“Meet Andrew Kane,” Grale said. “I’m afraid that a face transplant he once received to avoid detection by the authorities has fallen into disrepair without the antirejection drugs it requires.”
Grale gave the leash another yank, eliciting a doglike snarl and then insane gibbering from Kane. “You hear that, Andy? Apparently your old friend Nadya has not forgotten you.”
14
Karp heard the door to the private elevator slide open in the anteroom adjoining his office and a woman’s laugh. The elevator led to a secure private entrance on the Hogan Place side of the Criminal Courts Building and was used only by judges, the district attorney, and special visitors. Such was the case this morning.
There was a knock on the door. “Come in,” he said as he stood up behind the enormous mahogany desk that had once belonged to Frank Garrahy.
The woman laughed again, and he smiled. It’s good these two found each other, he thought as the door opened. His mind must have been easy to read as the woman, who entered first, saw his expression and blushed; for that matter, so did the man who followed her in.
“Hello, Butch,” Espey Jaxon said. “We were discussing our mutual friend Nadya Malovo.”
“Uh-huh, I could tell. Nadya makes me laugh, too,” Karp replied with a wink. “Marshal Jen Capers, always a delight to see you.”
“You too, Mr. Karp,” Capers replied, blushing deeper.
It had been a week since the terrorist attack on the ferry and several days since Jaxon and Capers had dropped by the loft for dinner with Karp, Marlene, Lucy, and Ned, while the twins were off visiting friends overnight. By unspoken agreement, they’d kept it primarily a social occasion and avoided talking much about the attack or Malovo’s involvement, though Karp had been briefed on the situation beforehand.
This morning’s appearance was to bring him up to date as part of the agreement that kept Malovo in federal custody and out of his reach for prosecution on the New York charges. It galled him that a vicious killer was escaping justice, and was even being offered a new life, in exchange for her exposing other vicious killers. He was only partly appeased that hundreds, even thousands, of innocent lives might be saved by the arrangement.
He didn’t trust that Malovo was just looking for a new start in life. This feeling was echoed by his visitors after they filled him in on the latest. “She has infiltrated several more cells,” Jaxon said. “Some are only in the talking stages, others at the beginning. I think the public would be shocked, if not completely terrorized, to know how much homegrown terrorism exists just in the five boroughs.”
“So what are your plans to take these guys down?” Karp asked.
“If they get beyond the planning stage, we’ll act,” Jaxon replied. “But we’re hoping that by watching and letting them think they’re safe, we’ll get a better understanding of how organized-or not-they are, and maybe who’s directing them.”
“Anything sound imminent?” Karp asked.
Jaxon shook his head. “We’re checking out a supposed mosque in the Bronx that Malovo says is in the early stages of setting up as a bomb-making factory. Other than that there’s just some nebulous rumors of ‘something big’ going down, apparently this fall and planned for Manhattan, but our girl hasn’t been able to pinpoint anything more.”
“You think she’s leading you on?”
Jaxon shrugged. “Yes. Jennifer-Marshal Capers and I both think she’s up to more than trying to spend her days in a nice house with a white picket fence. We’re keeping tabs on her as best we can. If she messes up, the deal is off.”
“And so is our deal,” Karp said. “If we get our hands on her, you feds are not getting her back.”
“Wouldn’t bother me any,” Capers said. “Oh, almost forgot, she’s got herself a new lawyer who’s supposed to be handling her state cases. His name is Bruce Knight.”
Karp furrowed his brow and drummed his fingers on his desk for a moment. “Bruce Knight? Name’s familiar … yeah, I remember him. Good young attorney, used to work for one of the hotshot boutique firms; gave my guys fits in court, but haven’t heard of him in quite a while.”
“Well, I’m guessing you will soon,” Capers said. “Not sure how he fits into her plans though.”
“I think this is a case of giving her enough rope to hang herself,” Jaxon added. “And in the meantime, she can keep giving up other bad guys. Right, marshal?”
