The Devil_s Garden

THIRTY-ONE

Michael figured Kolya to be around twenty-three. He was short and solid, powerfully built, definitely a weight trainer. Michael had about six inches in height on him, and they probably weighed the same, but that was where any similarities ended.

Then there was the gun.

They were driving east on the Long Island Expressway, Michael at the wheel, Kolya next to him.

Michael thought about Viktor Harkov’s body. He had seen his share of carnage over the last decade. He had gotten a brutal introduction of his own that horrible day at the Pikk Street Bakery.

Michael considered what a physical confrontation might be like. It had been many years since he’d had to fight anyone. Growing up ethnic in Queens, it was a weekly occurrence; everyone had their corner, their block. He’d had his share of scuffles in and around courtrooms over the years, of course, but nothing that progressed much beyond the shoving or shirt-bunching stage.

The truth was, he had been hitting the gym with regularity. On a good day, he could put in an hour on the treadmill, lift free weights for another thirty minutes, and work the heavy bag for three full rounds. He was in the best physical condition of his life. But that was a long way from physical violence. Could he handle himself? He didn’t know, but he had the dark feeling that his condition was going to be tested, and soon.

As they passed through Flushing Meadows, Queensboro, and Corona Park, Michael thought about the man who called himself Aleksander Savisaar. How did the man know so much about him? Would he really hurt Abby and the girls? Michael had no choice but to believe him.

In the meantime, he knew he had to remain calm, play this cool. He would find an opening. Until then, the lives of his wife and daughters depended on it.

“Look, you look like a smart young man,” he began, trying to keep the fear out of his tone. “You’re name is Kolya? Short for Nikolai?”

The kid remained silent. Michael continued.

“You’ve got to know that this is going to jam you up for the rest of your life.”

The kid still didn’t say a word. He’d probably heard the routine before. After what seemed like a full minute of silence, Kolya responded. “What do you know about it?”

Here it was. As much as Michael wanted to drive the SUV into a guardrail, take the gun from the kid’s belt and put it to his head, he had to take another tack. For now. He took a deep breath.

“You know I’m a prosecutor, right?”

The kid snorted laughter. So he hadn’t known.

Even before he said it, Michael knew it might be a mistake. Telling a criminal you were a ADA could open a lot of possibilities, most of them bad. If this kid had been to jail – and Michael was fairly certain he had – a prosecutor had put him there. Michael had gotten his share of jailhouse threats over the years.

The kid mugged. “A prosecutor.”

“Yeah.”

“Un-fucking-real. Where at?”

“Queens.”

The kid snorted another laugh. He was clearly from another borough. Michael would bet Brooklyn. He had to keep him talking. “Where are you from?”

The kid lit a cigarette. For a few long seconds it appeared he wasn’t going answer. Then on a trail of smoke, he said: “Brooklyn.”

“What part?”

Another long pause. “So, what, is this where we have a heart-to-heart? The part where you tell me that I really don’t want to hurt anybody, or that if only my mother could see me now she would be ashamed of me?” The kid looked out the window for a moment, back. “My mother was a fucking whore. My old man was a sadist.”

Michael had to get off this subject. “This is my family. Do you have family of your own?”

Kolya didn’t answer. Michael stole a glance at the kid’s left hand. No ring.

“Why are you doing this?” Michael asked.

The kid shrugged. “Everybody’s got to have a hobby.”

“Look, I can get my hands on some money,” Michael said, his stomach turning at the thought of ransoming his family. “Serious money.”

“Don’t talk.”

“Whatever he is paying you, it’s not enough.”

The kid looked over at him. Michael could not see his eyes. All he saw was his own face reflected in a fish eye view in the kid’s wraparound sunglasses. “What he’s paying me? What the fuck makes you think this isn’t my idea? My play.”

It hadn’t occurred to Michael, and with good reason. It seemed impossible. When he first looked the kid over – something at which he was skilled, an ability he developed in his first years in the DA’s office on those days when he had to chair three dozen preliminary hearings in a single day and had to read a defendant in ten seconds flat – he noticed the dirt under the kid’s nails, the smell of axle grease and motor oil in his clothes. This kid worked in or around a garage, and Michael was willing to bet he was not servicing his own fleet of classic sports cars.

“You’re right,” Michael began, hoping to placate the kid. “I didn’t mean any disrespect by that. All I’m saying is that, whatever this is paying, I’m hoping it’s enough.”

