Without Fear or Favor

by Robert K. Tanenbaum

  “Clear!” they shouted as they went from room to room until they determined there was no one else present.

  The woman was crying, “Oh, Ny-Lee, Ny-Lee . . . what did they do to you?”

  “Where’s Ny-Lee?” Fulton asked.

  The woman pointed at the television screen. A news crew was broadcasting from the street where the police had an alleyway cordoned off with crime scene tape. “We are standing outside of an alley,” the reporter said, “where an hour ago the body of a man identified as Ny-Lee Tomes was found stuffed in a Dumpster. According to a police source who asked not to be identified, the victim appears to have been strangled and his neck broken.”

  “Miss,” Fulton said, squatting in front of the woman, “what’s your name?”

  She sniffled. “Rose Torres.”

  “Miss Torres, how do you know Ny-Lee Tomes?”

  “He was my boyfriend. We was going to get married.” She began to cry. “I came over this morning when he didn’t answer his phone. He always took my calls, no matter what.”

  “I’m sorry for your loss,” Fulton said. “Do you know who might have wanted to harm Ny-Lee?”

  “Oh, yeah,” the woman said, her face suddenly contorting with anger. “I know who did this. It was Nat X. Maybe he had his thug Big George do it, but it was Nat X who had it done. I hope he rots in hell.”

  11

  KARP FINISHED SHAVING AND EMERGED from the bathroom, where he found Marlene standing at the island in their kitchen watching the morning news.

  He hadn’t talked to her since getting the call from Fulton two nights earlier that brought him to the scene of Big George Parker’s demise.

  The pace had picked up after Fulton called and told him about the events at Ny-Lee Tomes’s apartment and then escorted Rose Torres down to the office. That had set off another round of interviews and strategizing. By the time they wrapped up, it was midnight. He’d gone home, crawled into bed, kissed his sleeping wife on the cheek, and fell into exhausted slumber until the alarm went off at six.

  “Good morning, stranger,” he said. “What’s on the tube?”

  Marlene smiled at him over her cup of coffee and shrugged. “Where shall I start? Maybe the ESU raid in Harlem yesterday that may or may not be tied to a gruesome murder the night before, which may or may not be tied to the shooting of a police officer in Marcus Garvey Park.”

  “Somebody’s talking too much, and it better not be coming out of my office,” Karp growled.

  “The news guy quoted a ‘highly placed’ source in the NYPD,” she said. “No need to take a rubber hose to Gilbert Murrow.”

  “Not that he minds the television cameras, but Gilbert’s not a rat,” Karp said with a smile of his own. “But that reminds me, I’ve been meaning to ask you about that gruesome murder.”

  “Oh? And what could I add to what you don’t know already?” Marlene asked innocently.

  “After Tony Cippio’s funeral, you told me that you needed to go see a man about a dog . . .”

  “Yes, and you thought it best not to inquire further,” Marlene replied pointedly.

  “Right,” Karp replied. “And maybe I still shouldn’t, but this gruesome murder happened across the street from two witnesses in the Cippio case. The ‘victim’ apparently tried to murder the older boy but was stopped by an assassin.”

  “Sounds like a Good Samaritan intervened.”

  “I guess, if Good Samaritans haunt Harlem at night gutting violent three-hundred-pound thugs.”

  “Times change.”

  “Uh-huh.” Karp wasn’t surprised by his wife’s reaction. She’d once worked for the New York DAO in the sex crimes unit; it was where they met. But after a letter bomb exploded, blinding her in one eye, followed by years of dealing with serial killers, terrorists, and various other violent characters, she was somewhat jaded. In fact, from time to time she’d met violence with violence and had even owned a VIP security service. Marlene straddled the line between justice and vigilantism, which time and again threatened their marriage. Karp was by the book, and though that crisis had passed and she seemed to have put most of it behind her, he knew it was never that far from the surface.

  “Well,” he continued, “if I didn’t think the coincidence too great, I’d say this, um, Good Samaritan has all the earmarks of your friend David Grale.”

  “Our friend David Grale. He’s certainly saved our bacon, and the lives of our children, as well as the citizens of this misbegotten city, enough times to be considered our friend.”

