Erasing Memory (26 page)

“And the ice auger. Anything else?”

“The shotguns were on the table where Thompson had been cleaning them. The ten- and twelve-gauge are still in pieces; he’d just finished reassembling the wife’s when Vertesi arrived. He’d gone to the back of the shop to get more rags to clean the larger pieces when Gibbs grabbed the sixteen-gauge. That’s all I’ve got until Forensics is through with the house. I’m just coming into town now—where do you want me?”

“I think it’s time we had a chat with Gregori Petrescu. Can you meet me at the Chelsea Manor in a half-hour? Park outside on the street, away from the entrance.”

MacNeice put the cellphone in his jacket pocket and looked over at Aziz. She was mopping up the sauce on her plate with a piece of bread.

“Let me take you home first.” He took the plates to the sink and returned to re-cork the wine.

“No, I’ll come too.”

“I think you need to rest. Why don’t you sit this one out? We’ll be fine.”

“No way, Mac.” Aziz got up from her chair and retrieved her pile of clothes. She went into the bathroom and emerged a few minutes later, snapping her service weapon back onto the belt of her creased and bloodstained pants. “Okay, let’s go.”

S
WETSKY CLIMBED INTO THE BACK
of the Chevy, which dipped with his weight. “What’s the plan, Stan?” he asked, closing the door. Aziz was in the passenger seat but didn’t turn around.

Driving off, MacNeice met his eyes in the rear-view mirror and said, “First we’ll see if the Range Rover is in the parking lot. If it is, the bodyguards will probably be with him. I’ll park the car across the street. Aziz, why don’t you stay with the car in case we miss them inside?”

“The hell I will.” She was looking out the window but the determination in her voice was clear.

Swetsky was surprised at her tone. “Hey, Aziz, relax. Whatever. I’ll stay with the car.”

“Just so we’re clear,” MacNeice said, “we’re not looking for trouble. If we were, I’d call in the cavalry. We just want to continue the conversation that was interrupted outside his
father’s house.”

Then MacNeice gave Swetsky a brief overview of what had happened while he’d been at the lake. “Aziz and I think Marcus Johnson was killed by the two bodyguards.”

The big man’s only response came softly from the back seat. “Christ almighty.”

T
HE
C
HELSEA
M
ANOR HAD BEEN BUILT
on land that was once an apple orchard in the shadow of the escarpment to the west of the city. Because it sat high on a dome-like hill, the orchard’s name had been Hilltop Macs, a nod to the McIntosh apples grown there. As a teenager, MacNeice had worked at the orchard every fall weekend, picking fruit or sitting in the plywood shack waiting for customers to come and buy a bag, a box or a bushel. When the farmer died, his two sons, who had long before moved away, promptly sold the land. The house, a small but pleasant century-old brick two-storey, and the nearby red barn with
HILLTOP MACS
and an illustration of a large, juicy apple painted on it were razed. It took only eight days before the hill was transformed into a bald mound and construction of the Manor had begun.

The approach to it had been designated Chelsea Lane, and it followed the path of the dirt road that had once run up to the farm. The only building on Chelsea Lane was the Chelsea Manor—the road was effectively a cul-de-sac. “Strange choice for Gregori,” MacNeice said.

“Because it’s bogus colonial?” Swetsky asked.

“No, because it’s a dead end.”

“Maybe they feel they’ve done nothing wrong,” Aziz said. “Or they’re really confident.”

“I vote for confident.”

MacNeice drove around the circular drive, passing under a three-storey-high canopy supported by four gigantic white concrete columns. The parking lot, to the left of the hotel, was separated from the building by two rows of apple trees. Not the original species—these were crabapples, an ironic barb for all those who had once carried Hilltop Macs in their lunch pails or eaten them in pies or applesauce.

After cruising the parking lot without spotting the black Range Rover, MacNeice backed into an empty spot and turned off the engine. “Let’s review. We’ve got three Romanians, all either military or ex-military. Gregori Petrescu is a microbiologist and not likely to be a combatant, but the other two are fit ex-military types and carry foot-long dowels.”

“Excuse me?” Swetsky said.

“Foot-long dowels, shoved into the back of their pants. They weren’t carrying any other weapons the first time we met, but it doesn’t mean they don’t have them.”

“We’re just going in to talk, though?” Aziz said, looking over at MacNeice.

“That’s right. The colonel’s smart enough to know we’re bound to pay a visit, and poised enough not to be worried about it.”