Capers nodded but then frowned. “Call this intuition, or maybe it’s just something I’m picking up from little things she says, but whatever devious plan she’s working on, I think it would involve you. She doesn’t come right out and say it, but she hates you with a passion.”
“There’s a long line of haters out there, lots I don’t even know,” Karp replied. “But I’m sure you’ll keep an eye on her for me.”
“Like a hawk,” Capers replied.
Jaxon stood and was joined by Capers. “We need to be rolling,” Jaxon said. “And I know you’re busy. You have that double-homicide trial coming up … the Columbia University Slasher case.”
“That’s correct, my friend,” Karp said. “We also have the Ellis trial’s jury selection starting today. I’ll be glad when that one’s over.”
“No doubt,” Jaxon replied. “Funny how, Christian or Muslim, these supposed spiritual leaders never seem to pay for getting others to do their dirty work.”
The couple had only just closed the door behind them when the intercom on Karp’s telephone buzzed, followed by the sugary-sweet voice of his receptionist, Darla Milquetost. “Misters Guma and Katz to see you,” she purred.
Karp rolled his eyes. It must be spring, he thought. Love is in the air, and not just Jaxon and Capers. Milquetost, a widow closer to sixty than fifty, and his longtime colleague and friend Ray Guma, a notorious office lothario in his younger days, were also an item, and his appearance in the reception area always brought out the honey in Darla. He pressed the button on his intercom. “Send them in, please.”
The door opened a moment later and Guma, followed by Kenny Katz, entered. They were both nearly breathless with whatever news they were bringing, which was surprising to see in Guma, who, while passionate in the courtroom, was an old hand and not given to excitement over a momentarily titillating tale du jour. He was also a cancer survivor, an ordeal that had turned his curly black hair white almost overnight, emaciated his once-muscular physique, and cut deep lines into his face. Some days it looked like it was all he could do to get out of bed, much less make it to work.
“Shouldn’t you two be headed to court?” Karp asked. “Or am I wrong to think that jury selection in the Ellis case begins in”-he looked at his watch-“twenty minutes?”
“You’ll never believe what just happened,” Katz said in reply.
Karp arched an eyebrow. Although thirty years younger than Guma, Katz was no wet-behind-the-ears excitable puppy either. He’d served with the army overseas in Iraq and Afghanistan, where he engaged in combat, was wounded, and received the Purple Heart. He had also been awarded several medals for heroism. To say he was calm under fire was an understatement, which was part of why Karp thought his protege might someday be the one sitting behind the mahogany desk. “Try me,” he said.
“Belinda King just called,” Katz replied. “Apparently, David Ellis has hired her to represent him. King says he wants to give us a statement on the record and then plead guilty.”
“I know Belinda; fiery redhead and a tough, hard-nosed attorney. Rolling over can’t be her idea,” Karp said. He furrowed his brow. “Did she say what he’s willing to plead to? Are they asking for a lesser plea?”
“That’s the strange part,” Guma answered. “I could tell she wasn’t pleased, but she says he’s going to plead as charged to reckless manslaughter.”
“What about his wife?” Karp asked. “Where’s she in all of this?”
The two ADAs shrugged simultaneously. “Apparently King was just hired, and she said she didn’t know much about what brough
t this on or what he wants to say in his Q amp; A statement to us,” Katz said. “Or what Nonie Ellis is doing; she’s only representing David.”
“What about jury selection?”
“I spoke to the judge, and he’s agreed to delay until after lunch while we see what this is really all about,” Guma replied.
“Good. So when’s this supposed to go down?” Karp asked.
“Now,” Guma replied. “We were just dropping by to let you in on it, and now we’re going to meet them curbside to escort them up to my office.”
Karp rose out of his chair. “I was just about to get a hot dog and a knish for an early lunch from my favorite streetside vendor,” he said. “I’ll go down with you.”
Exiting the Criminal Courts Building a few minutes later, Karp and his colleagues were spotted by Westlund and the group of protesters who’d arrived for the first day of the Ellis trial and taken a position across Centre Street, as well as the television crews on the scene.
