Karp laughed. “Good point.”
Warren smiled, then said, “Hey, I got a . . . whoop whoop . . . trivia question for you.”
Karp rolled his eyes. They’d been playing movie trivia for years while exchanging good-natured jibes, and Warren had yet to stump him. “I hope it’s better than your last few feeble attempts.”
“Pride before fall . . . son of a bitch . . . Karp. Okay, okay . . . asswipe nuts . . . here it is. Who said, ‘If we’d made love last night I’d have to stay. Or you’d have to leave’? That’s all you . . . oh boy oh boy . . . get.”
Karp pretended to be stumped. He rubbed his chin with his hand and looked up at the bright blue sky.
Warren peered at him through his smeared Coke-bottle glasses as he hopped from foot to foot. “I think . . . whoop oh boy . . . I finally got you,” he said with a grin. “Didn’t we have a steak dinner bet on—”
“I believe it was the character of John Book, played by Harrison Ford, in the movie Witness,” Karp said, laughing as Warren’s smile evaporated. “He was talking to Rachel Lapp, a young Amish woman played by Kelly McGillis. Rachel’s son had witnessed a murder in Philadelphia and . . .”
Karp stopped talking and looked at Warren, who was wiggling his eyebrows. “Are you trying to tell me something? Does this have something to do with your conversation with Booger?”
Warren shoved his glasses farther up his beak-like nose. “I don’t know . . . damn bastard . . . what you’re talking about.” Then he giggled.
Shaking his head, Karp patted Warren on the shoulder. “I got it . . . too much information. I have to go. How about a couple newspapers for me?”
“You can’t . . . whoop . . . handle the truth,” Dirty Warren said, handing over the morning editions of the New York Times and the New York Post.
“What is this a two-fer? Jack Nicholson in A Few Good Men,” Karp said, and glanced at the front pages of both papers. The headlines led with the officer-involved shooting the night before in their usual low-key way.
The Post:
Cop Guns Down Unarmed Teen!
The Times:
NYPD Officer Shoots Black Teen in Tenement Stairwell
Victim Said to Be “Exceptional Student” at Charter School; No Gun Found
Both papers also featured stories about the riot that broke out shortly after the shooting. Several vehicles, including one NYPD patrol car, were burned, a dozen people were arrested, ten were sent to the hospital, and two police officers had to be treated at the scene. The officer involved, Bryce Kim, had been identified.
“Scary stuff,” Warren noted.
“Hopefully cooler heads will prevail,” Karp replied, feeling like he was falling back on that old expression more often than he would have liked.
“Is there . . . whoop whoop . . . any such thing as ‘cooler heads’ anymore?”
Karp handed Warren a couple bucks for the papers. “That’s a good question, my clever friend, and one I don’t have the answer to right now. I’m running late, thanks for the newspapers and the trivia. Try to come up with something a little tougher next time.”
“Screw you, Karp,” Warren replied with a smile.
Karp shook his head. Sometimes he was pretty sure that not all the curse words that rolled out of the little news vendor’s mouth were a result of the Tourette’s.
Inside the courts building, Karp rode the elevator to the eighth floor, where his office was located. In the reception area, Darla Milquetost looked up from her filing and nodded toward his inner sanctum. “Clay Fulton and Espy Jaxon are waiting.”
Karp found both men seated in front of his desk and deep in conversation. “Hello, gentlemen, sorry I’m late,” he said. “I stopped to get copies of the newspapers.” He handed one to each of the men, who glanced at the front pages and then exchanged them.
Turning to Fulton as he sat down at his desk, Karp asked, “So what do we know?”
The big detective scowled. “Not a whole lot. The officer, Bryce Kim, was a rookie. He’s a second-generation Korean immigrant; family owns a little grocery store in Chinatown. They’ve already received threats thanks to the media identifying them. NYPD has an extra presence on the street, but that won’t stop some lone nut. Officer’s been placed on administrative leave. His story is that he and his partner, a real piece of work named Liam Conway, were doing a sweep in the building when he saw the deceased—one Ricky Watts—at the bottom of a flight of stairs. He says the deceased shot at him and he returned fire.”
