Trap (9781476793177)

by Tanenbaum, Robert K.

  “Like hell we are,” both boys said at the same time.

  Forsling pointed the gun at the old woman. “Then you can watch her die first,” he said.

  “All right,” the smaller teen replied, and grabbed his brother’s shoulder. “Just everybody stay cool.”

  “That’s smart, Jewboy,” Forsling sneered. “Let’s go.”

  Forsling made the boys go out the door first. “The old bitch is going to be in front of me,” he warned. “So if one of you says something or makes a run for it, I shoot her first.”

  They got in the van without encountering anyone else. Forsling made the teens sit in the front two seats while he sat in back with the old woman.

  “Where we going?” asked the bigger teen, who was driving.

  “East Harlem. I’ll tell you where once we’re rolling.”

  As the van pulled away from the curb and started to turn right onto Third Avenue, a black truck turned onto 29th Street. The teen hit the brakes and honked.

  “What the hell are you doing?” Forsling yelled. “I’ll shoot the old bitch and your brother right now.”

  “Take it easy, man,” the teen yelled back. “I’m not used to driving and that guy freaked me out.”

  “Just drive,” Forsling demanded. “But any more crap and somebody’s going to die.”

  15

  AFTER FULTON LEFT KARP’S OFFICE to make his phone calls, everything seemed to happen in bang-bang fashion, like tumblers on a bank vault clicking into place. First, Mrs. Milquetost announced with some trepidation that “a Mr. Garcia and a Mr. Gallo are here to see you. They said you’re expecting them?”

  “Yes, send them in.”

  As the pair entered the office and took seats across from his desk, Karp looked them over. They were both Hispanic, blessed with Latin good looks, though one was tall and slender and the other short and built like a fire hydrant. He’d known Garcia for years, but thought Gallo would be new to him except what Marlene had just said. However, when he saw his face, he remembered the news stories several years earlier about the ambitious charter school founder in Brooklyn who’d run afoul of the law.

  Back then he was surprised that such a big deal was being made of what seemed to be a minor transgression, and suspected that politics between the charter schools and the teachers union had something to do with it. The young educator had disappeared from sight, and Karp had forgotten about him until now.

  He nodded at Garcia. “How are your hands? That doesn’t look good.” He pointed to the bandages on the young man’s right hand, where a spot of bright red blood had appeared.

  “Sore, but I’ll be okay. A hell of a lot better than the three people I drove there with.”

  Karp nodded. “Rose was a wonderful woman and a dear friend, and the other victims didn’t deserve what happened to them either. All I can say is that we’re working to get to the bottom of it.” He paused, but only for a moment. “Marlene said you needed to talk to me, but she didn’t give me a lot of details.”

  “We didn’t tell her any so she wouldn’t be involved in what we had to do,” Garcia said. “But we wanted to talk to you about something that we think involves the people who killed Rose and the others.”

  “Did you try talking to the police who are looking into this?” Karp asked. “Maybe I should call my lead investigator, I think you know him, Clay Fulton, to join us.”

  “Fulton’s all right for a cop,” Garcia replied. “But we’re not ready to talk to the po-po about this; everything that goes to the cops seems to get back to the wrong people, if you know what I mean. So for now, this is between you and us . . . and actually mostly between you and mi hermano here, Micah.”

  At the introduction, the tall young man leaned across to shake Karp’s hand. “I wish I was meeting you under other circumstances—Rose spoke highly of you and your wife. I also wish I didn’t have to say what I’m about to . . . or pay the consequences, but I do.”

  “I think we all wish circumstances were different,” Karp replied. “But if you don’t mind, let’s get down to business. Alejandro, you said this has something to do with the murder of Rose Lubinsky, Mary Calebras, and Tawanna Mohammad?”

  Garcia looked at Gallo, who swallowed hard. “I should probably answer that,” he said. “You know who I am, right?”

  “I remembered when I saw you come in and put two and two together with what Marlene told me,” Karp agreed.