“One thing’s been eatin’ at me, Mac,” Swetsky said. “The first killing—the girl—was so precise—spooky-smart, and so clean. Then we get the guy in the boat—okay, you could argue that was also tidy. But throwing the kid off the balcony? That was very messy and very public. I don’t get it.”

“Maybe the fact that we found him first took the elegance out of the plan,” Aziz said.

“It was a quick fix, you mean?”

“Yes. But here’s what’s weird for me—Marcus had never
met these guys. He didn’t know who paid for the cottage.” Aziz unsnapped her seatbelt.

MacNeice said, “I’ve started to think, what if this was a contract? You come, you complete the contract and you leave.”

“And these guys?” Swetsky asked.

“They hired the contractor. What’s happened since is their problem, and they’re not as subtle as he was.”

“Tossing a kid off a balcony, you mean.” Swetsky made a diving motion with his hand that both MacNeice and Aziz ignored.

“Whoever threw Johnson off the balcony may have suspected that he ran because he knew something.” MacNeice looked down the line of cars. A small rabbit edged out onto the driveway and hopped over to the crabapple trees to nibble on the vegetation below. He pointed it out to Aziz and Swetsky.

“Sweet,” Aziz said.

“Dinner,” Swetsky replied.

“And here’s another thing—these guys are Romanian but the syringe was likely built by a Bulgarian.”

“What do we do about diplomatic immunity?” Aziz asked.

“To quote the deputy chief, fuck ’em. If the conversation stays pleasant it won’t be an issue. If the sticks come out, assume malicious intent.”

“And if these guys leave without you and get into their truck?” Swetsky asked.

“We’ve all got pagers, and we’ll use them. If you feel the buzzer in your pocket, stop them. If you don’t, try buzzing us. If we don’t answer, it’s your turn to be John Wayne.”

MacNeice was still watching the rabbit, hunkered down and nibbling at the greens. Suddenly its head popped up, its ears went vertical and it bolted back across the pavement.
MacNeice looked beyond it to the entrance to see the black Range Rover ease around the corner, heading towards them. “Well, perhaps no need to wait. Turn the two-way on, Aziz.”

The SUV stopped three feet from the Chevy’s front bumper. Several seconds passed before the truck’s rear door opened. Then Gregori Petrescu stepped out and straightened his suit jacket. He took a cigarette out of a package, put it in his mouth and lit it. Standing in front of the Chevy with one hand in his pocket, he smiled slightly and waited.

MacNeice told Aziz to stay put, got out of the car and walked towards him. “Good day, Mr. Petrescu.”

“It must be embarrassing, Detective, to be approached like this. You, a professional, caught sitting in—how do you call it—a dead end?”

“Caught? I wasn’t aware I was being hunted.” MacNeice looked through the windshield at the two bodyguards, who stared back at him. The one in the passenger seat was sporting dark rings under his eyes, and neither man was smiling. Turning back to Petrescu, he said, “Do you want to ask these boys to step out of the vehicle, or shall I?”

“It’s safer if I do.” Petrescu knocked twice on the door panel and moved out of the way. As the two men got out, Aziz and Swetsky emerged from the Chevy.

“Ask them to take those dowels from their pants and place them on the ground.” MacNeice put his hand on the grip of his service revolver where the colonel could see it.

“Are you arresting me, Detective?” Petrescu asked, without taking the cigarette from his mouth.

“Do I have reason to?”

Aziz and Swetsky moved forward to stand on either side of MacNeice with their hands on their service weapons. Gregori
studied Aziz from head to toe and smiled. “She’s a beautiful woman, MacNeice, but she looks so terrible—like she’s been rolling in dirt, or blood.”

“The dowels?” MacNeice nodded at the two bodyguards, who were standing with their hands crossed in front of their genitals, soccer style. Petrescu smiled, took the cigarette out of his mouth and motioned to the two. They reached behind and took out the dowels, placing them on the ground in front of their feet.

“Push them forward.” MacNeice motioned with his hand and the two rolled the sticks in his direction.

“Now what, Detective? I have a plane to catch.” Petrescu dropped the butt on the ground and crushed it with his shoe.

“You’re not staying for your sister’s funeral?” MacNeice asked.

“Sadly, no. Events in Romania are calling me home. So, what do you want with us?” He put his hands in his pockets and again turned his attention to Aziz. “Shall I ask you, lady detective? What do you want with me?”

Aziz did not acknowledge him.