“Kim’s story check out?”
“Depends who you talk to. Kim’s gun was fired once. His partner, Conway, says he heard two shots, one on top of the other.”
“He didn’t see what happened?” Karp asked.
“Apparently, he was ‘delayed’ while Bryce went ahead,” Fulton said. “A woman, Martha Motumbo, elderly, lives in the building with her two grandchildren, and she said she heard two shots as well. She opened the door to the stairwell when she heard somebody—apparently the deceased—stumble by. She saw Bryce in pursuit. He told her to return to her apartment. That’s what she did until contacted by detectives last night.
“Deceased was a seventeen-year-old student at Weyland School for Gifted Students in Mount Vernon but lived with his mother in Harlem. Smart kid. No record, not even juvie.”
“So what was he doing there?”
Fulton shrugged. “Good question. Nobody there knew him.”
“You said depends who you talk to.”
“Yeah, several other witnesses came forward and said they only heard one shot,” Fulton said. “But if the guns were fired simultaneously in a stairwell where the sound would have echoed, it might have been difficult to distinguish two shots.”
“But no other gun was located?”
Fulton shook his head. “No. If there was one, it was gone.”
“And no eyewitnesses to any of this?”
“Just Kim and Watts.” Fulton dug a small notebook out of his shirt pocket and flipped it open. “One witness, a George Parker, says he was standing outside the building when he heard one shot, then Watts staggered out the door, crossed the sidewalk, and collapsed on the curb. He claims that Watts had nothing in his hands, no gun, no weapon of any kind.”
“What about the crime scene techs? They find anything?”
Again, Fulton shook his head. “Nothing yet, though they’re still processing the scene. But nothing was found in the hall or stairwell. No shell casing, no marks on the walls.”
“Possible that the bullet could have exited the building through a window?”
Fulton allowed himself a slight smile. “Now you’re thinking like a detective. I wondered that myself and went over there before coming here.” He handed Karp a manila envelope.
“Here are a few initial photographs,” he said. “The first one is the front of the building, shows the door the deceased exited. You can see the crime tape around where he collapsed. The second shows the stairs. I stood where Kim said the deceased was standing and looked up. There’s a window where Kim was standing—I circled it on the photograph—but it was closed, as it is there, and there’s no indication that it was struck by a bullet. Crime scene tech who was there when I showed up said it was closed when he arrived the night before, too. I talked to the building superintendent and he said those windows are supposed to be kept shut to help keep dirt and insects out—fat chance in that hellhole.”
Karp laid the photos back down. “How’s Kim doing?”
“Pretty shook up,” Fulton replied. “But he’s more worried about his parents right now.” The detective started to say something else but stopped.
“What is it, Clay?”
Fulton sighed. “Everybody—cops, I mean—is on edge from the Cippio shooting and all this inflammatory bullshit that’s flying around. Looks like Kim let some of it get to his head, too. He admitted that he had his gun already out when he confronted Watts. That’s a violation of departmental policy. I don’t know, but that stairwell
is pretty dark, and maybe he was a little spooked and thought he saw Watts holding a gun.”
Karp nodded. “Well, keep me updated. Obviously, this blew up pretty quick last night. The demagogues and the media are all over it. Reverend Mufti was on the news this morning calling it a ‘revenge killing’ for Cippio’s shooting. And that ass—that fine example of journalism, Peter Vansand, gave our suspect, Nat X, a soapbox to call for a general uprising. There’s a planned Black Justice Now ‘peace march’ starting in Marcus Garvey Park tonight. I have a feeling it’s going to be anything but peaceful.”
“The brass at NYPD are thinking the same thing,” Fulton said. “Crowd control will be out in force, but that only goes so far.”
Karp refrained from saying that he hoped cooler heads would prevail, though he thought it as he turned to Jaxon. “I suppose you’re wondering why I asked you to drop by?”
“Well, I figured it wasn’t just to get the latest on the Nat Turner Revolutionary Brigade and this guy, Nat X,” Jaxon replied. “I could have told you that over the telephone, and it’s not much.”
