Stupenagel glanced over and then shrugged. “He’s not the first man to lose his head over me.”
When Kane disappeared, Lucy put down the gun and used his knife to cut the ropes binding her feet and wrists. She stood up at the same moment two men in black commando gear entered the room.
“Put the knife down,” one of them commanded, training his gun on her while his partner cleared the rest of the room.
Lucy dropped the knife, but the men continued to stand there with their weapons trained on her, as if not quite sure about the danger represented by a good-looking, completely naked young woman. “Uh, you guys want to quit staring and find me something to wear?” she said.
“I think I can help.” A tall, gray-eyed man entered the room, removing his suit coat and holding it out for her as he averted his eyes.
“Thanks, Uncle Espey.” Lucy smiled. “You’d think those two guys had never seen a naked girl before.”
“We don’t have time for girls,” Jaxon said, toeing the body of Abu. “I take it Kane’s gone.”
“Yeah. But I have a feeling he won’t get far.”
Jaxon looked puzzled. “You know something I don’t?”
“Maybe. In the meantime, can I borrow your cell phone?” she said, holding hers up. “Mine just ran out of charge and I want to tell my dad that I’m all right.”
“You just did,” Jaxon said with a smile. “He says to tell you he loves you. And so does Ned.”
Lucy pulled the suit coat closer and leaned on Jaxon as he put his arm around her to escort her to safety. “Well, then,” she said, “I guess all is right with the world.”
Several blocks away, a man in a black fedora and dark cape hobbled quickly along the Brooklyn Heights Promenade. He glanced up and saw the long, dark limo parked in the lot at the end of the section he was on. The driver blinked the headlights.
Kane had planned his escape thinking he would never need it. After he narrowly avoided getting shot by Lucy, he’d hopped in an elevator that took him down two floors to a secret room where he donned the hat and cape. Using a key, he’d opened a door that he had made that led into the sewer system that ran beneath Brooklyn Heights. It was filthy, and a home for huge rats that he feared and detested. But with the help of a flashlight, he’d gone along until finding a second door—an access door for utility workers from the boardwalk of the Promenade.
The limo driver had been told to wait at the parking lot, which would have been shielded from the blast of the ship. Just in case escape was necessary, the driver was to wait there until called to the house to take Kane and his entourage, as well as Lucy, to a private airfield on Long Island. Ah well, Kane thought as he approached the car. Live to fight another day.
The driver, a tall man who fit his uniform poorly, got out and ran around the car to open the door for him.
“God, you stink,” Kane complained as he started to get in the car.
“I’ll try to bathe more often in the future, sir,” the man replied. “In the meantime, I think you might like to know that ‘thou has fulfilled the judgment of the wicked: judgment and justice take hold on thee’…. That’s Job 36:17, friend.”
“What?” Kane scowled. “Who are you?” He turned the flashlight on the face of the driver. “You! But you’re dead!”
“No,” Treacher said. “But I suspect you are.” With that, he grabbed Kane and propelled him into the back of the limousine.
Kane fell forward on his face. He started to push himself up, but was shoved back down by a booted foot on his neck.
“Hello, Kane,” David Grale, who was seated in the back, said, leaning forward so that his enemy could see his face. He folded Karp’s note that he’d received from Dirty Warren an hour earlier. “Brooklyn Heights,” it read.
“I’ve been waiting to have this conversation for a long, long time. I hope you like rats.”
Treacher closed the door and smiled, hearing the muffled scream from within.
39
LEONARD STOOD IN FRONT OF THE JURORS, WAGGED A FINGER at them, and shook his head. “The very brevity of the prosecution case should give you pause. Is it because the truth is so succinct, or is it, because as we have proved, the People don’t have a case and know it?”
As the defense lawyer spoke, Maplethorpe, who was dressed in a black silk suit with a plum-colored silk tie, dabbed at his eyes with a plum-colored handkerchief while his followers wept behind him. Occasionally a sob would escape a spectator, which Rosenmayer dealt with by stern looks rather than interrupting Leonard’s summation to scold them.
