more officers poured in, including a sergeant.

“We’re setting up a command post in here,” the sergeant announced. “Clear everything out. We need room!”

“Karen Vail,” she said to the officer who had pulled her into the Burger King. “FBI.” She looked at his gold name tag: Prisco. “Thanks for yanking me out of my funk. I just … I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. I was born and raised here.”

Prisco cleared away stacks of boxes filled with paper goods. “Started as such a nice day. Sunny, seventy degrees. And then it all went to hell. People were jumping from eighty, ninety stories. Never seen anything like it.”

Vail helped Prisco move a couple of long trays off the backroom counter, clearing the area for the sergeant, who was plugging in a couple of radios.

“I saw the first plane hit. I was in a high-rise at a homicide scene.”

“Homicide?” Prisco stopped and faced her. “I thought you’re FBI.”

“A case of mine from way back when. My old loo asked me to take a look before they moved the body.”

The restaurant had filled with two dozen officers and detectives, and a handful of sergeants and lieutenants.

Outside, the gray-white particulate cloud of pulverized cement, soot, and gypsum continued to move up the avenue.

The door opened and three more cops entered—including Russo. They were covered in a film of white powder from head to foot. They immediately began brushing the stuff off their faces.

One of the cops bent over and yelled, “Water! I need water! I got shit in my eyes. They’re—they’re burning.”

Vail filled a cup and brought it over to the officer and helped him flush the dirt out, then moistened a rag and handed it to Russo.

“What the hell are you doing here?” he asked as he dragged the cloth across his face. “There’s no way CSU showed up.”

“I—no, no one showed. I saw the second plane hit and I had to help.”

“We got thousands of uniformed personnel onsite for security, crowd control, and evacuation. ESU and FDNY are doing their thing to clear the area. These people are a whole lot better equipped and trained to handle this than you. And we got no one at that apartment securing the crime scene. Now, I can’t order you because you don’t work for me anymore, but I’m asking you, as a favor—”

“All right everyone,” a lieutenant said, his back to the storefront windows. “Listen up. We’re setting up a command center. Anyone who’s not NYPD, you need to get outta here right now.”

Russo turned to Vail, who frowned.

“Fine. I’m going.” She turned to look at the room of assembled NYPD personnel. She realized she was no longer part of the team. As much as she wanted to remain and assist, she knew Russo was right. She placed a hand on his chest. “Be careful. And be safe.”

Vail hoofed it back to the Vassos crime scene. But when she was a block from the apartment building, she heard another rumble, followed by a loud moan as masses of people turned to gape at the lone remaining tower as it too collapsed.

She stopped and watched the dust and debris drop from the sky, moving down inexorably as the weight of the concrete carried it to the street.

Vail closed her eyes, then headed up the block and into Doris Vassos’s building.

ONCE UPSTAIRS, VAIL knocked on the apartments adjacent to the crime scene. She would have to kick in the door to get into Vassos’s place, but she could not enter wearing filthy clothing.

Fortunately, one of the neighbors down the hall was home, live news accounts of the trade center collapse blaring from her TV and audible through the door. Vail showed the woman her FBI creds, explained that she had been at the towers, and asked if she could shower and change because she had a crime scene to secure.

Oh, and by the way, as if this day wasn’t shitty enough, your neighbor’s been murdered.

Vail left that part out, but the older woman—after a brief hesitation—must have taken pity on her visitor’s haggard appearance. She invited Vail in and showed her to the bathroom.

Vail wanted to stay under the hot water and cleanse herself of the tragedy she had just witnessed. But she knew that was not possible. The memories, the pain, the images of the planes disappearing into the buildings, of the dismembered arms and legs, the falling bodies, the one that pancaked beside her on the pavement … these would remain indelibly burned into her mind, her being, forever.

As she mused on that, however, she realized that it was not so bad a fate compared to those people standing on the 95th floor, pondering how best to die … some burned alive, others jumping to their deaths from a thousand feet above the ground.

Those last seconds of life, what were they thinking? Of loved ones? Of their parents or siblings? Of intolerable fear or sorrow? Or if only they had called in sick that morning?

Called in sick. Had Russo not phoned her and asked her to come to see Hades’s latest victim, she would’ve been one of those people perched on that ledge of death.

