Down into Darkness (11 page)

‘They put their guns down, or I kill her.'

‘You kill her, and they shoot you. See – it's a circle.' Costea thought it through: thinking circular thoughts. Stella said, ‘Give her to me.'

The razor moved. Charleen made a little sound: fear and pain. A laser dot played on the back wall.

Costea said, ‘You crazy bitch.'

‘Like this,' Stella told him. ‘We'll do it like this. I come and stand close to her. Just in front of her, very close but to the side. That way you have two body shields, see that? Two people standing in front of you. Now you're no target at all. Now you've got cover. See that?'

Costea said nothing. Stella took a couple of steps forward, halving the distance between them.

‘See that? Already, there's less for them to shoot at.'

Costea moved the razor up, angling the edge to Charleen's throat. He said, ‘Where is your gun?'

Stella was wearing jeans, a T-shirt, a light jacket. She took the jacket off and dropped it on the floor behind her, then pulled the T-shirt out of her waistband and tweaked out the pocket linings of her jeans. Some loose change clattered on to the floor. Then she turned a circle to show the back pockets: flat and empty. She reached down and raised her jeans from the knee, revealing her ankles and calves, gun free.

Costea said, ‘Lift up.'

Stella lifted the T-shirt and turned another circle: nothing in the waistband of her jeans; facing him, she lifted it higher: nothing in her bra.

‘When you stand by her –'

‘You back off to the door. Then you give her to me. You go through the door. It's a chance.'

‘Why?'

‘To save her life.'

‘And my life.'

Stella said, ‘I don't care whether you live or die, you cocksucker. If you die, that's just fine by me. I couldn't give a flying fuck. Her life, that's why.'

Costea could feel Charleen's blood dribbling over his arm. His eyes were fixed on Stella. He said, ‘When you stand, don't stand close enough to reach me.'

Stella took another step forward. She reckoned she was screening him on the left side, the door side. When she'd stepped in, the laser dot had disappeared, and she wondered whether it was centred on her head or her heart.

‘Go back,' she said, ‘walk back now. Keep going.'

He did just that, his eyes on hers, still expecting her to make a move on him. He was taking short steps, because Charleen was unsteady, the high heels of her casino shoes dragging the concrete. Stella wondered whether it was blood loss or terror. Costea's back hit the wall. He looked at Stella.

‘You're there,' she told him. ‘A yard to the left,' and she made a compensatory movement to cover him. He matched the move, then kicked back with his heel to sound the surface behind him. Wood.

I know what she's going to do
. Harriman glanced over at the squad leader, wondering whether he'd had the same thought.

‘Okay.' Stella could feel her own pulses, little registers of fear. ‘Okay, here's what you do. When I step in, let her go. I'll hold her. We'll still be in front of you. Open the door and
go through. For a moment no one will know. You'll have some time. It's the best you're going to get.'

Costea knew three things: the yard behind the casino had a wall he could climb, and there were other walls beyond; he knew the back streets and burrows behind the Strip as well as any of the whores who gave blow-jobs there; and he knew that he'd made a colossal mistake.

Charleen slumped slightly in his arms. The laser dot skittered along the wall.

Stella said, ‘Use your right hand. They can't see.'

Costea moved his razor hand, and Charleen sagged with relief. He leaned against the door, and she leaned with him, her eyes showing the whites. He turned the handle. The door opened an inch or two and stuck.

The squad leader realized what was happening. He said, ‘No!' Red dots criss-crossed but couldn't latch on.

Costea whacked the door with his heel. It opened. He let Charleen go, and she stood upright, swaying slightly, just this side of consciousness. Stella reached out, and the girl fell against her, trembling, making little cawing sounds. For a long moment that was all: Stella and Charleen standing in a one-sided embrace, the girl's head nodding on Stella's shoulder, Costea long gone. Then Harriman was there, passing them and going out of sight just a second or two before the
CO
14 squad cops barged across the room and through the door.

Harriman wasn't fast enough to find Costea still in the yard, but he heard the sound of garbage bins being scattered. He ran at the wall and leaped, getting a hand-hold, then levered himself up and over. The second yard was empty.

