Newbury was referring to hundreds of criminal complaints against cops, and, in a separate section, Catholic priests accused of sexual assault and other crimes. The city and archdiocese-trying to avoid lawsuits and the media-had hired Kane’s law firm to settle the cases quietly, as well as vet them to determine if they should also be turned over to the DAO for prosecution. Some, chiefly those Kane had no use for, or he disliked for some reason, had been sent to the DAO with the recommendation that criminal charges be filed. But many others had been stamped “No Prosecution” and forwarded on to Karp’s predecessors, who had filed them away in a secret cabinet.
Kane had used the cases to manipulate “dirty cops” into working for him as his own private army of enforcers, up to and including murder. He also had protected sexual offenders within the ranks of the priesthood in part to gain control of the archdiocese but with the ultimate goal of eventually having the accusations “discovered” by the press, thereby destroying the church through scandal and debasement. It was through his counsel that then-Archbishop Fey chose to remain ignorant of what was going on; believing, as Kane whispered in his ear, that he was protecting the church for the greater good.
However, while working on a cleanup crew at the Criminal Courts building, an emerging rap singer named Alejandro Garcia had discovered the “No Prosecution” files, recognized what they contained, and turned them over to his mentor and friend, Father Michael Dugan, a confidant of Marlene. The priest had then arranged to get the files into Karp’s hands.
After Kane’s arrest, Karp had turned V. T. Newbury loose on the “No Prosecution” inquiry, telling him to bring charges where warranted. V.T. and “Newbury’s Gang” of retired NYPD detectives and eager young assistant district attorneys had already charged a dozen police officers and priests with a variety of crimes from malfeasance to assault. One of the main NYPD henchmen on Kane’s payroll, Detective Michael Flanagan, had pleaded guilty to murder and was at Rikers Island. He’d been willing to testify against Kane, but now that was moot.
“Jaxon was hoping you might be able to help,” Karp replied to Newbury. “But he’ll be visiting you himself; once burnt, twice remembered, he’s playing things a little close to the vest right now.”
“What I don’t get is why go through all that effort to find and kill Fey?” Murrow said. “I mean, I could understand if Kane was still in jail, awaiting trial, and was trying to knock off the witnesses. But it’s not like he’s helping his case now. Even if we had to drop the charges in Manhattan because of a witness’s death-and that’s not the case, we’ve got plenty to hang him without Fey-the feds certainly have enough from his escape to earn him a lethal dose in the execution chamber at the federal pen in Indiana.”
“This wasn’t about taking out a witness,” Karp replied. “This is about vengeance. That’s why the killer made sure he left the rosary. This is Kane playing his little game.”
“But what’s this game all about?” Murrow asked. “He’s working with some terrorist, but he also wants to kill our DA and everybody he knows.”
“What’s to understand?” Marlene said. “He’s a vicious, cruel animal and he wants to frighten and torment anybody who gets in his way, or he thinks betrayed him. The terrorists have a score or two to settle with Butch and the rest of us, too. What better bedfellows?”
“I can think of two,” Karp teased.
“Oh brother, big talker,” Marlene laughed, which helped break the tension.
“I just want you all to be careful,” Karp said as he passed out copies of the photograph of Azzam. “NYPD now has these, so do the feds. This, we think, is Samira Azzam. She’s the one who sprang Kane, and we assume she’s still working with him.”
“Who’s ‘we,’ we’d like to know,” Murrow asked.
“I could tell you but-” Karp smiled.
“Yeah, I know, you’d have to kill us.”
“You.”
“Me.”
“Anyway, Fey’s killer is described as tall, dark-haired with severe acne scars, a big guy. I’m not trying to alarm anybody, but Kane has made good on one of his threats, so it pays to be careful. There’ll be a few more cop drive-bys around your homes than you’re used to, and you might occasionally notice the presence of federal agents-probably disguised as homeless derelicts so give ’em a buck when you walk by.” Karp’s announcement was met with groans but, he noted, no one demanded that they be excluded from the added police surveillance.
When the meeting was over, Marlene jumped up to give him a kiss. “I’m off to see Daddy, and maybe Uncle Vlad,” she said with a mischievous grin.