Karp kept his face expressionless as Leonard paced back and forth in front of the jury, a finger held high and pointing upward like some sort of Pentecostal preacher. For two hours, the defense attorney had cajoled, harangued, and pleaded as he essentially repeated everything his expert witnesses had said, and then began attacking the prosecution’s case.
“They created a scenario and then stuck with it no matter what,” he said. “It’s easy for the district attorney, a man who must run for reelection every four years and must make himself look ‘tough on crime’ and willing to take even ‘wealthy’ citizens to task, to dismiss the testimony of the expert witnesses who appeared before you. But there is a reason our justice system makes specific provisions for the use of qualified, intelligent professionals to shed light on subjects with which we may not be familiar or have not had the time to research ourselves. We are all busy people who can’t be expected to be knowledgeable about injury biomechanics or revenge suicide syndrome or bipolar disorder. So we have to rely on people who have devoted their entire lives to understanding these issues so that we can make intelligent, informed decisions.”
Leonard then began on the prosecution witnesses and didn’t cease for two very long hours. Finally, Leonard looked from one juror’s face to the next with tears in his eyes. “Maybe Gail Perez didn’t originally intend to kill herself in Mr. Maplethorpe’s apartment. Perhap there was no RSS, no revenge motive, for her actions, though I would urge you not to discount Dr. Braunschweiger’s testimony, because she is at the cutting edge of this school of thought. After all, most of the greatest minds of Europe thought the world was flat until 1492. So perhaps Gail Perez intended to leave—had even gathered up her purse, straightened her clothing, fixed her makeup—when she opened a drawer on that end table out of curiosity and found the gun. Thus her decision to use it at that moment was more one of opportunity than plan.”
Leonard hung his head and stopped pacing. He stood quietly and then glanced sideways at his client. “And unfortunately, it was my client’s carelessness regarding the proper storage of a firearm that presented this terrible opportunity. But that’s something he will have to live with for the rest of his life.”
“I’m so sorry,” Maplethorpe sobbed just loud enough to be heard, and then blew his nose.
Leonard gave his client a sad smile. “Yes, my client is sorry, as he may have said that night to Mr. Gianneschi. He is sorry that he mistook a young woman’s interest in him as one of mutual attraction. He is sorry that his fiduciary and creative responsibilities to his financial backers, as well as the actors, directors, and stagehands whose livelihoods depend on his decisions, force him to decide who achieves their dream…and who does not.”
Another sob escaped Maplethorpe. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” he said, looking at the judge.
Leonard raised his finger to his lips. “We know, Mr. Maplethorpe,” he said, and then turned to the jurors. “And that’s why the only just verdict you can return with is one of not guilty. Let’s not compound this horrible tragedy with another. Not guilty, ladies and gentlemen.” He slammed his fist down on the jury rail and exclaimed, “My…client…is…not…guilty.”
Rosenmayer waited until it was clear that Leonard was finished, then announced, “We’ll take a thirty-minute break. Then we’ll return for the People’s summation.”
Most everyone left the courtroom, including Katz, but Karp remained in his seat, ab
sently rolling his young colleague’s apple around on the table. The trial of F. Lloyd Maplethorpe had been postponed for a week following the terrorist attack on the Brooklyn Bridge.
Although the terrorists were stopped before achieving their ultimate aim, it had come with a high price. Forty-three people had been killed outright or later died from injuries caused by the truck bombs that had exploded on either end of the bridge. But it could have been worse. A school bus loaded with teenagers from W.E.B. Dubois Academic High School in Brooklyn, on their way to a basketball game against Manhattan’s Xavier High School, had narrowly escaped. Some of the teens had reported seeing a terrorist looking at them before the bomb exploded.
In all, twenty-nine terrorists, including the two truck drivers, had died, including mastermind Omar Abdullah, and another four had been wounded and captured, thanks, the press reported, to joint efforts by the NYPD, federal agents, and “heroic members of the Russian community of Brighton Beach who worked for a Brooklyn ship repair facility and took it upon themselves to act.”