This'll be it
, he thought.
One step behind until I finally lose him.

He made the next wall and dropped down, landing lightly, and was running through when he heard the silence. He snapped round, expecting to find Costea coming at him, but there was no one. Then he looked towards the far wall and saw the fire escape.

He topped the wall and swung round to get his feet on the metal rungs. It was a long way up. The roof was one of a terrace, and Harriman could see Costea two houses away. There were low walls between each house – low but too high to hurdle. He started to run, unsteady at that height, conscious of the street noise below and the sheer drops on each side. His foot snagged a cable, and the trip took him staggering towards the edge. He recovered and ran, keeping his eyes on his quarry, trying to blank what was in his peripheral vision: TV aerials, neon signs, the landing lights of a plane as it banked, coming round towards Heathrow.

Costea half turned. Maybe he'd heard Harriman, maybe he'd felt a tell-tale coldness in the small of his back. Either way, it was a mistake. He was close to the next barrier between the houses and turned only in time to run into it, smacking his thigh against the brickwork. His leg went from under him and, when he tried to get to his feet, let him down
immediately. He pulled himself up as Harriman came close. The razor was back in his hand.

Harriman said, ‘Oh, for Christ's sake.'

Costea edged along the wall, dragging the dead leg. He was heading for the edge, as if there were some way down from there, as if he might step off and somehow find himself in the street, looking up at Harriman, stranded amid cables and phone masts.

‘Put it down,' Harriman told him. ‘There's nowhere to go.'

Costea beckoned him, crooking his finger to bring Harriman on. ‘Now you and me.'

Harriman laughed. ‘Put it down, you stupid fuck, or I'll kick you off the roof.'

‘You and me – ready?'

A laser dot hit him on the chest and travelled up to his left eye. Harriman stretched out a hand and blocked the sightline. Without turning round, he shouted, ‘I need to talk to him. Okay? I need him.' Then he lowered his hand. A second dot joined the first, shimmying about for a moment, then settling on Costea's right eye.
CO
14 with a sense of humour.

Costea closed the razor and tossed it across to Harriman. He said, ‘Jesus, man, it was just a game of poker.'

Stella and Harriman sat down with Costea.

He said, ‘So, let's cut a deal.' When Stella's hand went out to the tape button, he added, ‘Off the record.'

She delayed but kept her hand close to the machine. ‘What did you have in mind?'

‘You want money?' Silence from Stella; silence from Harriman. ‘Information – what? You people know how things are up there. That casino got guys from Clubs and Vice play blackjack regular. How many casinos you think they run on the Strip? Five? Ten? Sure, you're getting close.'

‘Gambling?' Harriman said. He shook his head. ‘Not interested.'

‘So?'

‘We asked about you,' Stella said. ‘Costea Radu. Stable of ten, all from Romania, all young. Some very young. That's what we hear.'

‘I need some way out of here, okay?'

‘You've been arrested for malicious wounding and kidnap. Out of here is a long way off.'

Costea sighed and looked down at his hands, folded and resting on the table: a man displaying patience, a man ready to talk. ‘You are not anti-gambling cops, right?'

‘No, we're not.'

‘And you are not charging me with accident with the girl.'

‘Accident?' Harriman laughed.

Costea ignored him. ‘Okay, good, so you don't mind blackjack and you don't mind I cut the girl. You mind about other things.'

‘I mind,' Stella said. ‘I mind that you cut her.'

‘But other things' – he looked for the word – ‘official.'

‘Yes.'

‘Some questions…'

‘Yes.'

‘Good. So I ask you for deal. Maybe we can do some business. What questions?'

Stella took Lizzie's enhanced post-mortem shot from an envelope and pushed it across the table. ‘First question: did you kill her?'

Costea's body seemed to take a little jolt, as if he'd picked up a charge of static electricity. ‘You are murder cops?'

Stella hit the record button, then stated the date, time and those present. She observed that Mr Costea Radu had waived his right to have a solicitor present. She made it clear that she had passed him a photograph, mentioned its nature and
the catalogue number given to it in the evidence room; then she repeated the question she had just asked.

