“Why wasn’t this stuff about the gardener in the file?” Fairbrother asked.
Bassaline’s thick brows knitted. “Whaddya mean it’s not in there? It’s all there, including the affidavit I filled out for the search warrant.”
Fairbrother shook his head. “Nothing about a gardener named Jeff Kaplan, no affidavit either.”
Bassaline was quiet for a moment, then nodded. “Well, guess that makes sense considering who they turned the case over to-”
“Who was that?” Fairbrother asked.
“Guy’s been in the news quite a bit lately,” Bassaline answered. “First, last fall when he went down for whackin’ that rap singer and them hookers, which is why I figured he got his comeuppance in prison. Still, got the story taped to my refrigerator.”
“You telling me that the detective who took over this case was Michael-”
“Flanagan,” Bassaline finished the sentence. “Yeah, little holier-than-thou prick, at least that’s how he tried to come off-though there were a lot of rumors floating around the precinct that he was handing out his own brand of justice, him and some other little hyper, self-righteous, religious pricks. Didn’t surprise me at all that he was workin’ for that a-hole Andrew Kane.”
Fairbrother’s mind was racing and suddenly clear of the effects of the alcohol. “You know where I can find Kaplan?” he asked.
Bassaline laughed but it wasn’t a pleasant sound. “Yeah, he’s easy to find, but it won’t do you any good. He’s buried in Acacia Cemetery over in Queens.”
“What happened to him?”
“You tell me,” Bassaline said. “Guess Jeff liked to fish for stripers almost as much as he liked his roses. About nine years ago, they found his boat out in the Long Island Sound. His body washed up a few days later. He had a nasty knock on his head, but the ME said he drowned. They ruled it accidental.”
“My ass,” Fairbrother said.
“Got that straight,” Bassaline replied and chugged the remainder of his drink.
Fairbrother stood up and shook Bassaline’s hand. “We may want you to testify about the gardener.”
“Figured as much,” Bassaline said. “Tell you the truth, that one’s weighed on me for a while. I should have gone over my chief’s head, but I didn’t know Flanagan was dumptrucking the case or even that he was dirty…not until that stuff with Kane went down.”
22
Karp was polishing off a hot dog from the stand in front of the Criminal Courts building when the newspaper vendor with the coke-bottle eyeglasses and a nose like Pinocchio began cussing at him from his stand next door.
“Okay, asswipe Jesus,” the man with a sly smile said. “I got one for you.”
Karp rolled his eyes. Ever since he’d known “Dirty Warren,” they’d played a game of movie trivia with Warren asking the questions and Karp answering them. So far, the score was: Warren zero and Karp about four thousand and three…not that he was counting.
“Don’t you get tired of losing?” Karp asked, which elicited a stream of profanity and epithet-laced challenges that had little to do with Warren’s affliction with Tourette syndrome, a short circuit in his brain that was manifested by profanity-laced speech, and everything to do with his irascible and competitive nature. But Karp just laughed, which irritated Warren all the more.
There were precious few things that Karp felt he knew with any degree of certainty. More often than not, Karp felt that his expertise was limited to where to find the best pastrami sandwich and hot dog in New York-Second Avenue Deli and Nathan’s at Coney Island. But to Warren, there were two things at which Karp had no equal: his knowledge of movie trivia and anything and everything to do with the Yankees.
Karp got the first trait from his mother, who had loved movies and theater and often took him to both. As a boy growing up in Brooklyn, he looked forward to each weekend to the Saturday matinees down at the Avalon and Kingsway theaters, where for twenty-five cents he could catch double features. He preferred Westerns, but he saw them all, and gleaned, filed, and stored anything he could get from magazines, newspapers, and word-of-mouth rumor about the stars and making of the movies, including the unusual and the little known. It was a hobby he’d carried over into his adult life-probably more as something he could, in a way, still share with his mother. With his mother, Saturdays also meant the Broadway theaters; it had long been their goal to see all of the best shows listed in the New York Times theater guide.
