When Grale was in one of his moods, James would often be seen standing behind the throne, bent over and talking in a low voice, a smirk on his face. Whatever it was he said, it often seemed to push Grale farther into the dark recesses of his mind, and only a “hunting trip” would bring him out of it.
The little man had few friends and he didn’t bother to hide his dislike for Knight, whom he seemed to see as a competitor for Grale’s favor. The women in the community were known to avoid him and his leering face and searching eyes. But Grale seemed not to notice and did nothing when others complained about him, other than to point out that they owed their light and heat to James.
Despite his distaste for Grale’s vigilante efforts, Knight generally liked the man and felt a great debt to him. In all he spent six months with the Mole People, six months that sobered him up to the point where he no longer wanted a drink. He’d been assigned to the “Dumpster diving” crews, something that before meeting Grale would have appalled him. Yet it gave him a sense of purpose to bring something of value back to the odd community that had taken him in. He felt at home.
So he had been dismayed when one night, Grale summoned him to his throne and announced, “My brother, it is time for you to leave us.”
“Why? Have I done something wrong?” Knight asked.
Smiling, Grale shook his head. “No, my brother, but it is time. Some of these people will never leave; they are incapable of dealing with the outside world. But others, like our friend Warren Bennett, who runs the newsstand in front of the courts building and lives in a small apartment, and you—now that you’ve rid your body of the poisons you poured into it and have discovered what it means to be part of a community—have a life on the outside they need to follow. And, in truth, I have another reason.”
Grale explained that he wanted Knight to resume his law practice. “From time to time, my people need the services of an attorney, and it would be very helpful if I could count on you.”
Although the idea frightened him, Knight also felt something awaken in him. He knew that Grale was right. His life was on the outside, and if he could repay his friend by resuming his career, he would do it.
Grale had even given him enough money to rent his small office on the Lower East Side, as well as a tiny apartment. Knight was humbled by the gesture, knowing how hard the Mole People worked to come up with that kind of money, and from the day he hung his shingle again, he’d refused to take any more funds from them.
It hadn’t been easy. A one-man law office didn’t bring in much to spare, and there’d been days when he’d vaguely contemplated going out for a drink, especially when his former receptionist, Danielle, had suggested it one night. But he recalled that night four years earlier when he’d thought about jumping in front of a subway train and the thought of alcohol made him nauseous.
As he and his two escorts now approached Grale’s lair, he was experiencing trepidation in light of what he was planning to do. This was more than getting one of the Mole People out of jail or representing them for some petty crime like vagrancy or trespassing.
When his former employer told him his new client’s name was Nadya Malovo, it only vaguely rang a bell, and not in the context of Grale. When he read her file and the affadavits placed there by the New York DAO, he assumed he’d heard her name in news accounts of her alleged criminal activities. None of which would have caused him to contact Dirty Warren at his newsstand in front of the Criminal Courts Building.
No, Knight’s visit to Dirty Warren was inspired by Malovo herself, when she mentioned having worked for Andrew Kane, the former mayoral candidate who’d somehow been embroiled in criminal plots and terrorism. Once the darling of his party and the media, both of which had seen him as presidential material, Kane was apparently more of a Lex Luthor, a criminal mastermind, than a John F. Kennedy.
When Knight lived among the Mole People, it was well-known that Grale considered Kane to be a mortal enemy and a demon of the first degree. He had devoted himself to tracking the man, waiting for an opportunity to strike. And although Knight had not seen Grale in several years, the Mole People grapevine—mostly in the form of Dirty Warren—had informed him that his friend had indeed captured Kane and kept him a prisoner, though to what end, no one seemed to know.
Knight didn’t know if it would be important to Grale that his client, a vicious terrorist who was now working with the feds in the hope of being placed in the witness protection program, had talked to him about working for Kane. But he thought it was worth telling Dirty Warren and was only a little surprised when the news vendor called on him at his office and said that Grale wanted to talk to him in person.
On his way to meet his guides, Knight had wrestled with what he was doing. One issue was the fifty-thousand-dollar retainer check he’d been handed to take on Malovo’s case. He’d immediately paid his bills and rehired Danielle, even paying her for the times when she’d volunteered. The money was a godsend and he wished he could keep it. But he figured he was now going to have to give it back, maybe even repay what he’d spent except for the few hours he’d worked on the case, and then tell his employer that he needed to retain another lawyer.