‘You fucking kid me?' Costea asked.

‘Do you recognize the person in the photograph?'

‘Never see her.' He looked more closely. ‘She dead here?'

‘Yes,' Stella said, ‘she's dead. Violence against women – part of your stock in trade, Costea, that's what we heard.'

‘Stock in –'

‘Something you do,' Harriman said, ‘something you
like
to do.'

‘Not me.'

‘No?'

‘Not me that killed her.'

Stella said, ‘You knew her, though. You'd seen her.'

‘I don't know. A whore. How should I know?'

‘She was on your turf. She was poaching, you tried to get to her.'

Costea looked at the photo again. Little white face, big brown eyes. ‘Maybe. There was one like her. I never found her. I saw her, but never found her.'

‘You went looking.'

‘She was taking business. Fucking me around.'

‘Why your business especially?'

Costea pointed at the photo. ‘She's young, see? My girls are young. Some men want only this.'

‘What kind of men?' Stella asked.

‘Men with wives.' Costea shrugged. ‘Older men, of course. What happened to her?'

Stella weighed the risk and decided to take it. ‘She was found hanging in a tree a few streets –'

‘Oh.' Costea looked again. ‘That girl.' He seemed curious: nothing in his face of things hidden or relived, no shadow of guilt. After a moment he said, ‘Guess what – I didn't do that. You want to take DNA? Take it, no problem.'

‘We intend to,' Stella said, but she knew she wouldn't find a match; Costea Radu hadn't hauled Lizzie up into the tree. He had forgotten her already as he looked across the table, half smiling, eager to help, hoping for a deal that would put him back on the Strip before nightfall.

‘Who would do this?' Stella asked. ‘Who was running her?'

‘I never saw anyone,' Costea said. ‘We can do something, okay? Do a deal.'

Harriman asked, ‘No one putting her out there?'

‘Okay, someone, what do I know? I never saw anyone. If she had someone looking after her, he never came up on the Strip. She was… what is it? Solo.' He shrugged. ‘Or maybe her mother sends her out, maybe her husband.'

‘Do you know her name?'

‘Her
what?
' Costea laughed. ‘Sure, I know her name. Bitch, that would be her
name
.' A pause, then: ‘So what kind deal we talking about?'

Stella switched off the tape. She said, ‘You can talk to the judge about a deal, you bastard.'

A PC collected the prisoner from the interview room to take him down to the cells. Costea looked back at Stella. He mouthed the word
Bitch
. Stella smiled a smile so wide it would almost have read on the interview tape.

The leg was still giving Costea trouble. As the door closed, Harriman flicked a glance at Stella.

‘Pimp with a limp.'

There was music, as usual, this time some slow jazz, and Sam Burgess was using a Stryker saw to open Leonard Pigeon's chest cavity. Then he cut through the ribs on each side and lifted the chest plate. The heart and lungs sat soft and inert.

Giovanni cut away some residual soft tissue from the chest cavity and made the cuts along the spinal column that would allow the principal organs to be lifted and removed. Open-coffin work: all done with care; all done with the skill and attention to detail that would allow the body to be seen by relatives without undue distress.

Once the organs had been examined, weighed and tested; once the stomach contents had been sifted; once the heart and lungs, liver and lights had been salami-sliced for the path lab; once the skull had been trepanned and the brain scooped out and scrutinized, Sam and Giovanni would put Leonard together again, his guts lumped back into the body cavity, his cranium sutured, the gash in his throat closed and tricked with cosmetics, the great ‘Y' incision that went from shoulder wings to breastbone to pubis cobbled together with blanket stitch.

‘Overweight,' Sam said, ‘and under-exercised and on the road to a coronary occlusion.'

‘He was young.'

Stella was standing some ten or fifteen feet back from the autopsy table. People reduced to their constituent parts had an unsettling effect on her. She could see the living person at the same time as seeing the skull beneath the skin.

Sam said, ‘I don't mean soon. Not next year, or the year after that; no. Soon enough, though.'