  Karp knew his wife had a point, even though David Grale was a serial killer who had dispatched numerous criminals. “Okay, our friend David Grale. But vigilante justice is still against the laws I’m sworn to uphold.”

  “Didn’t you say this violent thug . . . Big George Parker . . . was trying to murder the witness? I believe the use of lethal force to protect oneself or others from death or serious bodily harm constitutes self-defense.”

  “You’re probably right in that regard,” Karp conceded. “But from a prosecutor’s standpoint, I would have liked to talk to Big George before a homicidal religious fanatic flayed him like a tuna.”

  “I’m sure,” Marlene agreed. “But perhaps Big George left this Good Samaritan no choice but to render him harmless. And I think we both know that this particular Good Samaritan might not have the same goals when dealing with killers as the district attorney of New York County. I believe his goals might be to kill them all and let God sort them out later.”

  Karp caught the edge in Marlene’s voice and decided not to press the issue. “In any event, I’m not shedding any tears over Mr. Parker. And I’m glad this ‘Good Samaritan’ just happened to be in the neighborhood in time to save a teenager’s life.”

  Marlene put her coffee down and walked around the end of the island to stand on her tiptoes and kiss her husband. “Think you’re going to be late getting home tonight?”

  “I hope not,” he said, then wiggled his eyebrows suggestively. “What have you got in mind?”

  “Well, the boys are staying with a friend tonight.” Marlene giggled, referencing the couple’s twin boys, Isaac and Giancarlo. “So I was thinking about throwing together chicken cacciatore and pairing it with a bottle of Chianti, followed by a bubble bath with candles and—”

  “I’ll be home by seven,” Karp interrupted with a laugh and kissed her again. “Now I’ve got to go, or I might never leave.”

  Karp waved away the unmarked police car and its occupant at the curb who provided security. The temperature was already rising and it might be the only opportunity for a walk that day in New York, and he enjoyed the walk from Crosby Street to 100 Centre and the Criminal Courts Building. He needed the time to absorb what had happened over the past few days. It felt as if events were moving inexorably toward a conclusion, but he was still missing major pieces to be sure of the outcome.

  None too soon, either. The mayor and the City Council were trying to pressure him in regard to indicting Officer Bryce Kim. The city was on edge after the riots, and many of the denizens of Gotham didn’t understand what the holdup was when the media and demagogues like Reverend Mufti made it clear that a white cop had used unnecessary deadly force against an unarmed black teenager. Mufti used his position on the Council to further the false narrative, as well as decry the “unjust incarceration of political prisoner” Imani Sefu, while accusing the DAO of “stall tactics.”

  Karp could not have cared less about what any of them said about how he conducted his business; he was not going to be rushed into indicting anybody based on politics, particularly now that new evidence was coming to light that questioned the narrative about the death of Ricky Watts. But he was conscious of the impact of these wild claims on innocent citizens, as well as the police officers on the front lines during the rioting, and knew that he needed to move as quickly as possible to put all the pieces together.

  It came down to finding Nat X—this Anthony last name unknown, if Rose was right—and,
if possible, the silver, white-handled revolver. But where is he? Karp wondered.

  Arriving at 100 Centre Street, Karp walked over to the newsstand where Dirty Warren was involved in a conversation with the Walking Booger. Each of them greeted him in his own inimitable way.

  “Hello, gentlemen. Could I trouble you for the morning newspapers?” Karp said, trying to ignore the pungent aroma of Booger, a scent he was reasonably sure was the same as Fulton had commented on two nights earlier over the body of Big George Parker.

  “Sure . . . whoop nuts tits . . . Karp,” Warren said. “Seems to have been . . . oh boy ohhhh boy“plenty of interesting news lately.”

  With the little man peering up at him through his filthy glasses, Karp decided to play along. “Always is in Gotham,” he said. “That reminds me, where were the two of you a couple of evenings ago?”

  Warren and the Walking Booger exchanged an amused glance. “I believe . . . fucker son of a bitch . . . I was at home reading a good book,” Warren said.

  “I was ’aving ’inner at the ’aldorf ’otel,” Booger added, causing them both to break out in gales of merriment.

