Obviously the trial had been postponed. One of the defendants was dead; the other, Nonie Ellis, who remained out on bail, had been hospitalized for acute depression and was basically incommunicado. And the lead prosecutor had suffered a gunshot wound to the shoulder.
Katz had been fortunate that the bullet had passed through his shoulder, nicking bone but missing the major blood vessels and nerves. He’d been released from the hospital two days after the shooting, and although he’d been ordered home for several more days’ bed rest, he’d appeared in the office that afternoon ready to discuss how to proceed. But that still had not been decided.
Marlene knew that Butch was torn over what to do. The legal justification behind the original reckless-manslaughter charge still applied to Nonie Ellis. But her husband was a compassionate man who believed in tempering justice with mercy, and it grieved him that the woman had not only lost her son but now her husband.
What to do about Nonie Ellis wasn’t the only aspect of the shootings that troubled her husband. On the surface, Boole’s actions appeared to confirm Gilbert Murrow’s fears. A mentally unhinged follower of Westlund had snapped and acted upon his virulent rhetoric.
However, Butch thought there was more behind it. “I understand why she chose to shoot at Guma and Katz, and then me,” he’d told her earlier that evening. “Westlund has pretty much painted us as devils incarnate to his followers. But her first target was Ellis, and that bothers me. Apparently, she must have heard that he planned to plead guilty, and I guess I can see that Boole would view that as a denunciation of her guru. But was that enough to scream ‘Judas’ and gun David down in front of a courthouse in broad daylight and then start blasting away at us? I wonder if Westlund and his henchmen were aware that David Ellis was going to give a Q amp; A statement.” He’d tapped the yellow legal pad he always carried with him when dissecting the facts surrounding a case. “I’d give a year’s salary to know what Ellis was going to say.”
According to the police reports, Boole had not left any written or verbal statements to indicate her thinking in the hours and days before she acted. She lived in a small apartment near the Avenue A building and apparently didn’t have a computer, so there were no e-mails, nor were there handwritten notes. “The apartment was clean,” Fulton had told Karp, “almost too clean, but the homicide guys got there pretty damn quick and sealed it off. No one would have had time to sanitize it.”
“At least not after the shooting,” Karp added.
Karp had been particularly incensed that Westlund had profited from Boole’s death. She apparently owned the building that housed the End of Days Reformation Church of Jesus Christ Resurrected, as well as the preacher’s living quarters, and she’d left it all to him, in addition to the rest of her estate.
“Well, wasn’t that convenient for him,” Marlene said. “A win-win. The trial goes away, maybe. David Ellis is dead so whatever he was going to say went with him to the grave, and so does the opportunity to ask Boole, a middle-aged widow with no prior record, why she decided to commit murder. To top it all off, he gets her building, which has to be worth a ton, plus her money.”
“And a life insurance policy made out to him,” Karp added, clenching his jaw. “And where’d she get the gun? It was unregistered, with no fingerprints on it except for hers.”
Westlund’s bodyguard Frank Bernsen had been arrested at the scene. But as he’d claimed immediately after the shooting, he had a concealed-weapons license and had acted to prevent Boole from shooting Karp. The police reports bore out his version of events: that after shooting Ellis and Katz, Boole had turned her gun on Karp; when, after first lowering it, she’d raised it again as if to fire, Bernsen shot first.
Initial reports had not turned up much on Bernsen. He’d apparently served in the military and had a few misdemeanor assaults and a DUI, but no felonies-which would have prevented him from getting a concealed-weapons permit-and no prison time.
Marlene was glad that Bernsen had pulled the trigger, or she might have been a widow. But she knew that didn’t make her husband feel any better about the woman’s death.
There was even less on Westlund than Bernsen. All they knew was that he was originally from West Virginia and had worked as a coal miner until apparently deciding to become a minister. His “divinity degree” was of the mail-order variety, but there were no laws against that.