Karp’s forte was older movies, and the unwritten rule was that Warren was supposed to draw his questions from at least a couple decades back. But Karp had kept up with the latest stuff, too, because every once in a while, Warren would cheat and try to rattle him with something newer.
Today, Warren was playing fair, and even gave him a true or false question, though he tacked on a second part.
“When they made The Godfather, shit, there were ‘post notes’ all over the sets, including in Robert Duval’s mouth because Marlon Brando couldn’t remember his lines, true or false, scumbag bitch,” Warren said. “And why?”
“Why what?” Karp asked as he turned to look at a crowd of reporters gathering near the top of the stairs of the building.
“Damn penis, why is it true, or why is it false?” Warren replied, peering around Karp’s shoulder to see what was going on.
Karp turned as the crowd of reporters shouted a question to someone coming out of the building who he couldn’t see yet. As long as it wasn’t somebody from his office, he didn’t really care; he didn’t like his ADAs to grandstand in front of the press or leak tidbits in dark, smoky bars. He believed in trying cases in courtrooms, not the court of public opinion. He left that to the defense lawyers.
“I stumped you, didn’t, fuck me, I, turd?” Warren said with a smug look on his face. He gazed around hoping that there would be a crowd to witness his moment of glory and was disappointed to see that everyone’s attention was turned to the gaggle of press.
Karp moved to the side and closer until he could see that the reason for the media frenzy was the sudden appearance of Bryce Anderson, Rachel Rachman, and a tall, middle-aged body-builder type he quickly recognized as Dante Coletta, the Stavros chauffeur. He noticed Murrow standing off to the side; his aide saw him and hurried down the steps.
“What’s up, Gilbert?” Karp asked.
“It seems that the defense has produced a ‘witness’ who claims to have seen who killed Teresa Stavros,” Murrow said. “They filed an amended motion to dismiss the indictment.”
“And I suppose Rachman’s presence is a coincidence,” Karp said.
“As is the sudden appearance of the media, despite the gag order following the last blood frenzy,” said a voice coming from behind.
Karp glanced over his shoulder. “Hello, Ray. Yeah, I need that like I need a new hole in the head.”
Funny how the press worked. The terrorist attack on his daughter and the death of John Jojola had made the front page of the Times for a day and then subsequent stories faded toward the inside pages until they’d disappeared. After all, anything west of the Hudson grew less important the farther one got from Manhattan. But the discovery of Teresa Stavros’s skeleton in the backyard of the family brown-stone had been on the front page for a week following the court hearing.
The press had gone to town, digging up the old stories from when Teresa first disappeared and the subsequent story about well-known missing persons. They’d talked to the neighbors, past and present; attempted to talk to Dante Coletta, who’d said what appeared in the papers as [expletive] off and die. Enterprising reporters had even gone to Denver and Albuquerque to speak with members of 221B Baker Street only to be referred to the court hearing transcripts.
The defense, of course, had railed on and on about having questions about the quackery used to identify the remains found in the grave. And even if they prove to be those of Teresa Stavros, Anderson said, it only goes to further our contention that someone has set Mr. Stavros up to take the fall for h
is wife’s disappearance and now, her “presumed” death, which I might add is still in question. And if it proves that she’s dead, I am one hundred percent, positively comfortable knowing that a jury will realize that my client, Mr. Emil Stavros, philanthropist, dedicated father and husband, community leader, is not a murderer. He is as dedicated to finding out what happened to his beloved first wife as anyone and that includes those bureaucrats at the DAO or NYPD. Now it appeared as though Emil Stavros was so dedicated that, through his attorneys, he had announced a $100,000 reward for information regarding how the skeleton found in his backyard came to be there.
“Did you know about this?” Karp asked.
Guma shook his head. “Nah, I was just grabbing a bite to eat at a Chinese place across the park when Murrow called with the news. Apparently, Anderson wants to meet to give us this apparently earth-shattering information.”
