Bad Faith bkamc-24

by Robert K. Tanenbaum

  Knight suddenly thought of Grale’s take on coincidence. “How about divine intervention?”

  Malovo smirked. “God does not exist. And coincidence can be stretched to the breaking point.” She waved her hand. “Believe me or not, it doesn’t matter. But I have something I want you to do.”

  “What?”

  “I want you to set up a meeting with Karp.”

  Knight’s jaw dropped. “Why?”

  Malovo arched her eyebrow. “Because I want to give him a statement. Perhaps my conscience is bothering me, and I want to relieve myself of this burden of guilt I carry.”

  “As your attorney, I’d strongly advise against this,” Knight said. “What do you hope to accomplish? He has a reputation for not accepting lesser pleas and he already has a slam-dunk case against you. I’m just trying to make sure you stay in federal custody, because if he gets his hands on you-”

  “Just make the appointment,” Malovo suddenly hissed.

  Knight stopped and, seeing the look in her eyes, shrugged and nodded. “When?”

  “Don’t you Americans have a saying, ‘There is no time like the present’? How about tomorrow morning? His office.”

  “His office?” Knight asked. “They probably will want to do it here.”

  “Then no statement,” Malovo replied. “You tell Karp that I want to make a full confession, and he will get his little friends to get me there.”

  “I’ll tell him.”

  “Good. You may go now and make your phone call. I will see you again tomorrow in the office of the district attorney.”

  When Knight was gone, Rolles reentered the room. “I think it’s a dangerous game to be bringing Karp into this. The man is sharp, and like you were saying to Knight, he seems to have more than his share of-”

  “Luck?” Malovo scoffed. “Call it what you will but there’s one thing about luck. Whether it’s good or bad, sooner or later it changes. My luck has been bad ever since I came to know of Butch Karp and his family; his has been extraordinarily good. It is time for a change, but I will not count on luck. In the past, I have not taken him into account, which was a mistake on my part; this time, however, I plan to use him.”

  “Use him how?”

  “As bait,” Malovo answered with a wolfish grin. “As bait.”

  18

  As she waited in the Memphis office of Dr. Charles Aronberg, Marlene browsed about, looking at the items hanging on the wood-paneled walls. There were the usual impressive college and medical school diplomas, including one for pediatric oncology, as well as a dozen photographs of a fit-looking man she assumed was the doctor climbing mountains, skiing, scuba-diving, and otherwise enjoying life.

  However, there was one wall that particularly grabbed her attention. It was covered with dozens of snapshots of children and childish art drawn in crayons, colored pencils, and felt-tipped markers with small, heartfelt messages of thanks. One framed photo of a girl who appeared to be about twelve years old reminded her of Lucy at the same age. It was signed “The Drummond Family,” thanking Aronberg “for the gift of time.”

  “She was a beautiful child,” a man’s voice behind her said. “I still grieve that I couldn’t save her, and that was ten years ago.”

  Marlene turned to see the man whom she recognized from the photographs on the wall. He was fiftyish, tall and tan, with silver hair and gray-green eyes that were shiny with tears even now. “That must be incredibly difficult for a physician,” she said.

  Chuck Aronberg studied her for a moment and then nodded. “It is,” he admitted. “It’s one of those things they don’t teach you in medical school, particularly in oncology, and that’s how to cope with knowing that a large percentage of your patients are going to die no matter what you do. And when you choose pediatric oncology, they die far too young.”

  “How do you let it go?” Marlene asked.

  The doctor shrugged. “You don’t,” he replied. “In fact, early on I got to the point where I nearly got out of this particular field and thought about going into family medicine, where I could treat colds, mend broken arms, and warn my patients about the dangers of cholesterol. To be honest, I was seriously depressed.” He walked over and stood next to her, looking at the wall, then reached out to touch the photograph of the Drummond girl. “It was about the same time I lost the fight for Abby,” he said. “I was sitting at my desk, numb, when her parents came by to thank me for giving them the time to say their good-byes. I remember her mother, Sherri, in particular saying that even a few months had been a tremendous gift and they hadn’t wasted an hour or a day. It gave me a whole new way of looking at my work, so here I still am, ten years later.”