“You’re right,” Karp said. “I have a favor to ask.” He looked at Fulton. “Did you bring it?”
“I did.” Fulton reached down beside his chair and retrieved a locked satchel.
“What’s in the bag? Or don’t I want to know?” Jaxon asked.
“Please, take a look,” Karp said.
As Jaxon opened the satchel, Fulton handed the agent another manila file folder and explained, “You’re looking at touch DNA samples gathered from the officer’s clothing at the Cippio crime scene and later the Medical Examiner’s Office. The papers contained in the file explain each individual sample.”
Jaxon looked up, puzzled. “I don’t understand.”
Karp nodded. “I’m trying to anticipate what I might run up against in court when we catch the killer. Given today’s climate of distrust, and accusations that law enforcement—particularly at the local level—is racist and willing to bend or break the rules to protect officers and unfairly prosecute ‘innocent’ people, I’d like to ask if you can get this tested for me. It’s being tested in the NYPD labs, but we’d like a second opinion from another laboratory.”
Jaxon leaned back in his seat. “I’ll be happy to help, but why not get the DOJ and the FBI involved?”
Karp’s lips twisted. “I’ve considered that. I know you were a special agent in charge of the bureau here in New York and that you still have friends there. But let’s just say that in today’s climate, I don’t trust the hierarchy in either the DOJ or FBI. They have an agenda that comes down from on high, and it is not a pro–law enforcement one.”
Jaxon nodded. “I don’t blame you. I know from talking to those ‘friends’ you mentioned that they aren’t too happy with the higher-ups, either. It seems that justice has been politicized.”
“There’s also a release in the folder,” Karp went on. “I’d like you to sign and date the form, indicating exactly when and from whom you received these samples.”
Jaxon smiled and shook his head. “That’s my friend Butch, always a few steps ahead of everybody else.”
Karp laughed. “Hopefully, I’m not running toward a cliff.”
A few minutes later, after Jaxon left the office, Karp looked at his friend Detective Fulton. “I’d give anything to know why Ricky Watts was in that tenement.”
“It’s the million-dollar question,” Fulton responded. “And given what happened last night after the shooting, and what I suspect is going to happen tonight, the sooner we find an answer, the better off this city will be.”
8
LIEUTENANT JACK GILLIAM NUDGED THE man sitting next to him drinking a beer at Farrell’s Bar & Grill in Brooklyn. “There he is,” he said.
“You sure about this?” said a third man, sitting across the table.
“I’m not sure of anything,” Gilliam growled. “I’m just going to feel him out now that things have ramped up.”
“But he’s . . . you know . . .”
“Black? Yeah, I know, but he’s also a cop,” Gilliam replied. “A cop whose partner just got gunned down in cold blood. Then these so-called activists, like that piece of shit Mufti and his loudmouth pal with Black Justice Now, Imani Sefu, go off on that bullshit that a totally unrelated shooting was revenge. Like that gives them the right to riot. Six more cops were hurt during that ‘peace’ march the other night, and one of them’s still in a coma. Evans is black, but he’s a cop and he can’t like this any more than we do.”
Gilliam stood as Evans made his way over to them. “Hey, Eddie, good to see you,” he said, extending his hand. He pointed to the seat next to him. “Take a load off. You remember Joe Satars and Johnny Delgado?”
Evans nodded to the other two. “Been a while since I’ve been over to Brooklyn, much less Farrell’s,” he said. “It still a good cop bar?”
Delgado laughed. “It’s the best. Lots of cops and firefighters. A great place to hook up with uniform chasers; they all know where to find us.”
“We call him ‘Don Juan’ Delgado,” Gilliam joked. “But it is a good place to hang out with guys who know what it’s like to put on the uniform.”
“You married?” asked Delgado, who obviously spent a lot of time combing his wavy dark hair and working out at the gym. “I know a few girls in here who like older guys.”
“Hey, who you calling old?” Evans laughed, then held up his left hand to show the gold band. “But yeah, married twenty years. Two kids.”