  Gallo nodded, and then dug into his coat pocket and produced a flash drive, which he tossed onto Karp’s desk. “The information on this is encoded, but I don’t expect it’s going to be much of an obstacle for your people.”

  Picking up the flash drive, Karp looked from Gallo to Garcia and back. “Want to tell me what’s on it?”

  “Mostly documents—secret bank accounts, real estate transactions, dummy corporation paperwork,” Gallo replied. “It will lead you to some people who can lead you to some other people, or sometimes directly to them, who own these accounts and property.”

  “And the significance of that?”

  “The money in those accounts rightfully belongs to the Greater New York Teachers Federation,” Gallo replied.

  “Who do these accounts and the real estate belong to?” Karp asked.

  Gallo bit his lip, then responded. “Three people. One of them is me.”

  “You? You are admitting to the theft of union funds?”

  “Yes. Another person is my boss, union president Tommy Monroe.”

  “And the third?”

  “Do you know who used to be the chief counsel for the union?”

  The room fell silent as the two young men waited for Karp’s answer. There had been other times in his career when there’d be a prescient moment, like that first clap of thunder, when he knew a storm was coming. This was one of those times.

  “Olivia Stone,” he said quietly. “The current district attorney of Kings County, Brooklyn.”

  No one spoke for a moment. They didn’t have to until Karp cleared his throat and asked, “I take it there’s a reason you’re coming forward now with this information, and that you believe it’s connected to last night’s murders. You want to explain?”

  “You’re aware of the charter school bill that Rose crafted and lobbied for at the state assembly. The one that’s opposed by the union.”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you know why Monroe and Stone are particularly opposed to this bill?”

  “I know it would put nonunion charter schools on a more level playing field for funding and resources with public schools,” Karp said.

  “That’s part of it,” Gallo agreed. “But what they’re really worried about is that part of the bill that calls for an audit of the union going back ten years. That was one of the things Rose was really pushing for—accountability—to determine whether fees paid by union members, as well as funds provided by taxpayers, were used appropriately. That’s what they’re afraid of.”

  Karp held up the flash drive. “And it’s all on here?”

  “Sí, yes,” Gallo replied.

  “How did you get it?”

  Garcia started to say something but Gallo interrupted him. “I took it off of Monroe’s office computer early this morning. You’ll see that it’s date/time stamped. I also sent a copy to a secure location via email.”

  “Does Monroe know you did this?”

  Gallo shrugged. “There are security cameras all over the building and in his office. I was wearing a mask, but I’m sure he’ll figure out who was in his office. I wiped what we . . . I mean . . . I was doing on his computer, so he won’t know exactly, at least not right away; I’m sure his tech guys will be able to figure it out.”

  “You realize that what you did was probably breaking the law,” Karp said. “Even if you have authority to enter the building, I doubt you were authorized to take this information.”

  “I realize that,” Gallo said. “I will point out that some of the information on the flash drive relates to me.”
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  “And then there’s that,” Karp went on. “If you’re implicating yourself in these crimes—the theft of union funds, grand larceny—I can’t look the other way. You’ll be charged along with anyone else.”

  “I understand.”

  Karp sat back in his seat and studied the young men. Garcia leaned forward with his head down, but Gallo was sitting up, looking him straight in the eye. “It’s a brave thing you’re doing, the right thing.”

  Gallo shook his head at the compliment. “I should have done it a long time ago, maybe Rose would still be alive . . . and I wouldn’t be looking at time in prison.”

  “I think I read somewhere once that you never go so far down a path that you can’t turn around and take a step back,” Karp replied. “You’ve taken that step. Now before we go any further, and you explain why you think what you’ve said so far about why this relates to last night’s murders, I’d like to know if you’ll give a formal statement. If so, I’ll call a stenographer in, as well as Detective Clay Fulton. Alejandro may have told you, but he’s a New York City police detective who heads a special investigations unit working for my office; he’s keeping me apprised of this case, and I think he needs to hear this.”

  “I’m ready.”