  As he spoke, the doctor’s voice grew husky and Marlene could feel the depth of his grief. He turned and walked over to a couch, pointing to a chair next to it. “Please, have a seat,” he said, and when she was settled, went on. “So my secretary says that you wanted to talk to me about Micah Ellis. I’ve wondered what became of him.”

  “I’m sorry to have to tell you this, but he died last November,” Marlene said as gently as she could.

  Aronberg hung his head. After a moment, he nodded. “I was afraid of that,” he said. “Can you tell me where he died? Where was he being treated?”

  Marlene explained the circumstances around Micah’s death without going into what had happened since; she wanted to hear what the doctor would say first.

  Aronberg’s eyes flashed with anger. “Since when are prayers and medicine mutually exclusive?”

  “They’re not in my book,” Marlene said. “Can you tell me about his treatment and prognosis?”

  Aronberg shook his head. “I would love to, but I’m afraid there’s not much I can say,” he said apologetically. “I’m sorry, Ms. Ciampi, but I’m sure you’ll understand that I cannot discuss a patient’s medical history, not without a subpoena.”

  “I’m an attorney, so I do understand privileged information,” Marlene replied. “I was just hoping that because he died, you’d be able to tell me.”

  “Again, I’m sorry, I truly am, because there’s plenty I’d like to say.”

  “Well, can I ask you a few general questions about astrocytomas, which were the cause of death for Micah Ellis according to the New York Medical Examiner’s Office?” Marlene asked.

  “By all means,” Aronberg said, and gave her a brief explanation of the disease and the general course of treatment.

  When she was finished asking medical questions, Marlene said, “Does the name C. G. Westlund mean anything to you?”

  Aronberg shook his head. “Not that I can recall.”

  “How about the Reverend John LaFontaine?”

  The doctor’s eyebrows shot up. “Now, that name I recognize. A year ago, maybe a year and a half, a Memphis police detective came by the office. He said he was investigating the death of one of my former patients’ fathers. He didn’t tell me much, but he asked if I’d heard of LaFontaine. I’m afraid I wasn’t much help; I didn’t know the name. However, the interesting thing about your bringing it up now is that patient also stopped coming in for treatment and is deceased.” The doctor stopped talking and frowned. “You think there’s something up with this LaFontaine character?”

  “He was apparently the minister who talked Micah’s family into forgoing medical treatment for faith healing,” Marlene replied.

  Aronberg furrowed his brow. “I don’t like it, and it’s so reckless when dealing with a child’s life,” he said. “But it’s not against the law to preach, I guess.”

  “Maybe not,” Marlene said. “But if you don’t mind, I’d rather not discuss Westlund’s, or LaFontaine’s, criminality, or lack thereof, until I know for certain what I’m talking about. Do you recall the detective’s name who asked you about LaFontaine?”

  Aronberg opened a drawer in his desk and after a brief search took out a business card and handed it to Marlene. “I have no idea why I kept this,” he said. “Dumb luck I guess.”

 
Marlene smiled as she read the card. “Or divine intervention. Detective Willie ‘Wink’ Winkler? Wink? He goes by his nickname?”

  The doctor smiled. “Y’all are in the South, and we sometimes are a little different when it comes to naming our babies.”

  Marlene laughed and got up to leave. “Thank you for your time. It’s been a genuine pleasure to meet you.”

  “The pleasure was mine,” Aronberg said, also rising and extending his hand. “I wish there was more I could do. If you have any questions I can answer within the bounds of my oath, please call.”

  “Thank you, doctor, I will.”

  As Marlene turned to head for the door, Aronberg added, “Ms. Ciampi, get that subpoena and I’ll be more than happy to speak about Micah.”

  19

  “Bruce, there’s someone here to see you.”

  Knight glanced at the intercom and then looked at his watch. It was almost five, and he was exhausted. Meeting with a Russian assassin in the morning and then calling the district attorney and asking for a meeting will do that to you, he thought. “I’m sorry, but I’m busy,” he said. “Would you please ask whoever it is to make an appointment and come back tomorrow?”

