Enemy within kac-13

by Robert K. Tanenbaum

  "It's not like that!" Turning sulky. "And he's not a mass murderer. He's just a confused and scared guy."

  "Your mother is worried about you, you know that?"

  "Yes. But what do you want me to do, stop my life? She's always worried about me, and ninety percent of it is guilt. She thinks I'm going to turn out crazy and violent, like she is."

  "She's reformed, you know."

  "Hah! Anyway, I can take care of myself. She knows that perfectly well. She imagines I'm in love or something, and I'm going to do something crazy and stupid."

  "And are you?"

  This was her cue to stamp out in a huff, covering her retreat with blasts of denial, but she did not. She did not have to. Dugan was not her parent.

  "Oh, not in the way she thinks. He's not interested, and he's too old and all, but I do have feelings. I mean literally." She blushed again and laughed. "You know, thump-a-thump, gasp, tremble. It's embarrassing."

  "I bet it is. And…?"

  "And nothing. I just suffer. But I think it's connected in some way to, you know…"

  "Your sense of spiritual abandonment?" he asked. She nodded dolefully.

  "You don't have ordinary connections? With boys your own age? Dating?"

  "Oh, please! For starters, look at me! I'm easily distinguishable from Britney Spears, and so, you know, it's not like I have to set up a velvet rope to keep the crowds back. Second, guys my age, they're not interested in the kind of stuff I am. I could hang out with the nerdy crowd, but the truth of it is I'm not really a nerd, either. At least I can talk to David." She sighed dramatically. "Maybe I should just sign up with the Ursulines and put myself out of my misery."

  "You have no true vocation," he said evenly. "It would be something like a fraud, wouldn't it?"

  She slumped. "I guess. I guess there's no place for me at all, except lying down in an MRI machine. Maybe I should just let them extract my brain for scientific study. At least then I'd be halfway useful."

  Dugan held his hands in front of her face, brought the thumb and index finger of each hand together and made tiny reciprocal motions with them. "You know what this is? The world's smallest violin playing 'My Heart Cries for You.'" He knuckled her on the top of her head.

  "Ow! Oh, Faather, don't hit me agin! I'll be good and niver will I go behind the pigsty with Kevin O'Flaherty anymore."

  "Seriously, you lunkhead! You are deeply loved, marvelously good, gorgeously talented, and obscenely rich. You should be as happy as God in France."

  "The same could be said about Simone Weil."

  "Oh, would you forget her for two minutes! You're not Simone Weil, who is also, incidentally, a good argument for some measure of orthodoxy. Listen to me: You were not made to run through tunnels after wretched people with the likes of David Grale. The gift you have, which you acknowledge is from God, is simply too great to risk in that way. And it's grossly irresponsible for David to tempt you to do so. And don't give me that stubborn look! Look, you know that St. Teresa, at age eight, went off down a road with her brother to find some Moors and get her head chopped off so she could be a martyr. Do you think it would've been a good thing if she'd succeeded?"

  No answer. Lucy was doing the teenage clam.

  "And anyway," he added, struggling to control a temper that had often been his undoing, "Grale is not all he seems."

  That got her attention. "What do you mean by that?"

  "I mean everybody in a St. Francis suit isn't St. Francis. There's a darkness in him that touches on unbalance. Don't tell me you haven't observed it? Or do the glands interfere with your judgment?"

  "There's nothing wrong with him!" she snarled with a violence that surprised her.

  But not him. He sighed and put his arm around her shoulder. She stiffened, but did not shake it off.

  "Okay, we'll drop it. Just promise me you'll be careful."

  "Sure."

  "And if you're really interested in tunnel lore, I can put you with someone who knows them pretty well. Did you ever meet Jacob Lutz?"

  "I don't think so. Who is he, a cop?"

  "No, a dweller; a cannibal, too, for all I know. They call him Spare Parts."

  "You know Spare Parts?"

  "I do. He comes by occasionally to talk. We play chess, too."

  "Gosh, he's like the king of the tunnels. I only saw him once, from a distance. What's he like?"