The three prosecutors sidled closer to the back of the press herd to listen to the “impromptu” press conference. Anderson was talking and they caught him in midsentence. “-produce a witness, Mr. Dante Coletta, who is standing here to my right.” The lawyer nodded to Coletta, who glared at the crowd. “However, you have caught me between a rock and a hard place as I intend to honor the gag order imposed by Judge Lussman. That being said, if the district attorney insists on proceeding with this ludicrous case, suffice it to say that Mr. Coletta will set matters straight in court as to the real killer of Teresa Aiello Stavros nearly fifteen years ago.”
Anderson turned to go but paused to allow the press to shout after him. “Mr. Anderson! Mr. Anderson!” the young blond reporter shouted. She had thus far resisted his attempts for “a quiet dinner someplace where I might be able to illuminate some of the more complex issues surrounding this case.”
He sighed as if he were being dragged back against his will but pointed to the reporter. “Yes, Jeanne?” he said. “One last question.”
“Mr. Anderson, does your witness have any evidence to prove that what he is saying is true?”
Anderson paused and gave her his best “I know what I’m doing here and aren’t you impressed” smile. “Let’s just say Mr. Coletta was present when Mrs. Stavros was cruelly murdered by someone other than my client,” he answered, then turned forcefully on his Guccis and strode into the building.
The press was left with Rachel Rachman, who was dressed, as usual, in loud colors…today purple and a sort of Granny Smith apple green. “Ms. Rachman do you have any comment?” a decidedly less interested press asked.
Rachman glared over the reporters’ heads at Karp, which had the effect of turning some cameras his way. “I hesitate to comment on an ongoing case-” she said.
“Then don’t,” Guma muttered.
“-but this sort of rush to judgment, coupled with political gamesmanship that should have no part in the actions taken by the New York DAO, is exactly why I decided to run for this office,” Rachman says. “We have murders, rapes, and other violent crimes every day, but our current district attorney is more interested in making headlines with a fifteen-year-old case aimed at destroying a man who dared to speak out by supporting a candidate who wants to bring integrity back to the once-proud tradition of the DAO. I say shame on Mr. Karp for jumping into this tar baby with both feet before he had all the facts…”
“Let’s go,” Karp said, ignoring the cameras and shouted questions from the press as he walked through them up the stairs.
“Shit fuck your sister, what’s your answer, Karp?” Dirty Warren yelled. “You got ten seconds or I win!”
Karp turned, his face stern. Even the press went quiet. Then he smiled.
“Ah, shit!” Warren howled, having seen the smile before.
“False,” Karp shouted. “There were notes with Brando’s lines all over the sets, but it wasn’t because he forgot his lines. He didn’t read scripts beforehand because he thought his first read was the best one. So notes with his lines were placed where he could see them during filming.”
“Aaaaaahhhhhh, piss!” Warren said stamping his feet.
Karp saluted with his index finger to his brow and turned, walking into the building followed by Murrow and Guma, who were smiling like their boss had just won an argument before the U.S. Supreme Court. They all stopped smiling when they saw the reporter who stood blocking their way.
“Hi, honey!” Gilbert said. “I didn’t think you were getting in until tonight.”
“Hi, baby,” Ariadne Stupenagel said. “I was jonesing for my Gilbert the Great, so I caught an earlier flight. Just in time to learn that you’ve been holding out on me with the latest Karp and company caper. I’m about to go home to your apartment where I intend to slowly undress this magnificent body in front of a mirror before I step into a blazingly hot shower where I intend to lather up every last curve and crevice-”
“I didn’t need to hear that,” Karp said.
“I did,” Guma and Murrow replied in something of a lather themselves.
Ariadne Stupenagel was one of Marlene’s former college roommates. Probably the best freelance newshound in New York City-and elsewhere as she traveled the globe, most recently London to chase a story about Islamic extremist imams in the wake of the bombings. She was six foot and a bit, which made her a head taller than her boyfriend, and built-as she herself described-for lust. She bedded the rich and powerful in her time, as well as (“regrettably”) Guma, but for reasons beyond Karp’s ken, she’d seemed to settle on Murrow.