Karp knew that thirteen of Ivgeny Karchovski’s men had died in the assault. And when the shooting was over, they’d used the tugs to haul the Ibn Jubair out of the danger area despite continued risk to themselves should the ship explode.
Although some of Ivgeny’s men had disappeared back into the community, others were located and brought to the center of the Brooklyn Bridge and presented citations for heroism by the mayor. There had also been press reports that some of the men, perhaps the tugboat captains, as representatives of their crews, would receive the Presidential Medal of Freedom, the nation’s highest civilian award for heroism. When it was learned that some of the men may have been in the country illegally, one of the U.S. senators from New York had introduced legislation to put them on the fast track to citizenship.
When Karp called to thank Ivgeny Karchovski, who had been wounded slightly in the arm storming aboard the Ibn Jubair, he’d raised the possibility that his cousin might achieve U.S. citizenship. But Karchovski dismissed it. “Maybe someday if it could be done quietly—not with all the publicity that this is getting now. You and I know that the gratitude for what my men did will fade, and someone in the media would run a story about how I am a leader of a so-called crime family. It could even come back to damage you. So let’s not tarnish this moment. If my men can reap some reward, then I am satisfied…. I do have one favor to ask of you personally. But I understand if it is too much.”
“I don’t think it would be possible for you to ask too much,” Karp replied.
Karchovski hesitated and Karp thought his voice sounded a little huskier when he replied. “I appreciate that you did not hesitate or preface your reply,” he said. “Anyway, my father, your great-uncle, Vladimir, is not getting any younger, and he would like to spend Chanukah with family, and I am a poor excuse for holiday cheer. But do you think, perhaps, that you might find a way for your family and ours to share the holiday, just a little bit, and fulfill the old man’s dream?”
Karp smiled. “I’m sure something can be arranged.”
Of course, the best story had been written by Ariadne Stupenagel, whose “Aboard the Ibn Jubair” was already being talked about as a sure Pulitzer bet. Murrow had also confided to Karp that several publishers were engaged in a bidding war for the rights to a book-length version. “They’re also realizing that Ariadne has had a rather interesting life. So we’re trying to negotiate a multibook deal that would include her memoirs, and we’ve been contacted by certain folks in Hollywood about a film possibility.”
“We’re negotiating?” Karp had said with a raised eyebrow. “Are you adding the title ‘superagent’ to your list of many credits?”
Murrow blushed. “I’m only advising,” he stammered. “I won’t let it interfere with my—”
Karp interrupted, “Gilbert, I hope the two of you make a bundle. Don’t ever tell her I said so because it will ruin our relationship, but Ariadne deserves a Medal of Freedom. And I don’t just have her word for it.”
Indeed, Karp was referring to Jojola and Tran, who after fighting off the terrorists had been lucky not to get shot by the police. After Jaxon had convinced everyone not to shoot them, they’d emerged arguing over who got more terrorists. There were nine bodies and each claimed five. However, they’d stopped bickering long enough to report Stupenagel’s heroics both on the dock in Trinidad and then aboard the ship.
On Saturday, Murrow and Stupenagel joined Jaxon, Lucy, Ned, Jojola, and Tran for a quiet dinner at the Karp-Ciampi loft. As they all sat around discussing the events, Ariadne looked at Blanchett and asked, “I’ve just got to know something. Right before Omar was shot, I dropped to the ground. What I want to know is when you took that shot, was I already out of the way, or were you trying to shoot me to get at Omar?”
But Blanchett just looked at her and smiled. “Do you really want to know?”
Stupenagel bit her lip, then shook her head. “No. Maybe I don’t.”
To her credit, Stupenagel had agreed with Jaxon’s request that she not name Jojola and Tran in her stories. Instead, she referred to them as Dick and Billy, two federal agents from an unnamed agency. And while she did not know the full connection to Andrew Kane, Dean Newbury, and the Sons of Man, she agreed not to mention them on the condition that when indictments started coming down, she’d be the first to know and be free of the embargo.
Which may happen sooner rather than later, Karp thought. The morning after the attack, V. T. Newbury, accompanied by Jaxon, as a representative of the federal government, as well as Clay Fulton and two uniformed police officers, entered the offices of Newbury, Newbury and White and arrested Dean Newbury.
