“But when?”
Karp thought about it and shook his head. “I thought it might be today, or maybe tomorrow. I’m going to talk to the mayor and the chief of police and see if they want to bump up security at the tunnel and bridges. But it could be next week…or next year for all I know.”
“Do you think the threat is real? Or just some nut who likes to make riddles that sound bad?”
“I don’t know that, either,” Karp replied. “But Jaxon seemed to take it seriously before he left. That bit about Dagestan had him worried. And this Andy said ‘it’s the worst thing that could happen,’ which I’d hate to imagine.”
The conversation was interrupted by a buzzing that meant someone was downstairs at the loft entrance. Karp walked over to where he could see the security monitor.
“Thank God,” he said. “It’s Jaxon and Ned.”
“Lucy’s not with them?” Marlene asked, disappointed.
“No, babe, but maybe they can tell us where she is,” he said, pressing the lock release. “Come on up, guys, looks chilly out there.”
A minute later, Jaxon and Blanchett were standing in the kitchen as Marlene poured two cups of coffee.
“Sorry you missed Thanksgiving dinner,” Karp said, “but what brings you here at this hour?”
“Sorry to barge in,” Jaxon said. “We just got back, but I need to ask you a question and didn’t want to do it over the phone. Have you heard from Jojola or Tran?”
“No,” Karp said, looking at Marlene, who shook her head. “What’s up?”
Jaxon’s face tightened. “They’re missing. We were on a mission in the Caribbean. They were supposed to be following a terrorist named Omar Abdullah. But we haven’t heard from them in nearly a week. One of the locals who was working with them says they were tracking Abdullah into the bush and sent this other guy, his name is Salim, back to let us know…cell phones don’t work there. But they’ve vanished and an all-out manhunt hasn’t turned up any clues.”
“What about if they had to follow this guy off what I presume is an island?” Karp asked.
“I’ve thought about it,” Jaxon replied. “Maybe they followed him or were taken hostage. I’ve been trying to get a handle on what aircraft or ships left the island around the time they disappeared. There’s nothing with any of the airlines; they couldn’t have left without being noticed. But that doesn’t rule out private aircraft or the ships, and unfortunately, it’s a busy port. I got a list of the ships that left but I don’t have much hope of finding them that way. I guess we’re going to have to keep looking and hope they turn up.”
“Is this the same mission that Lucy’s on?” Marlene interrupted.
Jaxon gave Marlene a funny look. “Lucy wasn’t on this mission.”
“Lucy’s home in New Mexico,” Blanchett added.
“You’ve talked to her?” Marlene asked, surprised and a little irritated that her daughter had spoken to her fiancé but hadn’t answered her mom’s messages.
“Well, no, but that’s where she was headed after I left.”
Marlene frowned. “That’s what we thought, too. But we haven’t spoken to her since. Just two text messages saying she was going on a spiritual retreat with some Taos Indians.”
“In November?” Blanchett said. Now it was his turn to frown. “The Taos people generally move into the old pueblo on the reservation during the winter and avoid contact with the outside world. Members of the tribe only—not even someone they like as much as Lucy.”
“You’re not lying to me about her being on this mission, are you, Espey?” Marlene demanded. “Because if you are, and I find out about it, I’m going to tear you a new one.”
“Scout’s honor,” Jaxon promised.
“Can I use your phone?” Blanchett asked.
“Of course,” Marlene replied. “Who are you calling?”
“The airlines. I need to catch the first plane out of here for New Mexico.”
31
KARP AND MARLENE LOOKED UP AS JAXON AND BLANCHETT entered the DA’s office from the door leading to the private elevator. They could tell that both men were on edge.
Blanchett had called Saturday to say that he had information about Lucy but was flying back to New York on Monday to talk about it rather than say anything over the phone. “It’s not good news,” he’d said, obviously worried but doing his best to remain cool. “However, it’s not entirely bad, either. Fact is, I don’t know what to make of it.”
“So what’s the good news/bad news?” Marlene demanded.