“Repent, Karp!” Westlund, who was standing on a milk crate, shouted into a megaphone. “Stop your minions from carrying out this unholy travesty and attack on religious freedom. Or face the wrath of the Lord!”
“So now we’re minions?” Guma said with a chuckle.
Across the street, Westlund thundered, “Fear God and give Him glory, because the hour of His judgment has come! Worship Him who made the heavens, the earth, the sea, and the springs of water!”
Karp walked up to the hot dog stand and greeted the vendor, who asked, “The usual, Mr. DA?”
“Yeah, with mustard in the middle of the knish, and mustard and kraut on the dog; you got it,” Karp replied.
“Boy, that guy Westlund gives me the creeps,” Katz said. “He’s going to push some nut’s button someday and somebody’s going to get hurt. … Hey, isn’t that Edward Treacher setting up shop next to Westlund?”
Karp turned to see what he was talking about. “That’s him,” he said. “Now, this should be interesting.”
Treacher was another of the local street denizens who hung out around the courthouse and the park across the street. He was a former college English professor who, legend had it, took too much LSD back in the 1960s. Treacher wound up as an itinerant sidewalk preacher known for shouting biblical quotations, which he combined with panhandling. Tall, thin, and dressed in patched and threadbare clothing, he even resembled an ancient desert prophet with his long, frizzy gray hair and wildly rolling eyes, though Karp knew that much of his sometimes incoherent ramblings was an act and he was perfectly capable of holding an intelligent conversation when he wanted.
As Westlund ranted and stirred up his followers, who shouted at Karp, Guma, and Katz, Treacher calmly placed a small milk crate just outside the circle of protesters and climbed aboard with his own megaphone. He then waited for Westlund to speak.
“‘Cursed is the one who trusts in man,’” Westlund shouted, “‘who depends on flesh for his strength and whose heart turns away from the Lord!’”
Treacher picked up his own megaphone, turned up the volume, and shouted back. “That would be in Revelation. Not bad … for a false prophet. And you know what Zechariah had to say about false prophets: ‘If a man still prophesies, his parents, father and mother, shall say to him, “You shall not live, because you have spoken a lie in the name of the Lord.” When he prophesies, his parents, father and mother, shall thrust him through.’”
Westlund and his followers turned to Treacher with frowns on their faces. Some booed and shouted for him to go elsewhere. He simply smiled at them and shook a large soda cup with the word “tips” written in black marker on the side.
Turning to the television cameras and crews that had flocked to the area, Westlund held up a hand. “‘And these signs will accompany those who believe: In my name they will drive out demons; they will speak in new tongues; they will pick up snakes with their hands; and when they drink deadly poison, it will not hurt them at all; they will place their hands on sick people, and they will get well!’”
Westlund’s followers were working themselves into a frenzy. One woman suddenly screamed something incomprehensible and fell to the sidewalk, where she writhed.
Treacher looked amused, as did a gathering crowd of tourists and other pedestrians. “I need to get me one of those,” he shouted into his megaphone. “How much do you pay her? I do like the use of Mark 16:17–18; I’ve found it very handy for lunch money.”
The crowd laughed. Treacher bowed and shook his cup at them, blessing those who contributed.
Scowling, Westlund turned to yell across the street at Karp. “‘For our struggle is not against flesh and blood, but against the rulers, against the authorities, against the powers of this dark world, and against the spiritual forces of evil in the heavenly realms.’”
Treacher looked over at Karp and waved. “Hello, Mr. Karp. That was Ephesians 6 … always good when you need something for railing against the Man. I think a good comeback would be Matthew 5:11: ‘Blessed are you when people insult you, persecute you and falsely say all kinds of evil against you because of me.’ I used that the last time I had to go to court for trespassing.”
Karp waved back. “I do believe that Westlund has more than met his match,” he said in a low voice to Guma and Katz, who both laughed.
“Oops, looks like our appointment has arrived,” Katz said, pointing to a yellow cab that had pulled up to the curb.
Accompanied by a redheaded woman dressed in a business suit, David Ellis emerged from the cab. Across the street, Westlund spotted him and pointed as he yelled into the megaphone. “‘The fool says in his heart, “There is no God.” They are corrupt, their deeds are vile.’”