Vail collapsed to the floor of the shower, the water pounding against her neck, and wept.

41

>411 WEST 13th STREET

Manhattan

Friday, March 7, 1980

Livana finished her day at the Italian Ices shop on the Lower East Side and took the subway to the Meatpacking District, where Fedor worked. As they had been doing for the past three years since the children had gotten older, when his shift ended at five o’clock they would collect the kids at a central meeting place, the mouth of the Bowling Green subway station, and then walk together to the dock, where they would retrieve their boat for the ride home to Ellis Island.

Cassandra, a senior in high school and the more responsible of the three of them, was in charge of making sure they were all heading to Bowling Green at the appointed time. After a long day at work, Livana and Fedor did not want to stand around and wait for the kids, not knowing where they were or when they were going to show.

Dmitri, in particular, had a tendency to wander off when school got out, and show up late. Cassandra had gotten on his case of late and finally told her mother that she needed to talk with him, because he no longer listened to her—and when he did, he did so reluctantly.

Livana checked the clock. It was eleven minutes after five, which was very unusual. Fedor was always punctual. He would clock out, remove his blood-spattered apron, wash up, and be in the admin area, where Livana waited for him, by five after five.

As he descended the steps, his face exhibited anguish, concern, and fear.

“Fedor,” Livana said as he walked right past her. “What’s wrong?”

He pushed through the door and stepped outside, took a deep breath of cold air.

“Fedor. Tell me.”

“The police just called me. We have to go. Right now.”

“Go? Go where?”

“The school.”

“Did Dmitri get in trouble again?”

Fedor continued walking to the subway, not bothering to reply.

THE SUBWAY DOORS parted at the Rector Street subway station and Fedor stepped off.

“Will you tell me what’s going on?

“The police called. About Cassandra.” He ascended the steps, Livana following closely, dodging rush hour commuters who were pushing down the stairs as they were moving up—in essence, they were swimming against the tide.

After they fought their way to street level, Livana grabbed Fedor’s arm and pulled him to a stop. “Now. Tell me.”

He looked in her eyes but could not hold her gaze. “The police found my work number in Cassandra’s purse.”

She waited for more, then said, “I don’t understand. She lost her purse? What’s the big—”

“No, Livana.” His voice was taut. “They found a body. A young woman’s body.” He stopped, fought back tears. “They think it’s Cassandra.”

Livana stood there, looking at Fedor, trying to make it register. “My baby is—my baby is—no. They’re wrong.”

“That’s what I’m hoping. They want us to identify—to see if it’s her.”

Livana stood up straight, then reached out and took Fedor’s hand. They were not lovers and had never touched in any intimate manner. But right now she needed the assurance of his presence, of his strength, as they approached the school.

A blue Plymouth police cruiser sat idling at the curb, its lights rotating rhythmically.

They came upon a uniformed officer at the perimeter of crime scene tape.

“We were told to see Detective Jenkins,” Fedor said. “We’re here to—” he closed his eyes—“identify the body.”

The officer turned toward the playground and keyed his radio. “I’ve got the parents.” He swung around and lifted the yellow tape. “Go on in. The detective’s the black guy over there in the gray suit.”

As they headed toward Jenkins, Livana felt her legs moving, but not much else. Everything had lost color. The city was suddenly devoid of honking cars and the chatter and heel clicks of pedestrians. She was sleepwalking, eyes open but seeing only a sheet-covered body lying across the steps of a side entrance near the back of the building.

Livana stopped abruptly, yanking Fedor backward.

“You want me to look?” he asked.

Livana bit her lip, afraid to know yet
needing
to know. She shook her head and moved along, toward the steps.

Jenkins crouched beside the drape and lifted the top, giving them a view of the girl’s face.

The air left Livana’s lungs. She fell back against the brick building and clawed at her throat, her vision going gray, consciousness fading to black.

LIVANA OPENED HER eyes and saw Fedor crouching in front of her. Her brain registered time and place—and she began crying. Fedor took her in his arms, holding her head against his shoulder as he said, “I’m so sorry, I wish I could just turn it into a bad dream.”

Livana did not want to move, did not want to face the truth of what lay five feet to her left. Finally she pushed away from Fedor and faced Jenkins.

“Who … who would do such a thing?”