Jaxon looked at Blanchett and nodded. “When I got back to the ranch on Friday, I didn’t see any sign that Lucy had been there since we left,” Blanchett said. “I checked with the sheriff and even got one of the Taos reservation police officers to ask if anybody had seen her. No one had, even though the airline said that someone used her ticket. I was getting pretty frantic, then I checked our mailbox on Saturday morning and found a note from the mailman saying I had a certified letter waiting for me at the post office. I barely got there before they closed at noon.”
The young man pulled an envelope out of the pocket of his sheepskin coat and handed it to Marlene.
“‘My darling Ned,’” she began reading, “‘if you get this it means that I’m still not back from my trip to see an old friend as I expected. The boss knows who I mean and why I went. Tell my parents that I’ll be okay and that I’m sorry I lied. But I thought I had to do this. Tell Mom to keep the faith and give Booger a treat soon. And tell Dad to keep doing his word games. I love you, Ned, I want to be your wife, so come home safe to me. Luce.’”
Marlene teared up at the last sentence and looked at Jaxon. “She’s talking in code, so I guess that means that she was worried someone might intercept this, but assuming you’re ‘the boss,’ what’s the rest of it mean to you?”
Jaxon was quiet for a moment, then sighed. “Before we left for the Caribbean, Lucy told me she wanted to find Grale and talk to him about releasing al-Sistani to us,” he said. “But I told her that under no condition was she to make contact with him without a team along to ensure her protection. I guess she decided to ignore my orders and is going forward with her plan.”
“She’s always been headstrong,” Karp noted. “I can only hope that this time it’s not going to backfire on her. I noticed she started by saying that if Ned got the letter, it meant that she wasn’t able to get back in time to retrieve it, which means something had come up to change her original plan.”
“She also gives another hint by saying ‘as I expected,’” Jaxon added. “So she knew the situation was fluid.”
“Or that something’s gone wrong,” Marlene said.
Karp looked at her, saw the strain, and nodded. “It could be. But it also sounds like she does have a plan, even if confronted by the unexpected, and went out of her way in this note to tell us that she would be okay. I haven’t given her enough credit sometimes in the past—but that’s one tough young woman and if she tells me that she had to do this, I’m going to trust that she weighed the consequences carefully and has a good reason.”
Marlene smiled through her tears. “You’re really sweet and special. Always looking out for everybody else…. The other night he finds a way to pump up Zak when the kid needed it most and wasn’t getting it from his mom. Today, he finds a way to keep me from having a nervous breakdown.”
“Hope he can do the same for me. What did Lucy mean by telling you to ‘keep the faith and give Booger a treat soon’?” Jaxon asked.
“She was using our code word for danger and telling me to get into contact with the Walking Booger—one of the street people who seems to have a direct connection to Grale—and ‘soon’ means as soon as I get the message. But she couldn’t have known when that would be, so we may already be out of time.”
“What’s the treat?”
“Booger likes the brownies at the Housing Works Bookstore Café down the block from our loft. He calls them ‘treats,’” Marlene said. �
�Guess I’ll hang out there until he shows.”
“Can I go with you or at least send a team to keep an eye on things? You won’t even know they’re there,” Jaxon said.
Marlene shook her head. “No. Stay away. If your people show up in that neighborhood, Grale’s people will know. If he wanted to make contact with you, he would have reached out to you. But she directed that comment specifically to me, and it’s obvious she’s worked out a plan with Grale.”
Jaxon looked at Karp. “So that leaves the last comment telling you to keep at your word games. Want to hazard a guess at what that means?”
“I know what it means,” Karp replied. “It means that ‘the worst thing that could happen’ is connected to whatever Lucy’s doing with Grale.”
Karp’s intercom buzzed. “Mr. Karp, there’s a Mr. Ray Guma here to see you.”
Darla Milquetost left her finger on the button a moment longer than she should have, so those in Karp’s office heard her giggle and say “Stop!”
“Just a moment, Darla, and pour some water on him…that usually cools him off for a minute or two,” Karp said.