  "A troubled soul; like you, like me," said the priest. "In mortal form he's very large and stinks to high heaven, much like some of the early saints, I suppose. I'll set something up. We'll have tea."

  10

  In the aftermath, Marlene learned the difference between working private and being part of a billion-dollar security empire when there were bloody corpses to figure out. The police, for one thing, were a good deal nicer to her than formerly, first, because there was not a boss cop in the city who did not dream of a fat postcareer position with a firm like Osborne International, and second, Osborne itself swarmed the area with lawyers and other helpful people. Ms. Solette, scratchless physically, destroyed emotionally, was spirited away to an undisclosed location, with her dog. Marlene was allowed to change her blood-soaked clothes and take a shower right there at the crime scene, although not in the bullet-holed bathroom. Min Dykstra, her assistant, arrived with a change of clothes and clean undies, and a willingness to provide a broad crying surface on either of her shoulders, if desired.

  It was not desired. Marlene's first (and nearly sole) interaction with her was an inquiry about Segovia. Answer: in critical condition but still alive. The other four victims were dead, but this toll seemed to have little effect on Marlene, who drifted off to one of the three other bathrooms. She then spent a long time in the shower, so long a time that Dykstra, normally as unflappable a young woman as could be found, kept checking her watch and fingering her cell phone and listening at the bathroom door. Was Marlene having a nervous breakdown in there?

  She was not. She was washing her hair. Marlene had a mop of heavy, thick, curly black hair, worn neck length and cleverly cut so that it would cast a shadow over the false eye. But now there were things in it. Tiny bits of skull and scalp with wispy blond hair still clinging that fell to the bathtub floor, as well as little gobbets of matter looking like pink-gray earthworms, parts of the organ in which James Coleman had recently maintained his sorry existence. She nudged one of these toward the drain hole with her toe, which immediately prompted the long-anticipated retch session. This, too, went on for longer than expected.

  Dykstra heard the water stop at least, and shortly afterward the sound of a hair dryer. Her heart swelled with relief, for she believed that deranged people do not use hair dryers. She had, however, only worked briefly for Marlene Ciampi.

  Who emerged, looking scrubbed and wholesome, except around the eyes, smelling of expensive soap and the best shampoo, and dressed in baggy khaki trousers and a black cotton sweater. She sat through a straightforward interview with a police detective, and then she was whisked away, quite passively, by Dykstra and a covey of hefty VIP-section Osborniks, down the service elevator, out the back way, and into a waiting limo. The press, of course, was in full cry, the combination of celebrity and violence being without question the most desirable of all news stories. But Marlene's troops were skilled at penetrating and evading their wolf packs.

  Shortly after they departed the scene, in a black van with smoked windows, a cell phone rang. Dykstra answered and said, "It's your husband."

  Marlene stared for a few seconds at the instrument extended to her as if she were unaware of its function, then took it, listened, and said, "Yes, I'm fine… Really… No, I didn't kill him. He killed himself… Yes… Yes… No, I have to go back to the office and write up my report… No, it can't… Yes, I'll see you tonight." All this was delivered with the affect of a recorded announcement. Dykstra and the other people in the limo cast covert glances of admiration at their leader: after something like that, to be so cool! No one said much during the rest of th
e trip.

  Karp put the Solette affair, and his wife's part in it, out of his mind for the rest of the day. He was good at this putting away, from long practice, for if he had gone into uxorious conniptions every time his darling had diced with death, he would not have had enough emotional resources left to run a hot dog stand. Besides, he also knew from experience that Marlene detoxified best when left alone. She would need him eventually, but not just yet. He paged his daughter, leaving a message to call immediately, and called the twins' school and said that he would be picking them up himself. Thus, he put into action the Karp Family Post-Traumatic Stress Coping Mechanism, a regrettably well-oiled machine, and hoped for the best.

  A knock at the door and in came Murrow, looking forlorn, a special assistant with no one special to assist. As acting bureau chief, Karp did not rate a special assistant, and Fuller, who had immediately moved into Karp's old office, had no use for him. Technically, Murrow was an ADA, but one with little experience. He had been reassigned to criminal courts, but no one knew quite what to do with him at this point.