“Uncle Vlad?” asked Guma, who remained seated, as did Murrow.
“An Old World family she’s become attached to,” Karp said.
Karp was relieved when Newbury interrupted the line of questioning by whistling over near the bookshelf. “Hey, where’d you get the Carlos Torres chess pieces?” he asked. He held up the black bishop that had been sitting on the reading table, but then held up a black knight as well.
“Carlos who?” Karp asked.
“Torres. He’s the artist who carves these, though they always come as a set, no two sets alike,” Newbury said.
“Never heard of him,” Guma said.
“Of course you wouldn’t have, you Neanderthal,” Newbury said. “But anybody who actually enjoys the more refined aspects of chess knows a Carlos Torres piece. The guy’s an artist and expensive. Depending on the material he uses-which could be anything from petrified ivory to sperm whales’ teeth, and gemstones he inlays-they can cost a hundred grand easy.”
“I thought the first one might be yours, and I guess the second, too, though this is the first I’ve seen it,” Karp said.
“I wish,” Newbury said. “But no, I haven’t succumbed to that sort of ostentatiousness, for God’s sake. I have a beautifully carved oak set by Hannah Aowyn, but they only run about twenty K.”
“Only,” Guma said.
Karp laughed. “It’s all relative, Goom. Anyway, I’ll have to ask Mrs. Milquetost if she knows anything about it.”
Newbury set the pieces down and left the room. But Guma and Murrow remained seated, obviously waiting for this moment alone. Karp raised his eyebrows and asked, “Yes?”
Guma cleared his throat. “I want you to do the Stavros trial with me.”
Karp looked from Guma to Murrow, from whom he expected an instant complaint. When one wasn’t forthcoming, Karp looked back at Guma and shook his head. “I don’t think that would be a good idea. We’re already taking a lot of flak and I don’t want to turn this into more of a circus than it already is.”
He suggested Murray Osborn, an aggressive young ADA who was starting to make a name for himself in the homicide bureau. “He’s a lot like you and me, back in the day.”
“He’s good and will get better,” Guma conceded. “But I’m asking you.”
Before Karp could say anything, Guma got a surprising vote from Murrow. “It’s a great idea,” Murrow said, getting up to pace the room with his thumbs hooked into his omnipresent vest. “We cast this as: ‘District Attorney leads by example, helps prosecute rich white guy for a murder committed fourteen years ago.’ I can see the billboard now. ‘Nowhere to go. No place to hide. Sooner or later, if you do the crime, you’re going to do the time with Roger “Butch” Karp.’” He sighed happily.
“What about all the political fallout you were worried about before?” Karp asked.
“We’ll take some hits,” Murrow conceded. “But we already have, and I don’t see how Rachman can make it any worse. Plus, I think we’ll make inroads with that part of the voting public that thinks rich white guys always get away with murder. And…this will also show the press that you’re not afraid to pursue a case-no matter who it is, or what the circumstances are-even though it will be obvious to them that you’re leaving yourself open to more attacks from Rachman and the loyal opposition. Best of all, despite Kane’s threats, the public will see that you’re not off h
iding in some hole; you’re out there convicting murderers. This trial will mean daily exposure on the newscasts. The television stations won’t even have to give Rachman equal time because it will be in the normal course of your duties. This is just soooo sweet.”
“There’s a reason right there to stay out of this trial,” Karp said. “I wouldn’t want you turning this into a sideshow in the election campaign. Not to mention this is Guma’s case.”
“Sure, sure,” Murrow agreed. “I think that’s good. Guma does all the speaking to the press and you’re just helping out. It looks even better if you’re ‘just there to lend a hand to a colleague’ and avoiding grandstanding. Then the more Rachman criticizes your involvement, the more it will look like she’s blowing smoke and protecting a killer because of who he is in her party.”
“Look,” Karp shot back, “you wanting me to get involved in the risky biz of trying a high-profile case where the defendant could walk is totally counterintuitive coming from one bow-tied Gilbert Murrow. Moreover, we don’t try cases around here because it’s politically cool.”