“You think he was behind it,” Marlene said before Gilgamesh let her know that it was time to go out for his last walk of the night.
“Believing someone is factually guilty of a crime doesn’t mean I have the evidence to do anything about it,” he’d replied, citing the mantra of his office. “But someday, I’d like nothing better than to make that son of a bitch pay for this.”
“We’ll be back in a half hour,” Marlene said, but her husband had already gone back to looking at the DD-5s, so she opened the door and took the elevator down to the street-level exit.
As she left the building with Gilgamesh and turned north to walk up Crosby, Marlene became aware that a shadowy figure on the other side of the street was walking in the same direction. She paused when the person began to cross.
“Marlene Ciampi?” a woman’s voice inquired. She was dressed in a dark hooded sweatshirt that shadowed her face.
Marlene looked down at Gilgamesh, who was attentive and watching the stranger, but he wasn’t growling or giving any other signal that he sensed danger. She decided to go with her dog’s intuition.
“Yes,” she replied. “And who are you?”
The woman stopped between two cars parked next to the curb near where Marlene stood. She looked up and down the block and then pulled back the hood of her sweatshirt. “My name is Nonie Ellis,” she said. “I believe you know who I am.”
Marlene’s jaw dropped. “I thought you were in-”
“In the hospital.” Ellis finished the sentence. “I was. They let me out this evening.”
“Why-”
“Am I talking to you? Because I think there are some things your husband should know about C. G. Westlund.”
Marlene pointed to her loft building. “Apparently you know where we live,” she said. “Butch-my husband-is upstairs. Why don’t you come talk to him yourself?”
Ellis shook her head. “I’m scared,” she replied. “I think Westlund got Kathryn Boole to kill my husband. But I’m not going to testify against him. You can investigate what I tell you, and I hope you and your husband can do something with it. But when we’re done talking, I’m leaving town.”
“I’m pretty sure the terms of your bail require you to remain in the city,” Marlene noted.
“It does, but I don’t care,” Ellis replied. “I’m going.”
“My husband would see that you’re placed in protective custody,” Marlene argued. “You’d be safe.”
“And if your investigation couldn’t prove that Westlund was guilty of anything, or he got off? I think he’d kill me, too. At least this way, I’ll get a head start.”
“I could stop you,” Marlene said. “My dog would hold you here until the cops arrive.”
“But you won’t,” Ellis said. “I read an article about you … about how you’ve helped other women. And how you don’t always follow the rules.”
She’s got me there, Marlene thought. “So what do you want to tell me?”
“Not here,” Ellis said, again looking up and down the block. “I tried to be careful coming over, but I may have been followed. Is there somewhere we could go?”
Marlene pointed farther up the block. “The Housing Works Bookstore is open,” she said. “They serve a mean cup of coffee and there are some private nooks where we’d know if someone else came in. After we’re done, you can sneak out the back way.”
An hour and a half later, Marlene walked back in the front door of her family home. Her husband looked up as she took off her coat and hat.
“There you are,” he said. “I was getting worried …” Suddenly he stopped. He kn
ew the look on her face spelled trouble. “What’s up?”
It took about forty-five minutes for Marlene to tell him what Nonie Ellis had said, and another twenty minutes for him to run out of questions as he took notes. At last he set his pencil down on the legal pad and sat back on the couch.
“It’s a start,” Karp said. “Of course, it all needs to be checked out and expanded before I can take it to a grand jury. I’ll get Clay to-”
“I’m going to Memphis,” Marlene interrupted. “That son of a bitch, as you so rightly labeled him, has done this to other people. I know it.”
Karp shook his head. “I don’t think that’s a good idea,” he said. “This is a police matter.”
Marlene wasn’t having it. “You send detectives down there and it’s a fishing expedition,” she said. “Westlund, or LaFontaine if that’s his real name, will go to the press and raise hell about your trying to crucify him. I need to try to find some of these other people, and they’ll talk to me more than they will a cop.”