“That’s good, that’s good,” Delgado replied. “You could be like Joe here. He’s been married more times than Larry King, but then they sober up and divorce him.”
“Fuck you, Delgado.” Satars was a tall, pale scarecrow of a man with a sour expression.
“Get you something to drink?” Gilliam asked.
“I’ll take a beer,” Evans replied.
Gilliam made a motion for a draft to a waitress standing over next to the bar. He turned back to Evans. “Hey, sorry things got a little testy the other day at Tony’s funeral.”
Evans looked at Satars. “Yeah, well, your boy here made it sound like I let Tony’s shooter get away.”
“I just asked why you didn’t take the shot . . .”
“There were kids . . .”
“Yeah, well . . .”
“Knock it off, Joe.” Gilliam gave Satars a hard look before turning back to Evans. “Sorry, Eddie. Sometimes my friend here acts like he watches too many cop shows on television instead of just being a cop.” He paused and gave Satars another meaningful look. “No one who knows shit blames you for not shooting when there were kids and other people around. We’re all just hot because of what happened to Tony.”
Evans continued to glare at Satars but relaxed when his beer arrived. “No one is hotter than me,” he said. “I loved that guy.”
Gilliam patted him on the back. “No one doubts it. Good kid, too. I worked with his dad some when I was on patrol. Good man all around, a crying shame he’s lost two boys now to terrorists.”
“Hey, I lost a partner, too,” Delgado said. “A junkie stabbed him when we were walking a beat in the Bronx.”
Evans took a sip of his beer. He was quiet for a moment, then shook his head. “That would be almost easier to take than this. Don’t mean any disrespect, it must have been tough on you, too. But I think I could handle it better if he’d been stabbed by a junkie, or shot during a holdup, or a thousand other things that happen to cops every day. But this . . . this waiting for him to get done playing basketball with kids, and then shooting him down for no reason. There’s just something different about it.”
“The world is changing, brother,” Gilliam said.
“Damn straight,” Delgado added. “They’re hunting cops, and it’s goddamn time we do something about it.”
Gilliam made a motion to Delgado, who sat back and picked up his beer. “What do you hear about Tony’s shooter?” Gilliam asked Evans.
“N
ot much. You got anything?”
“A little,” Gilliam said. “I’ve been checking in with Homicide over at the Two-Five. I heard they got some touch DNA from the perp off of Tony’s shirt. And a pretty good physical description from that kid.”
“Tyrone.”
“Yeah, Tyrone. Apparently, his grandmother took him straight to the DA’s office, so I haven’t seen the report. But they’re looking for this guy Nat X who’s been bragging about it on television.”
“That son of a bitch Peter Vansand could help us catch him,” Delgado spat.
“But he won’t,” Satars hissed. “It would violate his ‘journalist’s ethics,’ whatever the fuck that means.”
“I’d like to stick his ethics—” Delgado began, but Gilliam silenced him again with a look.
“As I said, we’re all tired of it,” Gilliam said. “And it’s not just the nutjobs like this Nat X. These so-called activists like Mufti and Sefu are stirring them up, making it seem like killing cops is something good for the black community.”
“I heard one of them was arrested at the riot the other night for assaulting a cop,” Evans noted.
“Yeah, this punk Sefu, whose name apparently means ‘sword of faith’ or some mumbo jumbo like that; real name is Todd Reade, a former community college rabble-rouser, started the Manhattan version of Black Justice Now. He’s cooling his heels in the Tombs on the assault rap.”
Evans frowned. “He didn’t make bail?”
“Apparently he hasn’t tried,” Gilliam said. “He’s playing up the ‘political prisoner’ bit.”
“Anybody talk to him?”
“The guys from the Two-Five tried. No go.”
“Somebody ought to make him,” Satars snarled. “Him and Mufti are no better than terrorists, and we should be treating them like that.”
Evans was quiet for a moment. “So why’d you ask me to come here tonight?”
Gilliam put down his beer. “We’re thinking we need to start sending our own messages. Knowing how you felt about Tony, I thought maybe you’d want to join us.”
Without Fear or Favor Page 7