  “He says to tell you that David wants to see you,” Danielle replied.

  A chill went up Knight’s spine. The images of one man choking to death, another twitching with arrows protruding from his body, and a third spurting blood from his slashed neck had not left his mind for very long, waking or asleep. Now Grale had sent Warren, or one of his other followers, to summon him to his lair. He sighed and got up from his desk.

  To his surprise when he opened the door to his reception area he didn’t find Warren but Grale himself. He was dressed like any other casual New Yorker in blue jeans, a green T-shirt, a light jacket, and running shoes. His long brown hair was tied back in a ponytail, his beard and mustache were neatly trimmed, and in spite of his too-pale skin and sunken eyes, he was still a good-looking man. He was happily chatting up Knight’s secretary, who giggled at something he said.

  Grale looked up and smiled. “Hey, Bruce,” he said, “I know you’re busy, but would you have a minute?”

  “Sure,” Knight replied. “Danielle, you can go. I’ll lock up.”

  Danielle looked disappointed for a moment and she glanced at Grale, which caused Knight to experience a twinge of jealousy. “Well, if you’re sure,” she said. “I do have to take my mom grocery shopping and she lives in Brooklyn.”

  “You have to like a girl who’s good to her mother,” Grale said. “But be careful, Brooklyn can be a dangerous place for a young woman.”

  So says the serial killer, Knight thought.

  Danielle beamed. “I was raised in Brooklyn, and I’m pretty tough.”

  “I’m sure you are.” Grale smiled.

  “Uh, good night, Danielle,” Knight said. “David, please come in.”

  “Nice girl,” Grale said when Knight closed the door behind them.

  “Yes, she is,” Knight replied as he took a seat behind his desk. Then, without knowing why he said it, he added, “And I want to keep her out of all of this. These are dangerous people we’re dealing with-”

  “And by that, you are including me,” Grale finished, sitting down across from his friend.

  “No, I meant, well, I uh …”

  Grale laughed, a lighter version than the last time Knight had seen him, with Kazanov’s blood dripping from his knife. “It’s okay, Bruce,” he said. “I am a dangerous person, some times more than others, especially when the darkness is on me. But today the sun is shining, on me and in my soul.”

  “That’s good,” Knight replied. Not knowing what else to say, he sat silently.

  Grale looked at him for a moment before sighing and nodding his head. “I’m sorry I put you through that the other night. It was unfair, and frightening, I’m sure. All I can say is that Kazanov and his henchmen were evil men whom the law has been unable, or unwilling, to deal with. And while it would hardly seem possible given Kazanov’s atrocities, Nadya Malovo is even worse, or at least her deeds are done on a grander scale.”

  “It was still murder,” Knight replied. “And now I’m an accessory to murder. But even more than that, I believe in the justice system. I believe that every man, or woman, no matter how heinous we believe them to be, deserves a fair trial and to be found guilty beyond a reasonable doubt before a sentence is passed, and that the sentence should be handed down by a judge, not an executioner.”

  Grale’s eyes narrowed. “What about the victims of these killers? The law had plenty of opportunities to do something about Kazanov. The same thing with Malovo. But what’s your vaunted justice system going to do to her? … Give her a whole new life, that’s what.”

  “I’m not arguing that the law never fails,” Knight said. “And it fails miserably in cases like Kazanov and Malovo. But where does it stop? Who decides? You?”

  “Yes,” Grale said. “Sometimes I decide. And someday I may have to pay for that when your beloved system, which allows people like those two to commit their crimes and get away with it, catches me and puts me on death row.”

  As he spoke, Grale’s voice hardened and his dark eyebrows knitted. But then his face softened and he leaned forward to look Knight in the eyes. “Look, old friend, I do understand where you’re coming from, and I don’t expect you to countenance what I do. But I’m asking you, pleading with you, to help me keep track of what Malovo’s saying and doing. I don’t think, and I can’t believe that anyone who is aware of her past thinks, that she has turned over a new leaf, even just to get out of prison. She’s planning something, and that means innocent people are going to die. I won’t involve you again in any of my exploits, and I will never ask you to compromise your ethics again when this is through. But I need your help now.”