The other three left by the private door and Karp pressed the intercom button. “Darla, you may show Mr. Guma in.”
“Sure, Mr. Karp,” the receptionist cooed. “Mr. Guma, Mr. Karp says you may go in now.” She giggled—“stop that…go!”
A moment later, Guma sauntered into the office, a wicked grin on his face. “Ready? I was going to walk you to court today.”
“Goom, you really have to stop…you’re ruining a perfectly good receptionist,” Karp pleaded. “First she’s going to be all atwitter, and useless, and then you’re going to break her heart, and she’ll really be useless. I need a cold, efficient secretary, not a woman in love.”
“I can’t help that I have that sort of effect on my paramours,” Guma boasted. “And who knows, perhaps Madam Milquetost is the One.”
“Uh-huh, if I want to hear lies this early in the morning, I’ll go listen to Mr. Guy Leonard,” Karp replied.
Guma made a grand gesture toward the door. “Let us be off,” he said, then stopped and sniffed. “Isn’t that Marlene’s perfume I smell? Have we been, perhaps, misbehaving in the DA’s inner sanctum this morning?”
Karp thought about Lucy, the madman David Grale, and al-Sistani. “No, Goom, I should only be so lucky. But let’s go, I can only deal with one evil man at a time.”
Katz was waiting for Karp when he arrived in the courtroom a few minutes later. “Welcome to Character Assassination Day,” he said in a low voice.
“We’ll see who assassinates whom,” Karp said grimly.
“You okay?” Katz asked.
“Never better, Kenny. I’m just getting my game face on.”
“What game? Rugby?”
Karp laughed, which relaxed him a little bit. “It might end up looking like that; now watch and learn, my boy, watch and learn.”
Character Assassination Day began with Leonard’s assault on the deceased, Gail Perez, when he called psychiatrist Latisha Gordon-Winker to the stand. He spent the next forty-five minutes on Dr. Gordon-Winker’s bona fides as “one of the foremost authorities in the world on depression and bipolar disease,” and author of the bestseller Of Two Minds: My Own Battle With Bipolarity, as well as “hundreds of important academic papers on this subject.”
When Leonard moved to have Gordon-Winker, a thin, haughty-looking black woman whose face seemed set in a permanent sneer, accepted as an expert witness on the subject of depression and bipolar disease, Karp hardly bothered to look up from his notepad as he said “No objection.” It was a pattern he planned to follow throughout the day. “The less obstructionist, the better,” he explained to Katz. “The more the merrier, that way they can dig a deeper hole.”
Karp watched calmly as Leonard spent over an hour with his “expert” witness, trying to paint the picture of Gail Perez as deeply depressed and, in fact, borderline bipolar. When, at last, it was time for cross-examination, he hardly questioned Gordon-Winker, except to say, “Your opinion that Gail Perez was depressed or bipolar can be shown to be true…a proven fact?”
“Well, no. It’s an educated opinion from a medical expert.”
“But it’s not a fact, is it?”
“I can’t prove it to you, no.”
“So, it’s fair to say that other so-called experts might very well have different opinions about Miss Perez’s mental state? Meaning these experts could very well testify that Miss Perez did not suffer from any mental disease or defect?”
“They might…but they’d be wrong.”
“In your opinion, of course.”
“Yes. Of course.”
“I have no further questions.”
Leonard had used the remainder of the morning session trying to rehabilitate Dr. Gordon-Winker through redirect. Most of which consisted of repeating what she’d already said.
After lunch, Leonard had called a well-known psychologist, “Dr. Bill” Pecker, who had his own television show in the New York area and had recently written a book, The Casting Couch: Sex, Stars, and the Great White Way.
“Dr. Bill,” Leonard said with a smile, “what do you mean by the term ‘casting couch’?”
Dr. Bill, a small, balding, pear-shaped man, was brought in to question whether or not Gail Perez used Maplethorpe sexually to procure her role in his play. After listening to Leonard’s detailed questioning, Karp first embarrassed Dr. Bill by refuting his qualifications and then hit him and the defense where it hurt.
