The Devil's Garden (21 page)

Had someone been in the apartment and gone
out
the window?

And why was the computer unplugged?

Powell returned to the desk in the living room. She had put her hand on the monitor, and found it still warm. Which meant that it was probably only recently unplugged. Powell had plugged the computer and the monitor back in, and watched as the computer went through its cycle, informing the user that it had been improperly shut down. If Joseph Harkov was some kind of paranoid regarding fire, or figured on saving a few pennies on electricity when the computer was not in use, why not shut it down properly? Powell wondered.

Fontova returned, gloved up, and began to poke unenthusiastically around Harkov’s bedroom. “Remind me never to go to law school,” he said. “This place is wicked fucking bad.”

Fontova rolled his eyes, pulled a thin roll of bills out of his pants pocket, peeled a dollar, handed it to Powell. She took it without a word. They had a running contest during Lent. Whoever said the f-word owed the other a dollar. After about a month they were about even.

“This guy was a street lawyer,” Powell said. “And probably not a good one. It’s almost impossible to make this little money.”

Fontova grunted, continued opening drawers, closets, lifting sheets and emptying pockets, as anxious as Powell was to get in and out of this grim place.

They would take Harkov’s old computer, as well as any files, documents, and paperwork. Whoever did this had a vendetta, a deeply planted hatred, and that doesn’t just happen overnight. There was a connection here somewhere. They would find it.

S
omething was wrong. The two green lights on the right side were dark. Abby tapped out the panic code anyway. Twice. Nothing happened. She banged on the panel. The sound seemed to resonate throughout the house.

Nothing. No flashing lights. No response of any kind.

“I am disappointed,” came the voice from behind her. She spun around. Aleks was standing just a few feet away. She had not heard him come down the stairs.

Aleks descended fully into the foyer. He opened his shoulder bag, pulled out rope and duct tape.

“Unfortunately,” Aleks said, “many of the American home-security systems run on telephone lines. If there is a large storm, or for any other reason the telephone service is interrupted, so too is the connection to the security firm’s center.” He held up a pair of clippers. It seems he had cut the phone line before they had entered. “I told you no harm would come to you or family if you did exactly what I said. I am a man who does not like to repeat himself.”

He crossed the foyer in a blur, lifted Abby in the air, as if she were weightless. He carried her across the foyer, down the stairs, into the basement. He placed her onto an old metal folding chair. His physical strength was terrifying.

“No,” Abby said. She did not fight him. “You don’t have to do this. I’m sorry.”

In moments Aleks had her arms and legs bound to the chair.

Abby did not struggle. She tried to fight the tears.

She lost.

A
LEKS WATCHED THE
girls through the basement window. His face was unreadable, but Abby scanned his pale-blue eyes as he followed Charlotte and Emily swing on the swing set. His expression seemed to be one of deep longing.

His friend – his accomplice, Abby reminded herself – had left. The girls seemed to be okay, but every so often they would glance at the house. They were bright, intuitive children, wise far beyond their years, and Abby was certain that they knew something was wrong, despite her assurances that the men called Aleks and Kolya were friends of the family.

Abby’s stomach turned at the thought. As she stared at the man’s profile, there was no doubt in her mind that it was true. This man was Charlotte and Emily’s biological father. She didn’t want to believe it, but it was undoubtedly true.

She found herself wishing it was all about something else, that it was some sort of a home-invasion robbery, and that these men were there seeking ransom, or jewels, or cash. These things she understood, and was willing to relinquish in a second if it meant keeping her family safe.

But one question loomed large. How did this man know where they lived and who they were? How had he found them?

Abby’s worst nightmare was rapidly becoming a reality. He wasn’t here to see his daughters. He wasn’t here to merely establish contact, or a bond.

He was here to take them back.

Aleks leaned close to her ear. When he leaned over, Abby saw something sparkle, catching the light, something hanging on a chain around his neck. On the chain were three small crystal vials. One of them held what appeared to be blood, with small bits of what might be flesh suspended in the deep-red liquid. The other two were empty. The dark possibilities made Abby sick.

