Part 77 (1/2)
Sholavsky, it read, was Russian by birth. Born in Minsk a few years after the First World War. A dedicated Communist, he'd served in the Red Army through the forties, distinguis.h.i.+ng himself as an artillery captain in Germany.
After the war, Sholavsky had been promoted, a lateral promotion as opposed to an upward one within the army. He'd been a.s.signed to the KGB, whereupon he'd been a.s.signed to Soviet Consulates in Oslo and Paris, in the guise of a clerk.
”See the fine print at the bottom?” asked Hearn.
”It says that Sholavsky died of illness in Turkey in 1965. And evidently someone somewhere believes that because these prints were among those of the dead.”
”But they gave them to us anyway?” asked Sha.s.sad flatly, not yet realizing the proper implications.
”Yeah,” said Hearn.
”They said,
”Hey, you idiots, cut the clowning. Stop wasting our time with old prints. Cut the s.h.i.+t. ”And just to show us that we'd taken the wrong print off the mirror, they gave me these. The print boys wanted to show us how wrong we were” Sha.s.sad eyed his partner coldly.
”But we're not wrong, are we?”
he said.
Hearn reached into his pocket.
”Here are the pictures we took” he said.
”I picked them up at forensics on my way uptown” Hearn laid out the prints of Jacobus through the telephoto police lens. Side view next to side view, full frontal next to full frontal.
The picture of Jacobus next to the deceased KGB agent, Sholavsky.
Jacobus was ten pounds heavier, balder, and wore more lines around the eyes. Otherwise, the conclusion was clear.
”It's the same man” said Sha.s.sad.
”The same man.”
Hearn and Sha.s.sad exchanged long stares. They were both exhilarated and perplexed by their discovery. Yet they were simultaneously put off by it, too. What were they doing? After all, they were New York City homicide detectives, not counterespionage agents.
They were investigating a murder on a sidewalk, not a spy ring.
And yet.” And yet . . .
One aspect of the case, formerly so inexplicable, now made sudden, brutal sense. The two men on Seventy-third Street, the pair who'd slain Ryder. Sha.s.sad had always thought they were professionals. But his theory had made no sense. What business did a janitor have dealing with trained killers and alerting them when to strike a designated victim? A janitor had no such business. But an alien agent? A man long since thought to be dead, masquerading for years as a night custodian? Professional a.s.sa.s.sins fit perfectly to a man like that.
After several moments of pause, Hearn spoke.
”Aram, look he said.
”We've got to make a decision. This doesn't look like our turf.
We could wrap this up as is and dump it on the Feds. Matching fingerprints, pictures, the corpse, everything. We'd never see it again, which might suit us fine.”
”Yeah'” said Sha.s.sad, hesitantly, thoughtfully.