“Doctor, can you give us one single fact—something irrefutable, something that can be proven to be true—about anything you just said? Not an opinion, not an educated guess, just a fact?”
“If you’re talking about something I can prove with empirical evidence, then no,” Pecker said. “Psychology is not a hard science; much of what we do is based on the study of anecdotal evidence, from which we draw conclusions.”
“I see,” Karp said. “In other words, you make things up based on what you’ve read, or heard, or been told, without having any idea whether they are factual or not.”
“That’s not true,” Pecker argued.
“Dr. Pecker, were you in Mr. Maplethorpe’s apartment the night Carmina Salinas was there?”
“No, of course not.”
“I was just checking,” Karp replied. “You seem so sure about what happened, I thought maybe you were a fly on the wall.” He let the image hang in the air for a moment before adding, “I have no further questions for the…doctor.”
32
DEAN NEWBURY DRUMMED HIS FINGERS ON THE LONG wooden table in the private conference room down the long hall and past the reception area from his office. As he waited for his appointment to arrive, he studied the symbol inlaid in gold in the center of the table. It depicted a shield from which three running legs, placed equidistantly, protruded around the circumference. The triskele was an ancient symbol whose origin was lost in the mists of time, but it was part of the Isle of Man flag, as well as the symbol for its long-lost sons.
Whichever way you throw it, he recalled of the triskele legend, it lands on its feet. Just like the Sons of Man, whose council members wore rings with the triskele emblem as a sign of their united purpose. Despite many setbacks, including the fiasco at the New York Stock Exchange, he would know in just a few days whether that purpose would reach its culmination in his lifetime. And whether you’ll be part of the council when we reap the benefits.
At the moment, however, he was an old man who wished he was home in bed instead of waiting on that idiot congressman, Denton Crawford, at ten o’clock at night. Still, it was probably better to meet after-hours, if they had to meet at all.
The conference room was only accessible via a solid steel security door from the reception areas or a VIP-only elevator to a private, guarded garage beneath the Fifth Avenue building’s main garage. “I don’t see why we need to meet at all,” he’d groused to Crawford when the man called that af
ternoon. “Everything’s in place. The proper people have been paid to look the other way. The package will be delivered according to the new schedule.”
However, Crawford had insisted they needed to talk and so here he was. Newbury glanced up when the monitor for the security camera in the parking garage winked on at the arrival of a dark Mercedes. As only a very few people had access to the garage, he knew that Crawford had arrived. He watched as the chauffeur got out and opened the door for his passenger, who stepped from the vehicle wearing a fedora and a heavy trench coat. Look at that fool, he thinks he’s playing spy games, he thought. Surely even if he’s successful the other council members and SOM families won’t approve his ascension into leadership. If he can be controlled, perhaps he’d be a more manageable replacement for V.T.
Dean Newbury didn’t even bother to look up when the monitor for the private elevator whirred into action, but instead got up and made himself a stiff whiskey and soda at the bar. The first sip was scorching its way down his throat when he heard the sound of the elevator arriving and then the titanium lock on the security door clicking open.
Newbury looked up expecting to see Crawford and scowled when a man wearing a silver mask stepped into the room. “Who the hell are you?” he demanded.
“What?” the man lisped as he stepped up to the far end of the table. “Don’t you recognize me, my old mentor, Dean?”
The tumbler of whiskey slipped from Newbury’s hand and crashed to the floor. “You,” he whispered. Suddenly, it all made sense. The bold, merciless plan. Even Crawford as the front man; he’d always been one of Kane’s toadies. “We thought you were dead.”
“Ah, but I am risen.” Kane laughed and removed his mask, taking pleasure in the shudder it elicited from Newbury. “A little worse for wear, as you can see, but I’ll soon rectify that. Right now, this face serves my purpose.”
“Where’s Crawford?” Newbury asked.
“Probably asleep in bed with his favorite call girl in D.C.,” Kane replied, “a busty little brunette named DeeDee, I believe, and waiting on his instructions from me.”
Capture (Butch Karp Thrillers) Page 35