Aleks whispered: “If you disobey me one more time, I will kill you in front of the girls.”

Abby struggled against the ropes and duct tape. She could not move. Her tears coursed down her cheeks.

Without another word Aleks climbed the steps, opened the door, and closed it behind him.

T
he courtroom on the first floor was ornate and ceremonial, frequently used in high-profile, media-intense cases. In contrast to the courtrooms on the third floor – four courts reserved for a “Murderer’s Row” of judges, senior, well-regarded justices who treated the spaces as something of a judicial status symbol – courtroom 109 seated more than 150 people in its gallery, and was used when press and security demanded it, when the system needed to flex.

There were two judges who presided over homicide cases in the division, each called a “part.” There was Judge Margaret Allingham’s part. Judge Allingham was a hardliner, born and raised in the South Bronx, the daughter of a former FBI agent. It was rumored that Iron Meg Allingham kept a six-inch sap under her robe. The other was Judge Martin Gregg’s part. If you were unprepared or unfamiliar in any way with the incredibly complex details of criminal court procedure, you did not want to be up before Judge Martin Gregg, especially on a nice day, a day when he could be out golfing.

God help you if you showed up late in courtroom 109.

Michael Roman was late. He was about to be even later.

A
S HE APPROACHED THE
door to the courtroom he took out his cellphone to turn it off. It beeped in his hand. There was only one message, a text from Falynn Harris. The time code on it was five minutes earlier. All it said was:

“Oh, Christ,” Michael said. “Oh no no no.”

Michael stepped into the small vestibule, scrolled through the phone numbers on his phone, dialed Falynn’s cellphone, got her voicemail. He then called her foster home. After two rings, a woman answered. It was Deena Trent, Falynn’s foster mother.

“Mrs Trent, this is Michael Roman. May I speak to Falynn?”

Michael heard a quick intake of breath. Then, “You’re the lawyer.”

It was not a question. “Yes,” Michael said. “And if I could just speak –”

“She’s gone.”

Michael was certain he misunderstood. “Gone? What do you mean she’s gone?”

“I mean she’s gone. She took her suitcase and she’s gone.”

“She didn’t say anything?”

“Just a note telling me she was never coming back.”

“Where did she go?”

“I don’t know. She’s scared maybe. Those boys – the ones responsible for killing her father – maybe she’s scared of them.”

Michael was incredulous. “Nothing is going to happen to her, Mrs Trent. I could have the police there in two minutes. You have to tell me where she went. She’ll be safe.”

“I don’t think you heard me. I don’t
know
where she went.”

“What about her friends? Can you call one of her friends?”

Deena Trent laughed, but there was no mirth in it. “Her
friends
? You’ve met her. You think she has any friends? This is the fourth time she’s up and gone, you know.”

“Mrs Trent I’m sure she’s –”

“And to tell you the truth, this is a lot more than I bargained for when I signed on for this. I thought I was just taking in a teenage girl who needed a home. I don’t need this. She’s not my kin. And, between you and me, the money isn’t all that good.”

What a delightful woman, Michael thought. He made a mental note to look into her qualifications as a state-subsidized foster home. “Look,” he began, his head spinning with the afternoon’s ramifications from this, “if you hear from her –”

But the line was already dead. Michael stared at the phone for a long time. He tried to remember what his life was like just a few hours earlier, just that morning before the phone rang and it was Max Priest on the other end, Max Priest calling to tell him that Viktor Harkov had been murdered.

Now his one and only witness was missing.

Do you promise?
Falynn had asked.

Yes
, he had replied.

He had to plow ahead. He would find her, change her mind. He could not let the court know the state no longer had a witness. He was afraid that without Falynn, there was too much of a chance that Ghegan would walk. No one on the jury had to know.

Not yet.