“That’s what I was going to ask you, ma’am.”

“Where’s Detective Proschetta?” She got to her feet and turned her head away from the body. “I want to talk to him.”

“No idea. But your daughter’s case is mine, and the homicide detective who’s on his way, and I’m going to do ev—”

“I’ll only talk with Detective Proschetta. Please, just call him.”

Jenkins frowned, stared her down for a moment, then grabbed his radio. He walked a few paces into the darkness, talked with someone at length, and then returned.

“Proschetta’s on his way. Probably take him fifteen-twenty to get here. Anything you want to tell me in the meantime?”

“Anything I have to say I’ll say to Detective Proschetta.”

“Where were you and your husband this afternoon?”

“He’s not my husband.” Livana wiped away a tear. “We were both at work. We were supposed to meet—” She turned to Fedor. “The boys, they’re waiting—”

“Are you okay here?” Fedor asked. “I can go get them.”

“Don’t bring them in here. Just have them wait on the corner.”

Moments later, a sedan pulled up to the curb across the way, lights and siren announcing its arrival. A few seconds later, Isidore Proschetta got out and jogged toward them. As he approached, Livana thought he looked a little thicker, older, and more mature than the last time she had seen him.

“Livana,” Proschetta said, leaning forward and giving her a hug. “I’m so sorry. Detective Jenkins told me what happened, I got here as soon as I could.”

“Thanks for coming. I know you didn’t have to.”

“Not a problem. How can I help?”

She glanced at Jenkins, then said, “Can we talk alone?”

“No,” Jenkins said, “Anything you got to say, you can say in front of me. This is my case. Proschetta ain’t even in this precinct.”

Proschetta took Jenkins by the shoulder, turned him, and walked with him as they talked. A moment later, Proschetta rejoined Livana, leaving Jenkins a couple dozen feet away.

“How did she—how did she—” Livana grasped her forehead.

“My experience? The parents don’t really want to know. I mean they
do
, but they don’t. I can tell you she didn’t suffer.” Proschetta waited a beat, then said, “How old are your boys now?”

Livana sniffled, tried to compose herself. “Fifteen and seventeen.”

“How’s Dmitri doing?”

Livana knew what he was tactfully asking. She shrugged. “It affected him badly. He won’t make eye contact—not much, anyway. He doesn’t talk to me a whole lot, unless it’s something he’s really interested in. He’s kind of a loner.”

She thought of the books and
Playboy
magazine she had found in his room, the dissected squirrel, his masturbating to Cassandra while she showered. But how could she possibly tell him that? The police would instantly consider him the killer, and they’d arrest him, put him behind bars. The poor boy had been traumatized enough in his life, between losing his father—seeing him murdered in front of his own eyes—and then getting kidnapped and beaten …

But what if he did this? What if he killed his sister? My daughter.

“Livana,” Proschetta said, “you okay? You spaced out on me there.”

“No, I’m … I’m fine. Dmitri is doing okay in school. He doesn’t have many friends, and he’s got some issues from the kidnapping. He hasn’t really been the same since. But I can’t blame him, can you?”

Proschetta adjusted his hat. “No, of course not. But at the—”

“I’m sorry, I just can’t … ” She leaned back against the wall again. “I can’t deal with this right now.”

“I get it. I—I’ll follow up with Detective Jenkins. But he’s right. It’s his precinct, his case.” The sound of a car door slamming drew their attention. A man in a rumpled suit shuffled around the front of the sedan and headed in their direction.

“That’s the homicide detective,” Proschetta said. He turned back to Livana. “I’ll help out any way I can, okay?”

She nodded but did not look at him.

He cleared his throat. “I know you don’t want to talk about this, but they need some stuff to go on. Can you answer a few questions?”

Livana took a deep breath. “Yes. Yeah, okay.”

Proschetta watched as the approaching man spoke with Jenkins. Proschetta took Livana by the arm and led her about thirty feet away, as if protecting her from them. “Did Cassandra have problems with anyone at school? Any boys harassing her, any—”

“Some boy about six months ago,” she said. “But I don’t think it has anything to do with … with this. It wasn’t serious, just, you know, he wanted to go out with her and she didn’t like him, that kind of thing.” Livana hesitated, looked over at Jenkins, then lowered her voice. “Do you think the Castiglias are behind this?

