Fury

25

Tuesday, December 28

Marlene trudged up the creaking stairs of the nineteenth-century apartment building on Minetta Street in the Village. Reaching the fourth floor, she walked down the hall until she found what she was looking for, apartment 4C. Vivaldi's Four Seasons and the cloying odor of marijuana drifted out from under the door. She knocked. Footsteps approached and the peephole darkened as the occupant looked out.

"Who is it?" a man's voice asked.

"Marlene Ciampi. I called."

A dead bolt was pushed to the side and the door opened to reveal Ted Vanders in faded blue sweatpants and a NO MORE YEARS anti-Bush T-shirt that looked as if it had doubled as a napkin. His red-rimmed eyes flicked to her face and down to the ground as he stepped back. "Come on in."

"Thank you," Marlene said. Inside, she looked around the tiny living room. A stained and faded couch whose springs had long ago given up offering support sat against one wall, while a La-Z-Boy recliner of equal vintage and a littered coffee table between them completed the furniture. An ashtray on the table overflowed with butts; a freshly lit cigarette was smoldering on top of them, an apparent and not very successful attempt to hide the heavier pot smell. A cheap stereo sat on the ground beneath the window leading to the fire escape.

"I already told the cops everything I know," Vanders said, sinking into the chair.

"Yes, I'm sure they were very thorough," Marlene said. "But sometimes they miss something, and I just want to review a few questions I have. After all, a man's freedom and career are at stake here, and I'm sure you want him to have a fair trial."

Vanders seemed to have a hard time following the question and it took him a moment to realize he was expected to reply. "Uh, yeah, sure," he said. "I just have a lot to do to get ready for the next semester, and I've been up since five working on my master's thesis. But if I can answer a couple of questions, I'm happy to help."

Marlene smiled. "Thank you, Ted. I know you're busy so I'll keep this short. Maybe you could just sort of walk me through that evening."

Vanders picked up the burning cigarette and took a drag. "Sure. Uh, let's see, I was heading into the building to use my adviser's computer. Dr. Hurley lets me have a key so I can use her office when she's not there."

"Does that key get you into the building, too?" Marlene asked.

Vanders hesitated and took another puff. She could almost see the wheels spinning in his head as he analyzed the question.

"Um, no, usually I have to buzz for the janitor, but I was just walking up the stairs to the entrance when Sarah, I mean Miss Ryder, came out of the door. I asked her to hold the door; then I noticed she was crying."

"Was there anybody else around?"

Vanders hesitated again but shook his head. "No. I guess the janitor must have been on break or cleaning one of the other offices."

"Okay, so go on…Miss Ryder was crying…"

"Yes," Vanders said. "And her hair was messed up, and her blouse was sort of out of place."

"So what happened next?"

"I asked her if she was okay, and if there was something I could do. At first she wouldn't say anything…just kind of stood there crying. So I asked her again and she said, 'I was just raped by my professor.'

"I asked her who, but she wouldn't say. She seemed sort of disoriented. Like she was on drugs."

"Had you ever met Miss Ryder before?"

Vanders shook his head emphatically. "No. We don't exactly travel in the same social circles." He tried to laugh.

"You've never met her but you can tell that she's disoriented. How do you mean?"

"Well, she was wobbling around a little and just seemed high or something."

"And this stranger confides that she'd just been raped?"

"Yes."

"Did you go call the police?"

"She asked me not to. She said she just wanted to forget about it."

"So why did you come forward later?

"I read an article in the newspaper that Professor Michalik had been arrested for raping a student. I put two and two together and figured that the girl I saw had gone to the cops. I thought it was my civic duty to come forward."

"Your civic duty," Marlene repeated. "Of course. And again, you met her at the front entrance to the building?"

"Yes, the front," Vanders said. He was growing more nervous, alternating putting the cigarette down and picking it up but not always putting it to his lips. "Is that all? I really do have to get back to studying."

"Yes, for the moment," Marlene said, "but could I impose on you to use your bathroom. I had a venti caffe latte at Starbucks and my bladder isn't what it used to be. Then I'll be out of your hair."

Vanders practically leaped to his feet. "Yes, of course." He escorted her to the bathroom.