  "How are you getting on, Murrow?" Karp greeted him. "Working hard?"

  "They have me in the complaint room. I'm thinking of bailing out, actually."

  "Yes, I can understand that. Being an assistant DA is harder than being a special assistant lounging on velvet cushions and reading spicy novels the day long, as was your wont."

  "Yes, I'll miss that," Murrow said, smiling faintly. "And the imported chocolates. The fact is, while I enjoyed working with you, I don't like regular ADA work… I don't think it's my cup of tea."

  "No, but neither is it anyone else's. I think you're spoiled."

  "Quite possibly. I feel sort of squishy and rotten. In any case, I thought I'd drop by to say thank you and farewell."

  "Not so fast. Listen, if I were to get you up here temporarily, how would that be?"

  "Homicide?" Murrow looked pale.

  "Not as such. But I have various things going on where I'll need some help. Technically ADA work, but not routine at all."

  Karp made some calls, called in some favors, and the thing was done. Murrow went off happy to get, as he said, his toothbrush and teddy bear. Karp called Vasquez, but got the recorded message from the cell phone company. He intended to stick Murrow as second seat to Vasquez on the Marshak thing, a fairly outrageous act, but he was feeling outrageous lately, cut off by the toxic situation from his usual careful habits. It would work, though: Murrow was tenacious and bright, and maybe the case wouldn't come to trial at all. The kid could get his feet wet without too much harm done.

  The phone rang, the private number, and he snatched it up. It was not, however, one of his family or the DA or one of a small group of close associates. It was Shelly Solotoff.

  "I hear you got fired again," said Solotoff.

  "It was Roland who got fired, or resigned. I'm just helping Jack out here."

  A low chuckle, not pleasant. "Poor Roland! All his bile displayed in the press. I was glad to see that Jack didn't even make a pretense at defending him. I mean why be loyal or anything when the feminists are on your ass?" The ironic smoothness of Solotoff's voice was tempered by crackle and the sound of traffic. A cell phone.

  "What can I do for you today, Shelly?" asked Karp, nor did he keep the distaste from his voice.

  "You're handling the Ramsey shooting, I take it."

  "Mimi Vasquez is, but she's reporting to me for now. Why?"

  "Because earlier today Ralphie Paxton called me."

  "Him being…?"

  "How soon they forget! Ralphie is, or was, Desmondo Ramsey's friend, adviser, and running buddy. Our witness. He saw the whole event. And he picked up the knife."

  "The knife."

  "Yeah! The knife Ramsey was going to stick into my client."

  "Uh-huh. Where is this person now?"

  "Sitting right next to me. We're on our way to the precinct to make a statement."

  "We? Are you representing Mr. Paxton, too?"

  "I'm advising him. I don't think he needs representation, as such."

  "Really? I thought leaving the scene of a crime in which you were a participant was against the law."

  Solotoff laughed. "Oh, well, if you decide to charge him with crap like that, maybe I'll take him on pro bono. Sorry to deprive you guys of your great white defendant, but I assume I can tell Sybil that no charges will be filed."

  "That would be a premature assumption at this time. Let's talk to Mr. Paxton first and then we'll see."

  Solotoff did not respond to this. Shelly often did not respond to things he did not want to hear, Karp recalled. He sounded high, excited, as if he had pulled off some coup. He wanted to chat, but Karp did not want to chat with him. After he hung up, Karp rang Vasquez again and got her this time.

  "Where are you?"

  "With Raney at Midtown South. What's up?"

  Karp explained. Vasquez said, "Crap! Well, that's that. She seems to be off the hook if this guy holds up."

  "Not so fast. I want you to grill old Ralphie, slow fire, lots of basting. Make sure he really saw something. If you have to, take him down to the garage, draw chalk lines. Obviously, full forensics on the knife. Get a picture of it, pass it around to his homies, see if anyone ever saw him flash it."

  "Got it. I take it you think Ralphie showing up just now is a little too convenient?"

  "A little. Especially with Solotoff involved."

  "He's shady?"

  "I don't know. He has something going on, an extra agenda." With me, Karp thought, but didn't say. "Oh, and another thing. We need to know about the watch."