Katz and Guma started walking toward Ellis. Suddenly, the crowd around Westlund surged into the street, bringing traffic to a screeching halt. Several police officers assigned to the courts building as well as traffic cops rushed out to try to herd them back.
One protester, however, avoided the cars and the officers and continued walking toward where Ellis stood, a confused look on his face, with his attorney. Karp noticed the protester, too, a middle-aged woman with her hair poorly dyed to a burnt orange; in fact, he recognized her from earlier protests. There was something about her face that drew his attention; her lips were drawn up into a snarl, and her eyes blazed with anger and madness. When he noticed that she kept her right hand in her large purse, the alarm bells went off in his head, and he started to move toward Ellis and his colleagues.
“Ray, Kenny!” he yelled as he started to run.
Katz turned toward him with a confused smile as he saw his boss point past him toward the street. He looked around and sensed the danger as well. But it was too late.
As the woman came around the back end of a taxi, she pulled a revolver from her purse. “Judas!” she screamed as she lifted the gun and fired twice into David Ellis’s chest.
Ellis fell back into the arms of his attorney and they both crumpled to the ground. The woman then swung around and pointed the gun at Guma, but even as she pulled the trigger, Katz leaped and knocked Guma aside, taking the bullet himself.
Panting, her eyes rolling wildly, she aimed again at Guma, who had been knocked to his knees. Karp yelled, “No!”
It was enough to distract the woman, who instead pointed the gun at Karp. He raised his hands. “You don’t have to do this,” he said.
“Evil, you are evil!” the woman cried out.
“Who are you?” Karp replied. “What’s your name?”
The question seemed to confuse the woman. “Kathryn … Kathryn Boole,” she said after a moment, though she kept the gun aimed at Karp’s chest.
“Kathryn, please, hand me the gun,” Karp said, holding out his hand. “There’s been enough bloodshed for one day.”
Boole looked at the weapon in her hand as if she wondered how it got there. She started to lower the gun but then Westlund shouted from across the street. “‘Blessed are they which are persecuted for righteousness’ sake
; for theirs is the kingdom of heaven!’”
The woman looked back at the preacher and nodded. The gun came up and she began to pull the trigger even as Karp lunged for her.
There was a gunshot, but Karp didn’t feel anything as he knocked the woman to the ground. He expected her to struggle, but she didn’t move, so he raised himself.
Something warm, wet, and sticky was on his face; he wiped at it and his hand came away covered in blood. But he quickly realized it wasn’t his. Kathryn Boole, however, lay gasping from a bullet wound in her chest and as he watched, she took one last breath and died.
“Who fired that shot?” he demanded as he picked himself up.
“Me,” said a man’s voice from near the taxi.
Karp looked over and saw one of Westlund’s bodyguards place a handgun on the hood of the taxi and raise his hands as two police officers ran up and cuffed him. “It was you or her,” the bodyguard said. “I’m licensed to carry in the city.”
Turning away from the man, Karp quickly ran over to where Katz was sitting up on the pavement, held by Guma. He was bleeding from the shoulder but nodded toward the taxi. “I’ll be okay,” he said. “Check on Ellis.”
Karp walked quickly over to where Belinda King was trying to apply pressure to the wounds in Ellis’s chest. A woman he realized was Nonie Ellis rushed past him and knelt at her husband’s side.
“David!” she cried.
David Ellis frowned. “Why?”
Nonie looked confused. “Why what?”
“Why are you Westlund’s lover?”
“What? Oh no, David, I was never …,” Nonie cried.
“But I thought …,” he whispered.
“No, sweetheart, he’s just a minister. Is that why you didn’t come home last night?”
David nodded. “I walked around until it was time to come to court. I was going to plead guilty. I am guilty for Micah’s death.”
Nonie’s face turned pale. Tears fell from her cheeks. “No. I’m the one who placed my trust in the wrong man. I’m sorry, David, I love you. Please don’t leave me …”
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