“There are several questions that I’d like answers to, Colonel Petrescu, and until I have them, you’ll be staying here. But I’d like to conduct that interview at Division and not here in the parking lot.”

“So you
are
arresting me. On what charge?” Petrescu’s tone indicated that he was finally in danger of losing his cool. The two bodyguards took a half-step forward, dropping their hands to their sides.

Swetsky and Aziz both drew their weapons and assumed firing positions. MacNeice hadn’t drawn his; he simply stepped towards the colonel. “Questioning, in this country, is not the same as arresting. But I think it would be best to keep your
boys on a leash, so I’m going to ask my partner to cuff them.”

“You called me Colonel—thank you for the respect. By partner, do you mean the fat one or the dirty woman?”

“Fuck you, Jack,” Swetsky said, his eyes on the bodyguards.

“Well, I think that’s enough.” MacNeice pulled his weapon out of its holster, pointed it at Petrescu’s head and walked forward till the end of the barrel was touching his temple. He moved behind him, took his shoulder and turned him in the direction of the bodyguards. “Swetsky, cuff Black-Eyes first and then his mate.”

Petrescu nodded slightly, and the bodyguard put his hands together and brought them forward. Swetsky holstered his weapon and took out the handcuffs.

“Do you mind, Detective, if I call my consul general?” Petrescu asked.

“Right now, yes, I mind.” He tapped the barrel gently against the man’s temple. “Aziz, once Swetsky’s dealt with those two, search the Range Rover.”

“With pleasure, boss.” Aziz moved around Petrescu and MacNeice, gave her cuffs to Swetsky and waited till he had cuffed the other bodyguard.

“So you do speak,” Petrescu said. “Aziz.… You’re Muslim, but they let you be a detective. What a country!”

“Like my partner said, sir, fuck you.” Aziz holstered her weapon, took the latex gloves from her jacket pocket, snapped them on and opened the driver’s door of the SUV.

Swetsky grinned and tapped hard on the bodyguards’ shoulders, encouraging them to sit down on the pavement.

“The driver’s seat is clear,” Aziz said, and walked around to the passenger side.

“Do you not need a search warrant, Detective?” Petrescu asked.

“Not this time. Here, blocking a police vehicle is perceived as a threat.”

“Passenger side, glove compartment, under the seats all clear, except for a
Hustler
magazine,” Aziz called.

“They get lonely being so far from home.” Petrescu smiled.

“MacNeice, come take a look at this.” Aziz was on the far side of the SUV, leaning over the back seat. In her hands was a black portfolio. She lifted it up towards MacNeice. “Marcus and Lydia’s album.”

MacNeice pushed Petrescu over to the vehicle and looked in as Aziz slowly turned the pages. “Where did you pick that up?” he asked Petrescu.

“I’ve told you before, Detective, I am not obliged to answer you.”

“That’s right, you did. We’ll continue our conversation later.” At the end of the driveway, three unmarked Chevys bounced over the ramp and into the lane, followed by a large black van. One of the cars circled around and stopped just ahead of the Range Rover, while the other two pulled up behind.

MacNeice turned over Petrescu to the first cop out of his vehicle. “Cuff him, search him and have the Rover searched stem to stern.”

“I demand you inform the consul general. You have no idea what you’re doing here.”

MacNeice ignored him, addressing the officer who now had Petrescu’s arms behind him. “Treat him with respect—he’s a foreign national. Get someone to move this vehicle out of the way of my car.” All three men were led away and disappeared inside the black van.

“Jeezus, Aziz,” Swetsky said, “I was going to whack him when he made that crack about your clothes, but the creep had a point.” He was looking at the dried blood on her pants and shoes, her creased and tear-stained blouse.

She looked down in mock surprise and smiled insincerely. “Thank you, Swetsky. So good of you to notice.”

“Swets, put your gloves on and get those sticks down to Forensics. I want to know if there’s anything on them. Also, photograph the portfolio where Aziz found it and then confiscate it. Can you check whether there was a security breach at Lydia’s apartment? If there wasn’t, this is another portfolio, and I think I know where it came from.”

“Okay, Mac.”

“Aziz, come with me.” MacNeice led her down the lane to the hotel entrance.

A
T THE DESK
, M
AC
N
EICE AND
A
ZIZ
showed their badges. “The key for Gregori Petrescu’s room, and those of his two companions, please,” MacNeice said. The clerk looked surprised to see them—they were the only people around who weren’t in the parking lot gawking at the show.