  “And before we start, I’ll be informing you of your rights, including your right to remain silent and your right not to incriminate yourself,” Karp warned. “And the right to have an attorney present during questioning.”

  For the first time, Gallo smiled. “Mr. Karp, you don’t know much about my ‘formative years,’ but I’ve heard my Miranda warnings before. I’m waiving my rights and will do so again when the stenographer shows up.”

  Twenty minutes later, sitting in a conference room off of Karp’s main office, Gallo told his story, a narrative of union abuse, breach of fiduciary trust, and grand larceny. Karp mostly listened except to ask questions to clarify and expand on what he was hearing. The young man had just started talking about a meeting at Stone’s office, when Fulton’s cell phone buzzed.

  Fulton looked at the caller ID and then back at Karp with a frown. “It’s Guma,” he said as he stood and walked over to a corner of the room to answer.

  Karp could tell by the way his friend’s broad shoulders suddenly tensed that something was wrong. Fulton turned back to him and asked, “Can I speak to you privately?”

  With the detective leading the way, Karp followed him outside of the office. “What’s up? Guma okay?”

  “Yeah, he’s fine,” Fulton said. “But apparently two patrons at The Storm Trooper bar aren’t. We got two dead and a third being transported to the hospital with gunshot wounds. Sounds like Guma missed the fireworks by a few minutes. He thinks he spotted the suspect driving away in a white van with some sort of sign on the side.”

  “He identify the suspect?”

  Fulton shook his head. “Said he didn’t get a good look, but he was able to get a few words out of the surviving victim . . .”

  “And?”

  “Apparently our favorite neo-Nazi may have taken that leap from vandal to killer.”

  “I don’t get it,” Karp said. “I didn’t see that in him.”

  “Maybe he just snapped,” Fulton replied. “The guy was obviously paranoid. His mom died, so he goes off the deep end and starts blaming you and me.”

  “But why kill these guys?”

  “Who knows? A falling-out. Maybe to get rid of witnesses. Or somebody said something wrong. But one thing is sure, if he’s our guy, he’s a cold-blooded killer. Marlene said she was going to Il Buon Pane?”

  “Yeah, she was going to pick up the boys.”

  “I think I’ll scramble a couple of squad cars to go over, just in case the Sobelmans and anyone else there is on his revenge list.” Fulton nodded at the conference room door. “What about them? What this Gallo guy is saying sounds pretty legit.”

  “I think it’s legit, too. I think we’re dealing with two different, unrelated murder cases. I can handle the rest of the interview after I reach Marlene and give her a head’s-up. Then I want to get back in there and finish up before anyone gets cold feet.”

  Karp returned to the conference room and his interrogation of Gallo. He was questioning the young man about meeting Monroe at the Jay Street Bar before the explosion when Mrs. Milquetost knocked on the door. “Marlene is trying to reach you,” she said. “It’s another emergency.”

  Excusing himself, Karp called his wife. He’d barely said hello before she interrupted him.

  “Butch, I think something’s wrong with the boys,” she said, the worry in her voice palpable. “I just arrived at the bakery, but the boys are gone and so is Goldie.”

  “Any idea where they went? What about Moishe?”

  “He was upstairs taking a nap,” Marlene replied. “He thought Goldie was downstairs. The strangest thing is I think I saw them leaving; Zak was driving.”

  “Zak was driving?” Karp repeated. “That’s crazy—he doesn’t even have a license.”

  “I know,” she said. “I didn’t get a good look until someone honked at me like maybe he was trying to get my attention. When I looked up, I was sure it was Zak, and maybe Giancarlo in the passenger seat.”

  Karp felt his stomach tighten. This was another one of those moments before the storm. “What kind of vehicle?”

  “A van . . . a white van.”

  16

  FOR A MOMENT, KARP FELT as if someone had knocked the wind out of him. A white van. He knew who his sons were with and that they were in mortal danger. Forsling had stepped over that moral line most humans come by naturally that prevents them from taking another’s life. The next time it would be easier for him.