As he’d later related to Karp, V.T. waited for Jaxon to inform his uncle of the numerous federal charges against him, including multiple murder charges and conspiracy to commit terrorism. Then Jaxon stepped aside for V.T. to inform his uncle that regardless of all the federal crimes, “the first charge you will face, and the only one that will matter, you son of a bitch, will be in New York Supreme Court for the murder of your brother—my dad—Vincent Newbury.”
When Dean Newbury scoffed and said they’d never prove the charges, V.T. had produced a recording of his uncle’s meeting with Andrew Kane. “I killed my own brother, didn’t I?”
“How did you get that?” Dean Newbury demanded, though visibly shaken.
V.T. had reminded him of the remote control car he’d been playing with one day. And then explained how he’d attached a remote-activated transmitter to the car. “I’d wait for the security guys to sweep the offices, then I’d run that little baby right down the air-conditioning shaft that runs above the Sons of Man meeting room…oh yes, we’re very aware of the Sons of Man. Before the security guys showed up again, I’d run it back to my office and remove the transmitter. It didn’t yield much until that night with you and Kane, but I think that alone was worth the $49.99 I spent on the car.”
“It will never hold up in court,” Dean Newbury scoffed.
“Oh, did I forget to tell you?” V.T. replied. “I got an eavesdropping warrant, signed by emeritus federal judge Frank Plaut. And that’s not all, your former chef, the guy who dumped the digitalis in my dad’s dinner, and Assistant Medical Examiner Kip Bergendorf, who identified your chauffeur as the man who paid him to falsify the autopsy, have all agreed to testify against you.”
“You don’t know who you’re dealing with,” Dean Newbury snarled.
V.T. shrugged and smiled at Jaxon. “Not all of them, not yet. But how will they feel about you letting your nephew into the hen-house? I believe Andrew Kane warned you about that. But here’s the deal, you cooperate with Agent Jaxon here, enter the U.S. Marshal’s Witness Protection Program, and help identify, prosecute, and convict any members of the Sons of Man who have broken state or federal laws, and I’ll put off sending you to Attica for my dad’s murder. Hell, that could eat up years, and you’re no spring chicken. You’ll probably be dead before you have to tak
e your first shower with some big hairy biker named Bubba.”
Dean Newbury licked his thin purple lips and made a deal. And from what Karp had gathered so far, Jaxon and his team had already been able to move on some of the information before it could be destroyed. Congressman Denton Crawford had also been arrested and was said to be cooperating.
“Unfortunately, we’ve got to be careful with this,” Jaxon had told him. “Some of these people are very highly placed, and we’re talking about murder and treason here…all capital offenses. This could really shake the country and we need to move deliberately but with sensitivity as well.”
It reminded Karp that there was unfinished business. Nadya Malovo was not found on the Ibn Jubair, and the prisoners admitted that a blond terrorist they knew as Ajmaani had been removed from the ship by a U.S. Coast Guard vessel. The next morning, that vessel was located miles farther into the Atlantic Ocean than it should have been, and all the members of its crew were either dead from gunshot or knife wounds, or missing and presumed lost at sea. The blond prisoner was not on board, and the ship’s boarding craft was missing.
Even more alarming at first, Andrew Kane had once again slipped through the fingers of law enforcement. However, on Sunday night, Lucy and Marlene had gone out for a walk with Gilgamesh. They’d returned bearing brownies from the Housing Works Bookstore and the news that Kane “is in good hands.”
When Karp relayed that story to Jaxon, the agent had sighed and said, “Would someone please get the word to David Grale that when he’s through playing with Kane, we’d love to talk to him. We did find al-Sistani on the deck, trussed up like a turkey for the barbecue, and he’s been quite cooperative, but Kane would be even better.”
As he lay in bed that same night with Marlene, Karp had finally let his guard down and mourned the lives that were lost. “I was too slow with the riddles,” he lamented.
Capture (Butch Karp Thrillers) Page 45