“You know I have to pick up Nonie Ellis,” he said. “I need to get a statement from her and get her to testify against Westlund.”
“Good luck,” Marlene said. “No telling which way she went after we finished. And besides, this is my case; she asked me to look into it. I’m a private investigator and that’s what I’m going to do.”
They argued a little longer, then their eyes locked. Karp knew that there was no way to stop her, so he reached out to hug her and whispered in her ear, “Say hi to Elvis for me, and be careful.”
17
Agent Michael Rolles tossed the New York Post on the kitchen table in front of Nadya Malovo, who’d been moved to a safe house in New Rochelle in Westchester County, just north of Manhattan and the Bronx. Or, as George M. Cohan had once said, “Just forty-five minutes from Broadway.”
The agent was steamed. “Was this necessary? We sometimes had need of Boris Kazanov’s … talents.”
Malovo glanced at the headline: RUSSIAN MOBSTER BEHEADED. She shrugged. “I needed to know that the message had been delivered-both messages-as well as demonstrate to you what we’re dealing with.”
Rolles slammed his hand on the table. “I still don’t get what this psychopath … What’s his name, Grale? … What’s he got to do with what you’re doing for us?”
“Everything,” Malovo replied.
“And how do you know what Knight told him? He might have mentioned the meet-up with Kazanov and that’s it.”
“That’s what I’m about to find out,” Malovo replied.
“How were you so sure that Knight would go to Grale? And how does a two-bit lawyer like Knight know this spook?”
“I know what men want, even queers,” Malovo said, winking at Rolles, happy to be out of prison garb and into a snug pair of blue jeans and tight, curve-revealing sweater. “And Knight is my business.”
Rolles glared but then smirked. “And what does Knight want?” he asked. “He doesn’t seem interested in your vaunted sexual magnetism. Then again, maybe you’re losing your touch. Getting too old for the seduction game, Nadya?”
Malovo laughed. “Touche! But there are many ways to seduce men; tits and ass are just one.”
“And Knight?”
She pointed to the newspaper. “He has a debt to repay. I’ve never understood it but men with ethics consider repaying debts a matter of honor. Not something you would understand. Now, be a good boy and go find out what’s taking my attorney so long this morning.”
Rolles stood. “And when can I expect to know how all of this adds up?”
“When I’m ready. I demonstrated that I can deliver with the ferry attack. You looked like a hero, and if you play your cards right, you will again.”
Rolles suddenly reached across the table and tapped Malovo on her forehead. “I’m counting on it, bitch. But remember, there’s nothing I’d like better than to put a bullet right here.”
Malovo didn’t flinch. She just smiled, her green eyes glittering. “Maybe you’ll have that opportunity someday,” she said. “But until then we must work together.”
A few minutes later there was a knock on the door. Malovo picked up the newspaper and appeared to be reading the front page when Knight entered. She had worked up a few tears and now exclaimed, “This is terrible! My cousin was murdered!”
“I know, it was a terrible shock when I heard,” Knight replied. “It must have happened shortly after I saw him.”
“You were able to meet him then?”
“Yes. On the boardwalk … where he was killed. Somebody must have followed him. Some other gangsters, I guess.”
“That must have been it,” Malovo said. “He had many enemies.”
“The newspapers said he was suspected in a number of murders,” Knight said, pointing at the Post. “And in some gangland killings.”
Malovo shrugged. “You know how the American press works; everything is exaggerated and it doesn’t matter what the truth is. Still, I know he was not a good man … as I was not a good woman. Yet, when you have no family, losing the last member besides yourself is hard. He was not such a bad person when he was a child, and those are the memories I have of him.”
A look of pain crossed Knight’s face. A man with a conscience, Malovo thought. Such weakness is useful.
“Well, whatever his faults, I’m sorry for your loss,” Knight said. “No one deserves to be murdered.”