  A pause. "I'm sorry? What does the watch-"

  "Oh, come on, Vasquez! The guy is holding a Rolex worth five, six grand retail. Why is he trying to mug a woman in a parking garage? Where does a street guy get a thing like that? Even on Park Avenue they don't throw gold Rolexes away in the trash. It doesn't fit, and I hate it when stuff doesn't fit. One more thing: I'm giving you Murrow as your second, assuming we go forward with Marshak."

  "Mookie?"

  "Yes, Mookie. And, yes, he looks like a preppie dweeb, but, in fact, he's incredibly smart, energetic, and you can abuse him to your heart's content. He'll bounce back like an inflatable doll."

  Vasquez grumblingly agreed and conceded also that the watch was peculiar, but did not sound particularly anxious to throw energy into the question.

  After she was off the line, Karp diddled around for an hour or so, then called for a car, drove to St. Joseph's, picked up the twins, and came back to the office. There they were made much of by secretaries and staff, given copy paper and colored markers, and diverted much government property to private use in contravention of the laws of New York. It was a rare treat for both of them; Zak hung around the cops, who were always passing through, eyeing their gear and striking up remarkable firearms conversations; Giancarlo drew pictures of rockets, ray guns, and aliens. Lucy called back on the page, and he told her to come by the office, which she did shortly thereafter.

  "How's Mom?" she asked.

  "She says she's okay. We'll see. Let's be extraspecial kind tonight, okay?"

  "I thought she wasn't carrying guns anymore."

  "It wasn't her gun, and she apparently saved the life of one of her people and also her client. It must have been a tough choice." He looked her over, suppressing like a good dad his desire that she look more like the schoolgirls he saw on the street instead of like a postwar refugee.

  "You look tired," he said solicitously. "Where've you been?"

  "At the church, with Father Mike. Daddy…?"

  "Mn?"

  "Did you ever have two really good friends that both like you, but who didn't like each other?"

  "I've had that experience."

  "What do you do? It's horrible!"

  "You can't do anything, honey. Keep 'em apart and hope for the best. These are friends at school?"

  "No, it's Mike. He thinks David is, I don't know, strange or something.
He really kind of flared up about it, which is not like him… I mean about other people. He flames me all the time."

  "Well, he is strange," said Karp, and got one of the famous Ciampi-women black looks. "I meant most people don't live like St. Francis and go off to dangerous places to help refugees or whatever. What do you think Mike was getting at? That the guy was a phony?"

  "No, not really. I think Mike screwed up himself, with the Church, I mean, so he's always on the lookout for people who think they know more than the Church does about religion."

  "Really? He seems to be fairly liberal with your mom's antics."

  "Oh, Mom's just a common criminal. It's okay to be charitable to those." She fell silent, thinking: Mike Dugan thinks I lust after David is what it is, and that I'm going to get myself in trouble. And I do lust after him, but it's stupid schoolgirl lust, and I'm in no great danger from it; pathetic, really. Still, Mike should know that, so… what if it's something else? Something he knows, or senses? He's so damn smart, Father Mike, I can't believe he's behaving like some Irish parish priest like we joke about, but for real. So what could it be? And as she mused in this way, she recalled the odd things she had noticed about Grale and ignored or excused. That remark about why God lets them live. About the slasher being an instrument of mercy. Those scary blank moments when he suddenly wasn't there. She felt a chill and shuddered. Her father noticed and asked what was wrong, and she said nothing, but it wasn't nothing.

  The phone rang. Giancarlo struck like a snake and snatched it up. "Mr. Karp's office," he said; then, handing over the instrument, "It's for you, Daddy."

  "I should hope so," said Karp. It was Vasquez.

  "Was that a secretary?"

  "My kid. What's up?"

  "I did Paxton. If he's making it up, he's real good. I took him through it half a dozen times, from every angle I could think of. Raney did him, too. Basically, he says they were cooping in the garage. They have like a route in that area, they dive in trash cans for high-end magazines, and also they pick over things that people leave out on the streets. There's a little blind corner in that garage they use to stash stuff."