Fury kac-17

by Robert K. Tanenbaum

  "Oooh, you sound so clandestine and sexy," Stupenagel purred. "If I was there I might be tempted to forget this whole thing and let you have your way with me."

  "I'll take the rain check, sweetheart," he said, using his best Humphrey Bogart voice. "This is kind of fun." He was feeling quite bold and dashing. "Where are you, doll? I want to come pick you up."

  "That'll work, Agent Murrow," she replied. "Here, I'm going to let you talk to Jimy Murphy. He's my handsome young taxi driver; he'll give you directions."

  "What? How cute?" Murrow asked, trotting out the front door to the car. "Agent Murrow? Where in the hell did that come from?"

  "Just listen to Jimy for now, Agent Murrow, I'll explain the scenario when I see you," she said. "These lines are not secure. I repeat, these lines are not secure."

  After leaving Murrow, Stupenagel had jumped in the waiting taxi and shouted, "Follow that car."

  The teenage driver-whose taxi driver photograph hanging from the rearview mirror identified him as James D. Murphy-turned around and said, "Really? I've always wanted to have someone say that. 'Course, this won't be too hard as everybody around these parts knows Mr. Ewen. Heck, his nephew works as a mechanic down at the taxi barn. They're probably going to his house in The Landings."

  "Well, then, James," Stupenagel said, "this will be easy. Just hang back a little."

  "Jimy, just call me Jimy…with only one m…I used to use two m's but I wanted to do something different."

  "Well, then," Stupenagel said, "pleased to meet you Jimy with one m; it's good to be different."

  They drove in silence over the bridge and had almost reached Bolton Landing when Jimy cleared his throat. "Uh, I was just thinkin'," he said. "You're not a private detective or something, maybe working for his wife in New York City? I don't want to get him in trouble. He sometimes calls me for a ride, and he's a good tipper."

  Uh-oh, Stupenagel thought, kid's worried about losing his date money. Interesting about "Mrs. Ewen in New York City." The hotel clerk seemed to think that Mrs. Ewen lived at The Landings. She leaned forward conspiratorially. "Okay, Jimy, I'm going to have to trust you here. But actually, I'm working undercover to protect Mr. Ewen. As you know, he's an important man, the head of the police union, right?"

  "Yeah," he said cautiously.

  "Well, then, you can understand that he's the sort of high-profile target terrorists are looking for, right?"

  Jimy nodded and swallowed hard, his jutting Adam's apple bobbing rapidly.

  "So you know about his wife?" she asked.

  He started to turn around to answer but she stopped him.

  "Don't turn around; better that you can't identify me if the enemies of this country try to connect you to me. Now I need you to answer me truthfully, so that I know you're on the up-and-up. What do you know about his wife here in Bolton Landing?"

  "Well, not much…but everybody knows that Inge isn't the real Mrs. Ewen," he said, then got a sly smile on his face. "Not unless his kids-he's got two sons who come up here to fish sometimes-are older than their mother."

  "Yes," Stupenagel said, trying to keep the glee out of her voice. Curiouser and curiouser. "This Inge talks with a foreign accent, right?"

  Jimy looked at her in the rearview mirror as if she'd divulged a state secret. He nodded. "Yeah, I think she told me she's from Sweden."

  Stupenagel snorted. "Sweden? That's what she's telling people? I'm sure you recognized the accent, and it wasn't Swedish."

  "Sure," Jimy said, stealing another glance.

  "Any idiot would peg it for at least Russian."

  "She's Russian?"

  "Chechen."

  "A terrorist?"

  "We think so," Stupenagel said. "Let's just say we're watching her. Mr. Ewen's going along for the ride, if you get what I mean?" She looked in the mirror and winked.

  "Oh, yeah." Jimy grinned. "Nice work if you can get it. She's hot."

  "She may also be a killer known in agency circles as the Lioness."

  Jimy gulped audibly. "The Lioness?"

  "Yes, sort of like the Jackal, who I'm sure you've heard of."

  "Oh sure, I saw the movie."

  "Then Mr. Ewen, the agency, and I can count on your discretion until the moment we're ready to move? At some point, you'll be free to tell anyone you want about tonight. Might even be a book in it, who knows? But right now, we don't even want Mr. Ewen to know when we're watching and when we're not so that he doesn't accidentally give it away that we're watching her. I'm sorry, Jimy…"

  "Sorry? What for?"

  Stupenagel bowed her head to hide a smile and let her voice become choked up. "Sorry that I may have put your life in danger. These people we're watching don't play nice."

  The Adam's apple was working double time and the voice quavered, but Jimy managed to reply bravely, "That's okay. I was an Eagle Scout. I know how to keep a secret. And don't you worry about me. I've been taking tae kwon do with Master Kim Soo. I'll be a brown belt this summer."