Guma turned to Murrow and held up a hand. “Gilbert, would you mind if I talked to Mr. Clean here alone for a moment?”
Murrow clearly didn’t like it, but he left, closing the door behind him. They soon heard Mrs. Milquetost, who for some reason had adopted him as sort of a long lost son, cooing over him. She’d been known to bring him cookies she’d baked at home and had even brought one of her former husband’s bow ties as a gift when she noticed he favored them as a fashion statement.
“Why’s she so nice to Murrow?” Guma asked. “He boinkin’ little old ladies with Ariadne out of the country?”
“Maybe it’s because he comes off so well compared to you,” Karp suggested. “Cuddly, harmless gentleman as opposed to hairy, high-octane bull in the pasture. I’ve never understood why some little alarm bell doesn’t go off in the minds of women whenever they see you coming.”
“The only bells going off are the bells of ecstasy after a little time with Ray the Impaler,” Guma laughed. But the smile disappeared off his face as he sat forward and looked Karp in the eyes.
“I’ve been having a few minor glitches with my health lately,” he said. “Nothing major, but some days are better than others. I would hate to get into this trial with an inexperienced ADA and then have a couple of off days and have to leave it on his shoulders. Even if I was medically unable to go forward, and we could get the judge to declare a mistrial, we would be kissing Emil Stavros good-bye. The judge would simply continue his bond, and he’d skip the country even though we already froze his assets pending the trial. I got that court order based upon the submission that the dough was legitimately Zachary’s and looted from Teresa’s accounts. But he’s probably got plenty stashed somewhere, and I’ll bet it’s somewhere that we don’t have an extradition treaty with.”
“Then we’ll get one of the senior ADAs, or even a deputy chief, to be your co-counsel,” Karp said.
“You’re not getting it,” Guma said. “Look, it’s been a long time since you and I did one of these together…more than a decade…and, well, there won’t be many more chances.”
Karp scowled. “What kind of talk is that? Is there something you’re not telling me?”
Guma shook his head. “No. Like I said, someone cuts a few yards of your guts out of your body, it’s pretty hard to feel ‘normal.’ There’s a new normal. But as of my last checkup, I was still clean. But with the election coming up and another four years of getting the DAO back on track, you won’t have much time for trying cases with your old pal Goom. And I’m not sure how much longer I’ll keep practicing. Occasionally I get this instinctual Guinea urge to move to warmer climes, and I think about flying south to Miami to hang with the cousins, buy some big gold chains to hang around my neck, shave my back, get a tan, find some divorcee with…big assets…and settle down.”
“Doesn’t sound too bad,” Karp said.
“No, it doesn’t,” Guma agreed. “In fact, I swear sometimes when I fall asleep at night, I can hear waves and smell suntan lotion warming up on a pair of thirty-six double-Ds. So let’s do this trial together, for old times’ sake. Come on, it will be fun.”
Karp sat still for a moment, staring at his old friend, lost in thought. Did I fall asleep and wake up twenty years later? It all does pass in a blink of the eye. So this is it, the swan song trial. He shook his head and said, “Wow. Okay, okay. It will be fun to be ringside with the Italian Stallion back in the ring for another title bout. I’ll be proud to be in your corner, kiddo.”
When they invited Murrow back in and told him, he’d practically skipped around the office. “This is great. Cold Case Detectives is the hottest show on television,” he chortled. “And people just eat this forensic files stuff up. What can I tell the press?”
The look from Karp sent him scurrying out of the office.
12
Kane stabbed for Samira Azzam’s chest. But she parried the blow with her Bantay-Kamay, or guardian hand, and then countered with a slicing backhand that narrowly missed his eyes.
“Careful, Samira, my love,” he hissed. “Wouldn’t want to ruin this fine work by Dr. Buchwald, now would we?” He dropped to a knee and slashed at her thigh, but she’d anticipated the move and spun backward, delivering a kick to the side of his head.