  A feeling of helplessness washed over him. Once again the necessity of doing his job was affecting the lives of his family. But then the internal focus that he always relied on in times of duress, whether in court or dealing with this sort of threat, took over, and his mind grew clear and voice remained calm. “Where are you now?” he asked his wife.

  “Driving north on Third with Moishe. I saw them turn this direction,” Marlene said. “Butch, what’s going on? Moishe found Goldie’s wedding ring on the cash register, and he says she hasn’t taken it off in seventy years. He thinks she was letting him know they’re in trouble. Does this have something to do with Forsling?”

  “I’m afraid so,” Karp replied. “Stay after him. I’m going to get Clay to send squad cars to the area; a couple were already en route to Il Buon Pane and should be close. Did this van have writing on the side?”

  “Yeah, it was some sort of father-and-sons company van, but the sign was faded so it might not be anymore,” Marlene replied. She was quiet for a moment. “How bad is it?”

  Karp thought for a moment about how to answer her. He could tell that she was struggling with her fears. But that was how Marlene operated in an emergency—on adrenaline and emotion—and it worked for her. She’d faced plenty of tough, life-threatening situations and had always come out on top. She was not the sort to panic or make a mistake because of stress. Still, this wasn’t just dealing with some lunatic with a gun; this lunatic had just killed two people, abducted her sons, and sworn he’d get revenge on Karp. And yet in the final analysis, there would be no fooling her regarding the situation; she’d hear it in his voice.

  “Forsling is the chief suspect in a double homicide at a bar in Hell’s Kitchen,” he said. “Apparently, he shot three of his associates—wounding one of them—before driving to the bakery in that van.”

  There was another moment of silence while Marlene digested the information. “Okay. We know what we’re dealing with.”

  “Marlene, I’m not going to try to sugarcoat this,” he said. “Find our sons. Do what you have to do.”

  “I will.”

  “I’m going to let you go so I can reach Fulton and get my guys alerted to find the boys and Goldie.”

  “Yeah, that would be good . . . Butch, I love you.”

  “I love
you, too.”

  Karp hung up and poked his head back into the conference room. “I’m sorry but we’re going to have to resume this later,” he said. “We have an emergency situation I have to deal with. If you’d like to come back to my office and wait with Alejandro, you’re welcome to, or you’re free to go.”

  Without waiting for Gallo’s reply, Karp turned and went back to his office. Alejandro was standing near the bookshelf, looking at some of the titles, and turned toward him as he walked in. But Karp held up his hand. “Sorry, need to make a call,” he said, and pressed a button on the intercom. “Clay, I need you here now.”

  “On my way. What’s up, boss?”

  “Forsling has Zak, Giancarlo, and Goldie Sobelman,” Karp replied. “Marlene saw the white van from the shooting leaving the bakery and heading north on Third Avenue. She thinks Zak was driving and Giancarlo may have been in the front passenger seat. That would mean Forsling’s in back telling them what to do. Marlene’s in pursuit but she’s at least a few minutes behind them and doesn’t know where they’re going.”

  “I might have an idea about that,” Fulton said. “I just got off the phone with Guma. He rode to the hospital with the shooting victim, who told him that Forsling has some sort of job as a night watchman at a tenement renovation project over on the East Side.”

  “He have an address?”

  “No, but apparently walking distance from where he lived with his mother. The builder ran out of money so it’s just fenced off and he throws Forsling some cash to check on it so that nobody steals the wiring. Otherwise it’s an abandoned building, and my guess is it’s a good place for us to look. I’ll get some patrol cars moving in that direction.”

  “Okay, thanks, Clay. I’m going to pass that along to Marlene. Get our team ready and I’ll see you in my office asap.”

  “I’ll be there soon as I get off the phone,” Fulton said, then hesitated. “We’ll find them, Butch.”

  Karp heard the empathy and concern in his friend’s voice. Fulton had known the boys since birth and had treated them like sons ever since. “There is no other option,” he said, and hung up just as Micah entered the room. He waved the young man to a seat over where Garcia was standing with a look of concern.