  Karp shook his head and laughed. “Well, that’s good, because it can be dangerous wandering the streets. I wouldn’t want you two upstanding citizens getting into any sort of trouble.”

  “I told you coppers“oh boy ohhh boy . . . would never get cuffs on me,” Warren replied in his best gangster imitation.

  Karp rolled his eyes. “Edward G. Robinson in Little Caesar. And not a very good impersonation, I might add.”

  Warren and Booger both guffawed. “I’ll . . . asshole whoop whoop . . . work on it next time.”

  “By the way, have either of you seen David Grale lately?”

  “David . . . whoop“who?” Warren said, furrowing his brow in mock confusion.

  “ ’avid ’oo?” Booger repeated.

  “Never mind, you dirty, double-crossin’ rats,” Karp said with a laugh.

  “James Cagney in Blonde Crazy“oh boy ohhhh boy . . . 1931!” Warren shouted and high-fived Booger.

  “Not bad, Warren, not bad,” Karp said.

  As he turned to leave, he wondered what the rest of the day would hold.

  It started off well enough with a visit from Reverend Jonas Lakes, who arrived in his office with Fulton and a very frightened-looking DeShawn Lakes.

  “I believe my son has something to say to you,” Reverend Lakes said. “And I believe I might have something to add to his story.”

  Two hours later, with more pieces of the puzzle in place, Karp had a visit from Fulton, who said he’d just heard from a distraught Rose Torres. “Apparently, when she got home after leaving here yesterday, her sister was nowhere to be found,” the detective said. “That in itself wasn’t unusual, though she was, of course, worried because of what happened to Ny-Lee, and because Lupe was hooking up with Nat X. When her sister didn’t come home this morning, she snooped around a little in her room and discovered that Lupe had packed her things and flown the coop.”

  “On the move with Nat X?” Karp stated more than asked. He was thinking about the news reports and a fugitive deciding New York City was getting too hot for comfort.

  “Looks that way,” Fulton said.

  “It may be too late,” Karp said. “But let’s get a BOLO out to the airports to be watching for Lupe Torres. If they’re traveling together, he might have false identification, but maybe she didn’t have time to get any.”

  The day got even better after lunch as he was talking to Fulton and connecting evidentiary dots on one of his ubiquitous yellow pads. “Mr. Karp, I have Mr. Jaxon on line two,” receptionist Darla Milquetost announced over the intercom.

  “Thank you.” Karp leaned forward to punch the correct button on the machine. “Hello, Espy, where have you been hiding?”

  Jaxon laughed. “Avoiding the Big Apple, that’s for sure. But I have some news that I think will make your day.”

  “You’re starting to sound like Clint Eastwood in Dirty Harry,” Karp said. “So make my day.”

  “Have you heard from the NYPD lab about the touch DNA found on Tony Cippio’s shirt?”

  Karp furrowed his brow. “No. I know they’re a little backed up. So give, the suspense is killing me.”

  “Well, after excluding his wife and his partner, our lab was left with genetic skin cell and sweat markers from an unidentified male. We put it in the National Crime Information Center database and got a hit.”

  Karp felt his heartbeat starting to rise. “Don’t keep me waiting, Espy,” he pleaded.

  “It picked up on an Anthony Johnson, age twenty-five, last known place of residence San Quentin State Prison, where he was doing time for sex assault and burglary. As you know, it’s routine to take DNA swabs from every incoming inmate in many states, including California, and then put the information into the database. It appears Mr. Johnson has been doing some traveling.”

  “That’s great, Espy,” Karp said. He quickly filled Jaxon in on what had been happening over the previous few days, including Rose’s recollection of a party on the night of Cippio’s murder and her boyfriend slipping up and referring to Nat X as “Anthony.”

  “Any word on where he went after San Quentin?” Karp asked.

  “Nothing yet,” Jaxon replied, “though I have feelers out with some former colleagues in the bureau I trust. But he was picked up for the sex assault in Oakland.”

  “Thanks, Espy. For a fed, you sometimes do good things.” Hanging up, he looked over at Fulton, who’d been following the half of the conversation he could hear. “Know anybody with the Oakland Police Department?” Karp asked.