Marlene noticed that the door to what had to be the bedroom was closed. He saw her glance at it and almost shoved her into the bathroom. "There you go," he said. "Sorry it's a mess."

Once inside, Marlene shut the door. She noticed that the toilet seat was down. Sure sign of a woman in the house, she thought. Someone's training him. Everything else about the room was, as he said, a mess. A tube of toothpaste was open on the counter, its contents oozing out, and the mirror looked as if it hadn't been cleaned since Nixon was in office.

She flushed the toilet to disguise the sound of her opening the medicine cabinet. A quick survey of the contents yielded what she hoped to find. Bingo, roofies, she thought, and opened the pill container. She removed two pills and then replaced the cap and put the bottle back in the cabinet. Running the water down the sink, she closed the cabinet door, and then listened for her cue.

Outside the door of apartment 4A, two men began arguing. Vanders looked out the peephole to see who was yelling, but the men were just out of sight. He banged on his door. "Hey, quiet down out there. I'm trying to study."

The voices got louder. Vanders opened the door and saw a large, horribly filthy man tussling with a smaller man with a long nose, who was swearing with an expertise the likes of which Vanders had never heard before.

" 'Ooh gonna get it 'ow!" the large, filthy man shouted.

"Yeah, you and…motherfucker shit face…what army, crap," the little guy yelled back.

"Hey, you guys get out of here or I'll call the cops," Vanders threatened. "You don't belong in this building. And, oh, God, one of you smells like something crawled up inside of you and died. Get out!"

" 'crew 'ooh," the filthy man said to Vanders.

"Yeah, screw you, cock vagina mouth," his opponent added, before turning and pushing the big man, who roared something unintelligible and swung his fist. The smaller man easily ducked the punch, which carried past and struck Vanders squarely in the nose.

The blow knocked Vanders back into the apartment and to the ground just as Marlene emerged from the bathroom. She ran over and looked out in the hall. The two antagonists were hustling away in the direction of the staircase. They paused at the top and looked back. Booger flashed her the victory sign and then they ran down the stairs and out of sight.

Marlene ducked back inside and knelt next to Vanders, who was crying and trying to stop the blood that poured from his nose. She produced a large white handkerchief from her purse and started to dab at his face. "Oh, my God, are you all right?" she asked.

"My node, I dink dey broke my node," Vanders moaned.

"Lie back until the bleeding stops," Marlene advised. "Shall I call the cops or an ambulance?"

"No, I don't dink dat's necessary. Are dey gone?"

"Yes," Marlene said. "A couple of bums, by the looks of them. They're probably a mile away by now."

Vanders sighed and lay back. Marlene continued to sop up the blood and once "accidentally" gave his nose a poke.

Vanders screamed. "Wad did oo do dat for?" he cried.

"Sorry," she said. "I was just trying to see if your nose was broken. It doesn't look crooked." A minute later, she added, "The bleeding seems to have stopped. You can probably get up now."

Vanders sat up. "Yes, I dink I'm otay. Danks for da handkerchief. Sorry, I dink it's ruined."

Marlene looked at the bloody cloth in her hand and shrugged. "That's okay. I'll just take it home and wash it. I hear vinegar will get blood out." She stood up. "Well, if you're sure you'll be okay, I'll be going."

Vanders stood up and gently felt his nose. "Yes, danks, I dink I'll lie down for a few minutes."

When the annoying Ciampi woman left, Vanders wandered back to his bedroom and opened the door. Sarah Ryder was sitting on the bed with her arms crossed. "What in the hell was going on out there?"

Vanders explained. "How 'bout a kiss to make it bedder?" he said.

Ryder smiled back and tenderly patted his cheek. But instead of a kiss, she grabbed his nose between the knuckles of her fore- and middle finger and twisted as he yelped.

"Fuck, you know I hate kissing smokers," she said. "I might as well lick an ashtray."

"I did what you tol' me," Vanders complained.

"Yes, Ted, you were a good dog, like always. Just keep it that way or I'll really break your beak," she said; then, more to herself, she added, "I wonder what that bitch was up to."

