Bad Faith

by Robert K. Tanenbaum

  “There you are,” he said. “I was getting worried …” Suddenly he stopped. He knew the look on her face spelled trouble. “What’s up?”

  It took about forty-five minutes for Marlene to tell him what Nonie Ellis had said, and another twenty minutes for him to run out of questions as he took notes. At last he set his pencil down on the legal pad and sat back on the couch.

  “It’s a start,” Karp said. “Of course, it all needs to be checked out and expanded before I can take it to a grand jury. I’ll get Clay to—”

  “I’m going to Memphis,” Marlene interrupted. “That son of a bitch, as you so rightly labeled him, has done this to other people. I know it.”

  Karp shook his head. “I don’t think that’s a good idea,” he said. “This is a police matter.”

  Marlene wasn’t having it. “You send detectives down there and it’s a fishing expedition,” she said. “Westlund, or LaFontaine if that’s his real name, will go to the press and raise hell about your trying to crucify him. I need to try to find some of these other people, and they’ll talk to me more than they will a cop.”

  “You know I have to pick up Nonie Ellis,” he said. “I need to get a statement from her and get her to testify against Westlund.”

  “Good luck,” Marlene said. “No telling which way she went after we finished. And besides, this is my case; she asked me to look into it. I’m a private investigator and that’s what I’m going to do.”

  They argued a little longer, then their eyes locked. Karp knew that there was no way to stop her, so he reached out to hug her and whispered in her ear, “Say hi to Elvis for me, and be careful.”

  17

  AGENT MICHAEL ROLLES TOSSED THE NEW YORK POST ON THE kitchen table in front of Nadya Malovo, who’d been moved to a safe house in New Rochelle in Westchester County, just north of Manhattan and the Bronx. Or, as George M. Cohan had once said, “Just forty-five minutes from Broadway.”

  The agent was steamed. “Was this necessary? We sometimes had need of Boris Kazanov’s … talents.”

  Malovo glanced at the headline: RUSSIAN MOBSTER BEHEADED. She shrugged. “I needed to know that the message had been delivered—both messages—as well as demonstrate to you what we’re dealing with.”

  Rolles slammed his hand on the table. “I still don’t get what this psychopath … What’s his name, Grale? … What’s he got to do with what you’re doing for us?”

  “Everything,” Malovo replied.

  “And how do you know what Knight told him? He might have mentioned the meet-up with Kazanov and that’s it.”

  “That’s what I’m about to find out,” Malovo replied.

  “How were you so sure that Knight would go to Grale? And how does a two-bit lawyer like Knight know this spook?”

  “I know what men want, even queers,” Malovo said, winking at Rolles, happy to be out of prison garb and into a snug pair of blue jeans and tight, curve-revealing sweater. “And Knight is my business.”

  Rolles glared but then smirked. “And what does Knight want?” he asked. “He doesn’t seem interested in your vaunted sexual magnetism. Then again, maybe you’re losing your touch. Getting too old for the seduction game, Nadya?”

  Malovo laughed. “Touché! But there are many ways to seduce men; tits and ass are just one.”

  “And Knight?”

  She pointed to the newspaper. “He has a debt to repay. I’ve never understood it but men with ethics consider repaying debts a matter of honor. Not something you would understand. Now, be a good boy and go find out what’s taking my attorney so long this morning.”

  Rolles stood. “And when can I expect to know how all of this adds up?”

  “When I’m ready. I demonstrated that I can deliver with the ferry attack. You looked like a hero, and if you play your cards right, you will again.”

  Rolles suddenly reached across the table and tapped Malovo on her forehead. “I’m counting on it, bitch. But remember, there’s nothing I’d like better than to put a bullet right here.”

  Malovo didn’t flinch. She just smiled, her green eyes glittering. “Maybe you’ll have that opportunity someday,” she said. “But until then we must work together.”

  A few minutes later there was a knock on the door. Malovo picked up the newspaper and appeared to be reading the front page when Knight entered. She had worked up a few tears and now exclaimed, “This is terrible! My cousin was murdered!”

  “I know, it was a terrible shock when I heard,” Knight replied. “It must have happened shortly after I saw him.”

  “You were able to meet him then?”

  “Yes. On the boardwalk … where he was killed. Somebody must have followed him. Some other gangsters, I guess.”

  “That must have been it,” Malovo said. “He had many enemies.”

  “The newspapers said he was suspected in a number of murders,” Knight said, pointing at the Post. “And in some gangland killings.”