The blow was glancing but still enough to daze him for a moment, so his mind didn’t quite follow the classic Lipat-Palit technique of an unexpected flip of her knife from right hand to left. It left him open for the fatal blow, the point of her knife pressed against the carotid artery in his neck. She wanted to plunge the knife in and feel his hot red blood gush over her hand. But now is not the time, she reminded herself, and probably never would be unless the al Qaeda leaders tired of the insane infidel and allowed her to go forward with “the plan” without him.
Samira felt something tickle her and looked down. Kane’s knife was poised with its tip ready to plunge into her crotch. “Hardly a lethal blow, as mine would have been.” She smiled sweetly.
“Ah, but nevertheless, you would have been worthless as a whore.” He was smiling, too, but the look in his eyes was cold, sneering. He withdrew his knife and backed away from her blade. “Of course, you know that if you had used yours, your next order would have been to blow yourself up in some meaningless little attack on a kibbutz that wouldn’t rate three inches in the newspapers.”
Samira kept the smile on her face though she seethed at the insulting insinuation that she was nothing but a whore to be used by al Qaeda. “I look forward to dying for Allah and Palestine in any way I am called upon,” she said. “Perhaps, you will martyr yourself with me…my love.”
Kane laughed. “I love it that you hate me so much, my dangerous little bitch,” he said. “It makes fucking you that much more pleasurable for me.”
Indeed, Samira wanted to kill him so much at that moment that tears came to her eyes and spilled down her cheeks. But she still kept up the pretense and pouted, “You say such cruel things.”
Again, Kane mocked her. “Ah, such a perfect assassin, but a lousy actress. You’re here doing whatever I say because your masters want to keep me happy and for some perverse reason, I’m sure, using you like a piece of meat gives me great pleasure and relieves the stresses of such a…pressure-filled life. It is so much fun watching you choke on the words you’d like to say.”
Samira studied his face, wishing she could carve it with her knife. He didn’t look like the Andrew Kane she’d first met, not anymore. Even she had to admit that the work of Dr. Buchwald, a plastic surgeon, was amazing. Gone was the formerly, rather effete-looking blond with the pale blue eyes. He’d been replaced by a more rugged-looking man with a cleft in his rounder chin, wider cheeks and fuller lips, as well as larger, crooked nose-presumably from some old injury. The hair was now chestnut; the eyes no longer blue but brown, thanks to contact lens. He even had a thin white scar beneath his right eye, evidence of a traffic ac
cident that never happened…at least not to Andrew Kane.
Still, she knew that the real Andrew Kane had never been what she’d seen on the outside. In her mind, the real Kane merely wore the physical characteristics of a man as a disguise or cloak. He reminded her of childhood stories her parents had told her from Arabian folklore and the Quran regarding the jinn.
Allah created man from sounding clay like the clay of pottery, her father would begin, gathering his children around on cold winter nights in Palestine. And the jinn He created from a smokeless flame of fire.
The jinn were spirits-sometimes formless, sometimes inhabiting the bodies of men and animals-and there were different sorts. Some were essentially harmless, even helpful. But others were evil and dedicated to tormenting humans-deceiving and guiding them away from the true path.
The worst are called shayateen, her father had whispered, looking around and over his shoulder as though leery of eavesdroppers in the shadows. His children followed his gaze, half-expecting to see some furtive movement in the dark corners or a shadow pass across a doorway. They serve Iblis, the Evil One, and the strongest among them are called afreet.
Of course back then, in better times, such bedtime tales would end with her father jumping up with a shout to startle his boys and girl, who would shriek, then laugh and never seemed to grow tired of the game. The memory stirred a rare longing in Azzam, who blinked back the tears. She wondered if her father knew that the jinn were real and inhabited men like Andrew Kane. “Audhu billah,” she muttered.
“What was that, my darling?” Kane asked. “Did you say ‘I seek refuge in Allah’? Isn’t that something you superstitious desert folk say to ward off evil?”
“It is just a saying,” Azzam replied. “Like ‘bless you’ when someone sneezes.”
“Hmmm…could have sworn it was a little stronger than that,” Kane said, and then chuckled. “But I am doing rather well with my language lessons, don’t you think? Good thing, as it looks like I may have to spend some time in your part of the world after we’ve accomplished our task in New York.”
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