“Well, Gilbert,” she said, ignoring Guma, “if you hurry home, you might get to watch. But first, I need to put on my reporter hat…so a comment, please, on Ms. Rachman’s speech out there.” She pulled a tape recorder microphone out of her purse and shoved it toward Karp, but Murrow stepped in between.
“Not withstanding Ms. Rachman’s grandstanding in a court matter that is none of her business, it is the policy of the New York DAO to seek justice in front of a jury consisting of honest, hardworking citizens of Manhattan, not in front of the press. Ms. Rachman was released by this office for a reason…a reason, I meant to say, that I am not at liberty to discuss. But let’s just say a leopardess does not change her spots or a skunk her stripes.”
“Murrow,” Karp growled though inwardly he was thinking, Nice zingers, Gilbert. “I think that’s quite enough. Welcome back, Ariadne.”
An hour later, they were sitting in the DAO meeting room with Bryce Anderson and Dante Coletta. “Just in case your mind was not closed, and you were willing to take the blinders off-”
“Save the speeches, Bryce, the press ain’t here,” Guma said.
Anderson looked at Guma like he was looking at a bum and returned his gaze to Karp. “As I was saying, we’re here so that you can listen to Mr. Coletta’s version of what happened and judge for yourself whether to accept his story or we can wait until he testifies for the defense.”
Karp looked at Guma. “Well, Ray, you want to hear this guy out or should we savage him on the witness stand or both?”
Coletta, who’d been sprawled in his chair smiling, sat up with a scowl. “We’ll see who savages who.”
“Whom,” Guma corrected him
“Huh?”
“Never mind, I take it they didn’t require English grammar as part of the GED you received in prison, according to your records,” Guma said, looking at the file he’d asked Murrow to pull while they stalled Anderson and Coletta.
“If this is going to turn into an insult contest, we’re out of here,” Anderson said, making a move as if to stand.
Karp put his hand up and motioned for him to remain seated. “I think Mr. Guma, who is lead counsel for the prosecution in this case, would love to hear Mr. Coletta’s ‘version of the events.’ Mr. Guma?”
“Yeah, let’s hear it,” Guma confirmed.
“Yeah, well, if this is the way a citizen gets treated for trying to do the right thing, no wonder there’s so much crime in Manhattan,” Coletta said. “But anyway, yeah, I was there when he did it.”
> “When who did what?” Karp said.
“What?” asked Coletta with a smirk. “Am I being tag teamed here?…Look, I ain’t comfortable talking to The Man, con’s code of honor and all, but I don’t want to see Mr. Stavros go down for something he didn’t do. He’s a legit guy, gave me a chance after I did my time, and I’ve worked for him ever since.”
“So you’re saying, you owe Mr. Stavros,” Guma asked, looking at his fingernails as if they might need clipping.
“Nah, it ain’t like that,” Coletta countered. “I just wanted to explain why I would turn on a guy who I was pretty tight with at one time.”
“So who are we talking about?” Guma asked. “Who are you saying you saw kill Mrs. Stavros?”
“His name is, or rather was, Jeff Kaplan,” Coletta said. “He was Mrs. Stavros’s gardener. But I understand he died in a boating accident or something.”
“Start from the beginning. Where did you meet him?” Karp asked, recalling the report he’d read from Detective Fairbrother regarding his conversation with former detective Brian Bassaline.
“I met him at Auburn Prison. He was in for killing some guy-not that he meant to do it; it was a fight in a bar, Jeff one-punched him and turned out the guy’s lights forever. Guess it was sort of a freak thing. Anyway, next thing Jeff knows, he’s doing time for manslaughter.”
“And Mr. Kaplan was a gardener?” Guma asked, although he had also talked to Fairbrother and read the report.
“Yeah, he got into it in prison, said it calmed him down,” Coletta said. “Anyway, we were cellies for a half year or so before I got out. When he was released, I talked to Mrs. Stavros, who was struggling with her roses, and got him a job.”
“You’ll excuse me, but this is the first we’ve heard of the gardener,” Karp said. “But there’s nothing in the file about him.”
Coletta shrugged. “That’s not my problem. I know he was questioned. Guess it’s just sloppy work on your part.”
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