Vanders shrugged. "She's just fishing for any-ting."

Ryder looked at Vanders. What a pathetic weakling, she thought, too bad he's so perfect for my plan. "Yes, you're probably right. Now you just be a good boy and maybe Sarah will give you a doggy-style treat one of these nights… But first you'll have to brush your teeth for an hour and gargle with Listerine. I really can't stand cigarette smoke. In the meantime, I got to go. I need to call my friend Rachel at the DA's office and see if they're ready to press charges against dear professor Michalik."

A few minutes later, Ryder left the apartment and headed down the stairs. She didn't know that a large man in apartment 4B across the hall was watching through the peephole in his door. Milan Svetlov was not quite as immense as his brother, Sergei, but he was just as loyal to their boss, Yvgeny Karchovski, whom he now called on his cell phone.

Yvgeny had rented the apartment after one of his men, who'd been assigned the task of following the Ryder woman, saw her visiting the "witness." Milan had been given the job of watching Vanders's apartment and reporting any unusual activities. A visit by the woman Milan had seen at Alexis Michalik's loft two weeks earlier certainly qualified, especially with the little bit of street theater he'd just watched.

After the Ciampi woman arrived, he'd kept watching and saw the big man and his small comrade tiptoe up the apartment stairs and start their "argument." What followed was better than American television. He'd wondered about its purpose, however, until he saw the woman emerge from the apartment and carefully place the bloody handkerchief in a large Ziploc bag, which she then deposited in her purse.

When a man answered his call, Milan spoke quickly in Russian, listened, chuckled at a joke, and then went back to his post at the peephole in time to see the good-looking whore come out. You're confident now, he thought, but justice is coming.

In his office at 100 Centre Street, V.T. Newbury was also thinking about justice as he sat across from Captain Tim Carney of the New York Police Department. The captain had been invited to the meeting ostensibly for some minor internal affairs questions, only to learn that he was the one under investigation.

So far, Carney was in denial. He looked over at Clay Fulton, who sat with his arms crossed and a scowl on his face. "Come on, Clay, we've known each other twenty-five years," he said.

"Yeah, and I never liked you for even one of them," Fulton responded. "Now I like you even less. In fact, I'd like to take you out back and beat the snot out of you."

Newbury grinned. "I don't think that will be necessary, Clay," he said. "Mr. Carney's in plenty of hot water as it is. Now, Tim, would you rather explain to me or to a grand jury looking to indict you how it is that a police officer, even a captain, with a mortgage on a modest little home in Yonkers and three kids in expensive colleges can afford a condominium in Key West for…," Newbury knew the number but enjoyed the dramatic effect as he studied the papers in front of him, "one and a half million dollars?"

Carney chewed his lip. He considered saying something snappy like, "By being a careful saver" but realized prudence might be the better part of valor. But he wasn't just going to flop over and said, "Am I being charged?"

"No, not yet," he said. "If you were, I would have already asked Clay here to read you your Miranda warnings. In fact, I want to make it clear and on the record-and by the way, this conversation is being tape-recorded-that you are free to leave. You don't have to answer my questions at all. But tell you what, you have until January 2 to think it over, after which time I will see who-Olav Radinskaya, Shakira Zulu, Hugh Louis, Ed Ewen, or Sam Lindahl-might be more willing to chat."

Carney blanched at the roll call of names. "Why was I your first choice?" he said.

Newbury shrugged. "Call it sentimentality or a choice between a half-dozen evils. You served the NYPD with distinction at one time-four commendations for bravery. I guess you looked ahead and saw penny-pinching in your golden years, and I can understand that wasn't a thrilling picture. But let me be clear-we're talking shades of gray. You might be the lightest shade, but you're still guilty as sin. So I'm giving you a chance to minimize the damage, but you're not going to get entirely off the hook. And by the way, if we hear that you ran back to the Rat Pack and tried to warn them-and let me assure you we will hear, just like we heard about the place in Key West-there will be no mercy."

The police captain swallowed hard and nodded. "I…I want to talk to a lawyer."

Newbury closed the file. "Fine, talk to a lawyer. But do it before January 2. After that we start working our way up shade by shade."