But more than that troubled him. By talking to Grale about his work for Malovo and the conversations he had with her, he was betraying the attorney-client privilege and his oath as a defense attorney. It didn’t matter that she was without a doubt a cold-blooded killer; she had the absolute right to legal representation.
He argued with himself that there was no reason to discuss her with Grale. She merely mentioned that she regretted working for Kane. Maybe she was trying to turn over a new leaf and was just an attractive woman who had been used by men all of her life for their own evil ends. The same ethics that had caused him to give up his practice in the first place now nagged at him.
Still, he felt compelled to let Grale know that he was working for her. He owed it to the man who had given him his life back. He would find a way to assuage his conscience later.
As he had once before, Knight felt, rather than saw, the moment he stepped into the inner sanctum of the Mole People. “Welcome … fuck you oh boy … home,” Dirty Warren said, patting him on the back. “We’re to take you straightaway to David. … One word of caution: he is edgy these days and his moods are darker and last longer. He’s also got a bad cough but won’t go see a doctor; maybe you can talk him into it.”
Approaching Grale’s platform, Knight could see his friend slumped in his chair, but someone else was missing. “Where’s Brother James?” he whispered.
“Gone,” Dirty Warren spat. “He was caught stealing from the treasury, and there’s always been … whoop whoop … his leering at the women. David kicked him out and told him never to return on penalty of death.”
“Good riddance,” Knight said. “I never did like that guy.”
“No one did,” Dirty Warren said. “Bastard.”
Drawing closer to Grale, Knight could see that the years had not been kind. His long hair was streaked with gray and the lines in his ashen face were deeper. The sleeves of his robe had been pulled up, revealing how thin he was, the muscles standing out against the pallid skin like ropes. He coughed into his hand, a deep, wet bark, as they walked up.
“You should get that cough checked out,” Knight said.
Grale turned his head slowly to look at him. “God is my physician.”
“Which medical school?” Knight shot back. He heard Dirty Warren suck in his breath in shock.
But Grale laughed. “I see you haven’t lost your sense of humor, brother. That is good. We could do with a little more laughter around here, couldn’t we, Warren?”
“Hell … whoop whoop … yeah,” the news vendor replied. “I’ll leave you two alone until … oh boy my ass … you need me to take Bruce home.”
“Thank you, Warren, we won’t be long,” Grale replied, and then turned to Knight. “I hear you have a new client?”
Knight nodded. “Yes, Nadya Malov
o. She is—”
Grale held up a hand. “I know all about that evil woman. It is fortunate that you were picked to be her attorney.”
“Dumb luck, I guess,” Knight replied.
Grale’s eyes blazed angrily for a moment, but then he nodded. “As I told you once, it wasn’t dumb luck but divine intervention. I had heard that she was in town again.”
“She’s working for the feds to root out some terrorist sleeper cells,” Knight said, surprised at how easy it was to betray his client.
“So she says,” Grale said scathingly. “I believe there is more to it than that. But come, tell us everything she said and did.”
Knight recounted what he’d seen in her files, as well as what she told him in their interview. When he got to her request for him to meet with her cousin, Grale laughed.
“Boris Kazanov is no cousin of Nadya Malovo,” he said. “He’s a brutal killer, including of women and children, who he particularly likes to torture first. A dangerous demon I have been trying to find for years. Have you arranged this meeting?”
“Yes, two nights from now,” Knight replied. “On the boardwalk at Coney Island. Should I not go?”
“Oh, no,” Grale said. “You should definitely go. But I will be there, too.”
Knight swallowed hard. He didn’t like the sound of Grale’s voice. He almost forgot to tell him what Malovo had said about working with Kane, but then remembered.
At the mention of Kane, Grale reached down and picked up the end of a dog leash, which he yanked hard. There was a yelp and a man—at least he seemed to be a man, though he crawled on all fours and simpered like a whipped cur—appeared from the other side of Grale’s throne. His clothes were in tatters, his long blond hair matted and filthy; the leash was attached to a collar around his neck. But the true horror was that when he looked up, his face was a mass of scar tissue through which two blue eyes burned with madness and hatred.
“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. T
hey 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 protégé 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 brought this on or what he wants to say in his Q & A statement to us,” Katz said. “Or what Nonie Ellis is doing; she’s only representing David.”
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