  “As a matter of fact, I do. Want to fill me in on why you’re smiling like the proverbial cat that ate the canary?”

  “Hmmm? Oh, I was just thinking about dinner tonight. But let me tell you why I asked about the Oakland PD.”

  An hour later, Karp’s evening plans burst faster than the bubbles in Marlene’s bathtub when he got a call from Gilbert Murrow. “Apparently the correctional officers at the Tombs made a ‘mistake’ this morning and left Imani Sefu out in the yard with a white supremacist,” his aide-de-camp said. “A lifer called Tiny Adkins, who was here from Attica for resentencing on a manslaughter case. Not only that, but somehow Adkins was carrying a shiv that he used to stab Sefu thirty-nine times before the guards could pull him off. Sefu was dead on the scene.”

  “A transfer? How the hell did he get a shiv into the Tombs?” Karp demanded.

  “Sharpened toothbrush with a rubber glove wrapped around one end for a handle.”

  Karp groaned. He was sure that Adkins had just lit the fuse on the powder keg that was New York City as soon as news of the murder hit the streets. The previous evening, Reverend Mufti had appeared on Vansand’s program, demanding that the charges against Sefu be dropped, as “he acted in self-defense to protect himself from brutal treatment by law enforcement,” and that he be released with an apology. Now the only way he was getting out of jail was in a body bag.

  An hour later, it was all over the television newscasts, as were calls by Reverend Mufti for people to protest “this heinous assassination and the questions that have come to light.” Karp called Marlene and delivered the bad news. “I better stay here,” he said. “Tell the boys to keep off the streets, and you, too. I’ll have extra patrols outside tonight . . . I’m sorry, babe.”

  “That’s okay,” Marlene replied. “The chicken cacciatore will be here tomorrow, and the boys are in Mount Vernon and won’t be back for several days. I’ll save the bubble bath until Clark Kent has some time for Lois Lane.”

  Karp had barely hung up when his telephone rang again. It was Eddie Evans.

  “Mr. Karp, I think I better come talk to you. It has to do with Imani Sefu.”

  12

  REVEREND HUSSEIN “SKIP” MUFTI EXITED the dark limousine and walked quickly up to the entrance of the brownstone on 73rd Street on the Upper East Side. He inserted a key in the do
or and waved to the driver, who flashed his lights and pulled away.

  Sitting in an unmarked police car across the street a little ways down the block, Vince Cippio Sr. scowled. “Pretty ritzy neighborhood for a mistress,” he said to the man sitting next to him in the backseat.

  Jack Gilliam laughed. “He makes a hundred and fifty thousand as a city councilman, but that’s not half of it. The guy’s crooked as a meth addict’s teeth. If you’re a businessman and want something done in Harlem—like get a development plan through the so-called land use committee or a liquor license or a gun license—you’re going to be laying out some serious dough for Mufti’s retirement account. He’s worth millions and can afford to keep his girlfriend happy and far enough away from his wife to be safe.”

  “So why don’t you just nail him for extortion and malfeasance?” Cippio asked. “Seems like that would be a hell of a lot easier than what you got planned.”

  Gilliam shook his head. “The feds have been after him for years. But the guy’s slick. He’s stashed the cash somewhere untraceable, probably offshore . . . It’s all pretty subtle, like holding out with his buddies voting for some project, then suddenly changing his vote. Or asking for favors without any evidence of money changing hands. Point is, if the feds can’t get him, we sure as shit aren’t going to with the City Council watching every dime that goes into the department.”

  “Besides,” Joe Satars said from the front passenger seat, “he’d just claim he was being persecuted by racist cops, and the press would come to his rescue. We’re going to send these dumb monkeys a message they can’t possibly miss. Not after the little incident in the Tombs the other day.”

  “Dumb monkeys?” Cippio repeated with a scowl.

  Gilliam rolled his eyes. “Ignore the racist dumbass,” he said. “Joe, how many times have I got to tell you this isn’t about your prejudices. It’s about the war on cops.”

  “It sure as hell ain’t the Little Sisters of the Poor,” Satars retorted. “You got your reasons to hate ’em, I got mine.”