The kid lowered his window, flicked the cigarette out. “I’m touched by your concern.” He raised the window. “Now drive the fucking car, and shut the fuck up.”

The kid pulled back the corner of his jacket. The butt of the automatic weapon emerged from the waistband of his jeans. It was on the kid’s right side, furthest from Michael’s reach. The kid might have been a thug, but he wasn’t stupid. The gun was all he had to say.

Ten minutes later they pulled off the road on Hempstead Avenue, near Belmont Racetrack, just east of Hollis, into the parking lot of a somewhat isolated off-brand motel called the Squires Inn.

The motel was L-shaped, tired, with a broken asphalt parking lot, missing shingles. It may have at one time been part of a chain, but had long since fallen into disrepair. They pulled into the lot. Kolya pointed to a space. Michael put the car in park, cut the engine. Kolya reached over, took the keys from the ignition.

“Do not get out of the car,” Kolya said. “Do not do a fucking thing. You move, I make a call, and it starts raining shit.”

Kolya reached into the back seat, grabbed two large grocery bags, exited the car, crossed the walkway. He reached into his pocket, fished out a key, opened the door to room 118. Michael checked his coat pockets, even though he knew that Kolya had frisked him before leaving the office, taking his house keys, car keys, cellphone, and wallet. All he had left was his watch and his wedding ring. He reached over, tried to open the glove compartment. It was locked. He checked the back seats, the console, the pockets on the doors. Nothing. He needed something, something he could use as a weapon, something with which he could get the upper hand. There was nothing.

A minute later Kolya emerged from the room, looked left and right, scanning the parking lot. It was all but empty. He motioned to Michael to get out of the car. Michael emerged, crossed the sidewalk, and entered the room. Kolya closed the door.

The room was standard issue for an off-brand motel – worn teal green carpeting, floral bedspread with matching drapes, laminate writing desk, a nineteen-inch television on a swivel stand. Michael noticed a rusty ring on the ceiling over the bed. There had recently been a leaky roof. He heard the pipes rattle inside the walls. The room smelled of mildew and cigarettes.

Kolya locked the door. He pointed to the chair by the desk. “Sit there.”

Michael hesitated for a moment. He was not used to being given orders, especially by someone the likes of which he put in jail for a living. The fact that this man had both a 9 mm weapon and his family got him moving. He eased himself onto the chair.

Kolya parted the drapes slightly, looked out into the parking lot. He took out his cellphone, punched in a number. After a few moments he spoke into the phone. He closed the phone. He then extracted the weapon from his waistband, held it at his side. He turned to Michael. “Come here.”

Michael stood, walked over to the window. Kolya opened the drapes further, pointed. “You see that car over there? The one parked underneath the sign?”

Michael looked out the window. Under the sign for the motel was a ten-year-old Ford Contour, dark blue, tinted windows. He could not see inside. “Yes.”

“Go back and sit down.”

Michael did as he was told.

“I am going to leave now,” Kolya said. “I want you to listen to me carefully. Are you listening?”

“Yes.”

“You don’t leave this room. You don’t make any phone calls. There’s a man sitting in that Ford over there. He works for me. If you so much as open the door to this room, he will call me, and your family is dead. Do you understand this?”

The words sliced through Michael’s heart. “Yes.”

“I’m going to call you on this room phone every thirty minutes. If you don’t answer within two rings, your family is dead.” Kolya pointed to the wall. “The girl working the front desk here is my cousin. In front of her is a switchboard. If you make an outgoing call, she’ll know. If you even pick up the phone without receiving an incoming call, she’ll know. Do either of these things and I will light up your family. Do you understand this?”

The fear began to crawl around Michael’s stomach. The possibility that he may never see Abby and the girls was real. “Yes.”

“Good.”

Kolya pointed to the two large grocery bags he had brought in with him. “There’s food in there. You’re gonna be here awhile. Eat healthy, counselor.”

Kolya laughed at his joke, then held Michael’s stare for an uncomfortable amount of time, asserting his authority. Michael had met so many men like Kolya over the years. He could not look away. He would not.

Finally Kolya backed off. He crossed the room, gave everything one more look, opened the door, and left. Michael slipped up to the window, peered through the curtains. He saw Kolya walk up to the blue Ford. Whoever was inside the Ford rolled down the window. Kolya pointed to the room, to his watch. A few seconds later he slipped into his own car, pulled out of the parking lot and soon disappeared into the traffic on the Hempstead Avenue.

Michael paced around the room.

He had never felt more helpless in his life.