  Malovo shrugged. “You know how the American press works; everything is exaggerated and it doesn’t matter what the truth is. Still, I know he was not a good man … as I was not a good woman. Yet, when you have no family, losing the last member besides yourself is hard. He was not such a bad person when he was a child, and those are the memories I have of him.”

  A look of pain crossed Knight’s face. A man with a conscience, Malovo thought. Such weakness is useful.

  “Well, whatever his faults, I’m sorry for your loss,” Knight said. “No one deserves to be murdered.”

  “Thank you, you’re very kind,” Malovo replied, then added somewhat shyly, “I’m just glad that you weren’t hurt, too.” Never hurts to see if he can’t also be seduced, she thought before changing the subject. “Were you able to speak to Boris?”

  “Yes. I don’t understand what that was all about. A party in the Village on Halloween? The Village always has its annual parade, but I take it you were passing some sort of message, and I have to say I don’t like being used in that fashion.”

  “I apologize,” Malovo said. “You don’t have to believe me, but I was actually trying to prevent a crime.”

  “Why not tell your federal handlers? Isn’t that what you’re supposed to be doing?” Knight asked.

  “This had to do with family business, not national security,” Malovo answered. “They’re only interested in terrorism, not something as mundane as … well, I won’t trouble you with the specifics.” She changed direction. “What did Boris say?”

  “He said he and his family would attend but wanted assurances that his traveling expenses would be covered,” Knight said.

  “Ah, always the businessman,” Malovo said, shaking her head. “By ‘traveling expenses’ he meant that he wanted to be paid to call off the event.” She hesitated, as if she couldn’t decide whether to say anything more, but then couldn’t help herself. “I take it that as a defense attorney you are acquainted with the district attorney Karp?” she asked, letting her very real hatred of the man put an edge in her voice.

  “By reputation,” Knight said. “I never faced him in court, but I don’t think he loses much, if at all. If we had to go up against him, I’d be worried. But it seems to me that the feds have you pretty well insulated against the New York charges, so long as you fulfill your commitments …”

  “I will do my part,” Malovo said. “You may have seen the news about how the authorities stopped an attack on the Liberty Island ferry. That was thanks to me. But don’t be too sure about Karp not being able to get to me,” Malovo retorted, her voice growing angrier. “Karp is devious, and he hates me. A colleague of mine, Imam Jabbar, thought he had a deal with the feds, too. They were going to let him leave the country, but Karp waited until he was traveling to the airport in New Jersey and had passed out of the Manhattan federal jurisdiction. Then he had the local cops pull over a U.S. Marshals motorcade and arrest him. I don’t think it’s any coincidence that the marshal in charge of that motorcade who allowed Jabbar to be taken from her cu
stody is the same marshal who watches my every move, Jennifer Capers. I wouldn’t put it past Karp to be working on some deal with her to do the same thing when the feds are through with me.”

  “Well, we’re aware that it happened once, so we know what to watch for,” Knight said. He paused. “You seem to have quite a bit of animosity for Karp, above what even his actions to bring you to court would warrant.”

  “I hate him,” Malovo spat. “I have broken laws, but there are others—powerful men, of course—who have broken more than I have … who use people like me for their dirty work, and he does nothing. I believe that he does their bidding.”

  Knight frowned. “That doesn’t sound like him. He has a pretty squeaky-clean reputation. Who are these men?”

  “Perhaps he makes such a noise about being so clean to cover his real activities,” Malovo said. “These men, they call themselves the Sons of Man. They’re a very old sort of criminal fraternity and have infiltrated nearly all of American society—politics, the military, business, law, even entertainment. I know these men, I have worked for them, and because of that they wish me dead.”

  “I’d have a hard time believing that Karp would be involved with them,” Knight said.

  “Perhaps,” Malovo said. “But have you ever wondered why he and his family are repeatedly ‘attacked’ by criminals and terrorists and yet remain unscathed? Maybe these attacks are not real or are designed to fail in order to generate sympathy and to make him appear the hero. I do not know, but I suspect they are grooming him for higher office.”

  Knight shook his head. “This is all just too fantastic,” he said.

  “Is it? Think about some of the so-called terrorist attacks, including those in which I’ve been used like a pawn on a chessboard,” Malovo retorted. “Why is it that the district attorney of New York County, and his family, are so involved in these matters that have nothing to do with his position? Why does this family always seem to be in the right place at the right time? Wouldn’t it be more fantastic to say that this is all coincidence?”

  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 in
formation,” 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.”