  Knight thought about it and at last nodded his head. “I’m already in, David, and I do owe you my life.” He then told Grale what Malovo had said about Kazanov. “Apparently there was something planned for the Halloween festivities in the Village. She says she was trying to stop it.”

  “If she was, it wasn’t out of concern for anyone but herself,” Grale said. “But go on.”

  “Well, I don’t know what to make of it,” Knight said. “But she also seems to think that the district attorney, Butch Karp, is tied up with some nefarious group called the Sons of Man.”

  “Ridiculous,” Grale interjected.

  “That’s essentially what I said,” Knight agreed. “But she brought up what on the surface sounded like good points … that he and his family appear to have been targeted, or at least involved in any number of events that would seem on their face to have little to do with his being the district attorney of New York. And at the same time, nothing happens to them.”

  “God does favor that family,” Grale agreed. “Which is part of the reason I’ve taken a particular interest in watching out for them.”

  “Well, I found it far-fetched, but that’s what she was saying.”

  Grale nodded and then appeared lost in thought as he pursed his lips and stroked his beard with one hand. “Was there anything else?”

  “Yes, she asked me to set up a meeting tomorrow morning with Karp,” Knight said. “She says she’s going to confess to the charges against her, including multiple counts of murder.”

  “What?!”

  “That was my response,” Knight said. “I mean, if she cooperates with the feds she’s not going to have to worry about the local charges. But still, why hand Karp her head on a silver platter?”

  Grale frowned. “This is what I mean,” he said. “She’s up to something. Something to do with this Halloween parade and Karp.”

  “What about her comment that Karp is in bed with this other group?”

  “I don’t-” Grale started to deny the accusation but then stopped and suddenly looked worried. “I have a hard time believing it, but on the other hand …” He stopped talking for a moment and then added, “I need to t
hink about some of this.”

  A few minutes later, when Grale and Knight exited the office, they found Danielle still sitting in her seat. “I thought you were going home,” Knight said.

  “I had a little more filing to do,” she replied, glancing at Grale.

  “Good help is hard to find,” Grale commented, making the young woman blush.

  “Apparently, I’m very lucky,” Knight said with a laugh, which caused her to blush further.

  “Well, I need to run,” Grale said. “Don’t be a stranger.”

  “I won’t,” Knight answered.

  “Nice guy,” Danielle said when they were alone. “He married?”

  Knight fought the urge to respond jealously. “You have no idea how nice,” he said with a sigh. “But he’s one of those guys who’s sort of married to his job.”

  20

  It was late afternoon when Marlene left Dr. Aronberg’s office. A thunderstorm had blown up since she’d entered the building, darkening the sky, and she barely made it to her rented SUV before marble-sized hail began pelting the parking lot and everything in it.

  As she waited for the storm to pass, she pulled Detective Winkler’s business card from her purse and called, but only got his voice mail. “Hello, this is Marlene Ciampi,” she said. “I’m a private investigator from New York City, and I’m in Memphis looking into the activities of a Reverend C. G. Westlund, who you may know as the Reverend John LaFontaine. Dr. Aronberg gave me your card. I’d like to talk.” She gave her cell number and hung up.

  Lightning flashed overhead and was immediately followed by a crash of thunder that made her jump. Settle down, Marlene, she told herself as she typed an address Nonie Ellis had given her into the car’s GPS system. This weather’s got you jumping around like a cat at a dog show and you need to concentrate.

  A map popped up and she put the car in gear. Moments later she was driving through a pouring rainstorm to East Memphis and into a neighborhood of ill-kept yards bearing clapboard houses in desperate need of paint, hammers, and nails. She pulled up in front of one particularly dilapidated house whose roof had sagged toward the middle so badly that a waterfall of rain poured down in front of the steps leading up to the door. As she waited for a break in the rain before getting out of her car, she thought about meeting Nonie Ellis the night before.