A
S
M
ICHAEL WALKED
to the prosecutor’s table, he tried to keep the news off his face.

“Mr Roman,” Judge Gregg said. “Nice to see you. Problems?”

Michael walked around the table. He set down his briefcase. “No your honor. I’m sorry I’m late.”

Michael had never been late to Judge Gregg’s courtroom. He had never been late to
any
courtroom.

“Is the state ready to begin, Mr Roman?”

The state is not ready
, Michael wanted to say.
The state is worried. Not about the case, your honor, but about the fact that Michael Roman, Esquire, defender of the rights of the citizens of this fair state, champion of the downtrodden, speaker for the voiceless victim, has broken the law. Now a man is dead and the proverbial chickens are coming home to roost. What’s worse is that the state itself may soon be coming after the upstanding Mr Roman, pillar of the aforementioned community. Add to that the fact that the lead witness in the current matter before the court has just taken a powder. Oh, yeah. We’re in fighting shape. Never better.

“We are, your honor.”

Judge Gregg nodded to his bailiff, who opened the door leading to the jury room. One by one, the twelve jurors filed through the door, followed by the four alternates.

Michael glanced first at John Feretti, who was resplendent in a bespoke navy-blue three-piece suit. The two men nodded at each other. Michael then glanced at Patrick Ghegan, the defendant. Ghegan wore a long-sleeve white shirt. Michael noticed that the creases from where the shirt had been folded were still in the arms. Ghegan was cleanshaven, combed, angelic, with his hands folded on the table. He did not look at Michael.

Once the jury was seated, Judge Gregg began to speak.

“Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen.”

Gregg then proceeded to give the jury their instructions, reminding them of their basic function, duties and expected conduct, and about how they were not permitted to read or view any accounts or discussions of the case reported by the newspapers or other media, including radio and television. When Gregg was satisfied he had communicated the instructions, he turned to Michael.

“Okay,” Gregg said. “Mr Roman, on behalf of the people.”

“Thank you, your honor.” Michael rose from his table, crossed the courtroom, stood in front of the jury. “Good afternoon ladies and gentlemen.”

All twelve jurors and four alternates mumbled some version of an answer.

“Welcome back,” Michael added. He took a moment, running his gaze across the men and women before him. This was one of the most important moments in a trial, especially a homicide trial. Michael often viewed it as the first image in a film. It set the tone and tenor for everything that followed. A weak opening could usually not be overcome. “This trial is about two men. Patrick Sean Ghegan, and Colin Francis Harris. More specifically, about what Patrick Ghegan did to Colin Harris on April 24, 2007.”

Michael continued, walking the jury through the events of the crime, slowly building to the moment when Patrick Ghegan pointed his handgun – a large-caliber Colt – at Colin Harris’s head, and pulled the trigger.

As he began his summation, he walked over to the easel sitting to the left of the witness stand. On the easel was a large blow-up of a photograph of Colin and Falynn Harris, a picture taken just a few months before the murder.

As Michael turned the large photograph on the easel, he felt a slight shift in the atmosphere in the room behind him. It wasn’t anything specific, not at that moment, just a transfer of energy.

“Fuck you!” a voice yelled.

Michael spun around. The entire courtroom was looking at the back of the room. There, a red-faced young man – a man Michael knew to be Patrick Ghegan’s younger brother Liam – was being restrained by a court officer.

“Rot in hell you fucking cocksuckers!” Liam screamed. “All of you!”

As jurors and gallery members scattered, two more officers rushed forward and took Liam Ghegan to the floor. In seconds they had him cuffed. At the door he turned and yelled. “And that bitch? That little bitch? She’s fucking
dead
.”

That little bitch
, Michael thought. He was talking about Falynn Harris. He looked around the courtroom, especially at the jury. They were, to a last person, shaken. Granted, they were all New Yorkers, and used to incidents of all kinds. But in this post-9/11 world, especially in a municipal building, nerves were constantly on edge. Michael wondered if he could get them back.