Proschetta tilted his head. “Why? Have you had any contact with them since … well, since that day?”

“That night, when we got home, Fedor said he’d gotten a call. Someone—it was obvious they were with the mob—they told him we were to move away and not come back or they’d kill our whole family. But Fedor’s grandparents aren’t well and they live in a nursing home in Queens, so …” She wiped a tear that had coursed down her cheek. “We work in the city and never go near Astoria—never go into Queens. Except when he visits them. But he’s very careful and keeps to himself.”

“You think they had a hand in this?”

“Who else would want to—to kill my sweet girl?” Livana fought back tears and said, “If anyone can figure it out, if those bastards are involved, you can. You know what happened, you can look into it without making a big deal about it. Because if they didn’t do this, I don’t want to, you know, wake the sleeping giant. We’ve had enough problems. I don’t want them coming after us again.”

“Did you tell Detective Jenkins?”

“I don’t know him. I don’t trust him. The Castiglias had people in the department who were on their payroll.”

“That’s been cleaned up, far as I know. But I get you. I’ll do it under the radar, real quiet. Okay?”

Livana nodded.

Proschetta rubbed his cheek and shifted his feet. “You know, I gotta be honest with you. First thing we look at in a case like this are the people close to the victim.”

Dmitri’s behavior flashed through her mind again.

“Particularly the father. Have you remarried?”

“Uh, no. I live, we live kind of a sheltered life. We merged our families. You remember Fedor?”

Proschetta chuckled, a “How could I forget?” laugh. “How’s Fedor been with Cassandra?”

“Fedor?” Livana shook her head. “He’s been a godsend for us. He’s a kind man, a good father figure. He couldn’t have done this.”

Proschetta looked out into the darkness a moment. “I gotta ask again. How’s Dmitri? Could he have done this? Did he have any problems with Cassandra? Or Niklaus?”

“Nik’s been fine with her. Dmitri …” She wiped her eyes. “Protch … you mind if I call you that?”

He gave her a half smile. “Of course.”

“Dmitri’s been through enough. Terrible things no one should ever have to go through. You know that. I don’t want to put him through more trauma. The stress of being interrogated.”

“I gotta talk to him. Because if I don’t, Jenkins and the homicide detective are going to. And I’d prefer it be me. So would Dmitri, don’t you think?”

“I want to be there.”

“Of course. And I’ll make it look like I’m talking with everyone, so he doesn’t realize I’m singling him out.”

“He’s a block away, waiting with Fedor.”

“I gotta clear this with the detectives. They ain’t gonna be happy, but I’ll use my charm.” He gave her a wink.

As Proschetta spoke with the two men, it was clear they did not look pleased at this break in protocol—and the perceived hijacking of their case. But a couple of minutes later, Jenkins threw up his hands and the other detective uttered what looked like a few choice words.

Proschetta joined Livana and said, “That went about as well as I expected.”

They walked together to meet with Dmitri and he greeted Fedor with a firm handshake. Dmitri seemed to recoil when he laid eyes on Proschetta—no doubt dredging up bad memories. Livana had not thought of that, but given the alternative, this was the lesser of the two evils. Proschetta was a good man, and she trusted him to keep his word.

“Hey pal, how you doin’?” Proschetta asked Dmitri. The youth glanced up at him, then looked down and pulled his sweatshirt hood over his head.

“I want to tell you all how sorry I am about this. There’s nothing I can say to make you feel any better. This is gonna hurt for a long time. The only thing we can do is catch the guy who’s responsible. It’s not gonna bring Cassandra back, but it’s something.” He paused, and none of them reacted.

“So tell me what you guys know. Fedor, you were at work, right? Did you leave the building at all during the day? Did Cassandra call you today? Anything unusual about the day?”

“Did my regular shift. Same old stuff, you know? I cut meat, I’m on my feet all day. I don’t leave—I mean, a bunch of us get lunch from the truck that comes by at noon. Weather’s nice, we eat out front. If not, we go to the break room.” He shrugged. “I didn’t go anywhere today. Didn’t hear from Cassie. It was just a normal shift.”

“Do you work by yourself, or alongside other guys?”

“Next to a bunch of other guys in a big room.”

“Any idea who might wanna hurt Cassandra?”