“Thank you, you’re very kind,” Malovo replied, then added somewhat shyly, “I’m just glad that you weren’t hurt, too.” Never hurts to see if he can’t also be seduced, she thought before changing the subject. “Were you able to speak to Boris?”
“Yes. I don’t understand what that was all about. A party in the Village on Halloween? The Village always has its annual parade, but I take it you were passing some sort of message, and I have to say I don’t like being used in that fashion.”
“I apologize,” Malovo said. “You don’t have to believe me, but I was actually trying to prevent a crime.”
“Why not tell your federal handlers? Isn’t that what you’re supposed to be doing?” Knight asked.
“This had to do with family business, not national security,” Malovo answered. “They’re only interested in terrorism, not something as mundane as … well, I won’t trouble you with the specifics.” She changed direction. “What did Boris say?”
“He said he and his family would attend but wanted assurances that his traveling expenses would be covered,” Knight said.
“Ah, always the businessman,” Malovo said, shaking her head. “By ‘traveling expenses’ he meant that he wanted to be paid to call off the event.” She hesitated, as if she couldn’t decide whether to say anything more, but then couldn’t help herself. “I take it that as a defense attorney you are acquainted with the district attorney Karp?” she asked, letting her very real hatred of the man put an edge in her voice.
“By reputation,” Knight said. “I never faced him in court, but I don’t think he loses much, if at all. If we had to go up against him, I’d be worried. But it seems to me that the feds have you pretty well insulated against the New York charges, so long as you fulfill your commitments …”
“I will do my part,” Malovo said. “You may have seen the news about how the authorities stopped an attack on the Liberty Island ferry. That was thanks to me. But don’t be too sure about Karp not being able to get to me,” Malovo retorted, her voice growing angrier. “Karp is devious, and he hates me. A colleague of mine, Imam Jabbar, thought he had a deal with the feds, too. They were going to let him leave the country, but Karp waited until he was traveling to the airport in New Jersey and had passed out of the Manhattan federal jurisdiction. Then he had the local cops pull over a U.S. Marshals motorcade and arrest him. I don’t think it’s any coincidence that the marshal in charge of that motorcade who allowed Jabbar to be taken from her custody is the same marshal who watches my every move, Jennifer Capers. I wouldn’t put it past Karp to be working o
n some deal with her to do the same thing when the feds are through with me.”
“Well, we’re aware that it happened once, so we know what to watch for,” Knight said. He paused. “You seem to have quite a bit of animosity for Karp, above what even his actions to bring you to court would warrant.”
“I hate him,” Malovo spat. “I have broken laws, but there are others-powerful men, of course-who have broken more than I have … who use people like me for their dirty work, and he does nothing. I believe that he does their bidding.”
Knight frowned. “That doesn’t sound like him. He has a pretty squeaky-clean reputation. Who are these men?”
“Perhaps he makes such a noise about being so clean to cover his real activities,” Malovo said. “These men, they call themselves the Sons of Man. They’re a very old sort of criminal fraternity and have infiltrated nearly all of American society-politics, the military, business, law, even entertainment. I know these men, I have worked for them, and because of that they wish me dead.”
“I’d have a hard time believing that Karp would be involved with them,” Knight said.
“Perhaps,” Malovo said. “But have you ever wondered why he and his family are repeatedly ‘attacked’ by criminals and terrorists and yet remain unscathed? Maybe these attacks are not real or are designed to fail in order to generate sympathy and to make him appear the hero. I do not know, but I suspect they are grooming him for higher office.”
Knight shook his head. “This is all just too fantastic,” he said.
“Is it? Think about some of the so-called terrorist attacks, including those in which I’ve been used like a pawn on a chessboard,” Malovo retorted. “Why is it that the district attorney of New York County, and his family, are so involved in these matters that have nothing to do with his position? Why does this family always seem to be in the right place at the right time? Wouldn’t it be more fantastic to say that this is all coincidence?”
Bad Faith bkamc-24 Page 15