  "I'm so relieved," Stupenagel said. God, are you milking this one, Ari, but where are you going to find an audience like this guy again. "You looked like someone who could take care of himself. I just…well, never mind."

  Jimy nodded. Some things are understood between a man and a woman. He maintained his silence manfully for the rest of the drive. On the wooded outskirts of Bolton Landing, he slowed the car down.

  Looking ahead, Stupenagel saw the headlights of Ewen's car as it turned and began to wind its way back toward the lake and a huge log house. "Pull over and turn the lights off, I want to make sure we're not followed," Stupenagel ordered.

  About the same time, her cell phone buzzed its special code for Murrow. "Hi, Honey Buns," she answered. She looked up and saw a quizzical look on Jimy's face. "Code name for Agent Murrow," she whispered.

  She covered the telephone and said to Jimy, "Our cover is that we're a married couple, so a little of the mushy stuff is necessary just in case someone's listening. If you saw Agent Murrow, you'd understand we're not exactly a match made in heaven." Jimy gave a small tilt of his head to indicate he understood and slumped down in his seat to keep watch on the house. She spoke into the telephone again, "That'll work, Agent Murrow. Here, I'm going to let you talk to Jimy Murphy. He's my handsome young taxi driver; he'll give you directions."

  She paused, then spoke again. "Just listen to Jimy for now, Agent Murrow, I'll explain the scenario when I see you. These lines are not secure. I repeat, these lines are not secure."

  Stupenagel passed her telephone forward. "Would you please tell Agent Murrow how to find us?"

  When Jimy finished giving instructions, he handed the telephone back without looking. "What next?"

  "I'm going to get out and stand guard until Agent Murrow can back me up," she said.

  "You want me to wait?" Jimy asked. He could tell she liked him, and despite the code names, he doubted two agents who worked together would also be shacking up.

  "Only until Agent Murrow arrives, so you can tell him the direction I went," she said. She saw the disappointed look and knew what it meant. "Please, don't try to follow me. I couldn't live with myself if something happened to you, Jimy. Murrow, well, he's not much to look at, but he's a trained assassin."

  Jimy nodded but said nothing. She heard him sniffle and wondered if he was crying.

  "There is one last thing you can do for me," she said. "But I can't order you to do this, it's too dangerous…"

  "No, please, ask."

  "After I get out, I need you to get somewhere public…like a bar or a restaurant, as far away as you can get, but you have to get there quickly-ten minutes max. And make sure you're seen by people and that they know the time."

  Jimy looked confused. "Why?"

  "Your alibi, silly," she said, getting out. She leaned in the window and gave Jimy a quick kiss on the cheek. "And thank you…for everything."

  There were definitely tears in his eyes now. "I'll never forget you," he croaked. "No mat
ter what happens to me."

  "Au revoir, mon ami," Stupenagel said, stepping back from the taxi.

  "Goo…good-bye. But wait…I don't even know your name."

  "Lauren," she said. Sheesh, straight out of Casablanca. "Now wait until Agent Murrow arrives, point him in the right direction, then drive like the wind. But keep your lights off until you're out of sight of the house."

  Stupenagel ran across the street, hopped the rail fence, and, sticking to the tree line on the outside of the property, made her way to the back of the house. She ran the last few yards from the trees until she was standing in the shadows beneath a back deck that overlooked the lake. Nice pad, she thought, looking out at the dock in the backyard to which a brand-new thirty-five-foot sailboat was tied. Cool million at least. Not bad for a union boss; wonder what the rank and file would think.

  The deck lights came on, nearly giving Stupenagel, who thought she'd been discovered, a heart attack. But it was just Ewen, Lindahl, and Carney stepping out for a cigar.

  "Sorry to make you fellas light up out here but the little woman insists."

  "I sure wouldn't want to piss her off on a cold night," Carney said. "That's some little doxie you got stashed up here away from the missus."

  "Yeah, she ain't half bad." Ewen chuckled. "Met her on a flight to Stockholm. She was a stewardess…wouldn't have nothin' to do with my ugly mug until I started flashing hundreds. That's when there was a definite attitude adjustment and it's been 'Harry, hold your horses' ever since. Dumb as a stick and barely speaks the language but she likes the bump and grind as long as I keep the presents coming. Don't bother me. I got money, she's got what I want; it's a nice arrangement."

  The men puffed on their cigars for a minute, sending a blue cloud into the starry night. Carney again broke the silence. "Nice little fishing lodge."

  "I like it. I hear your place in the Keys ain't half bad either," Ewen replied.

  The two laughed and turned to Lindahl. "Hey, Sam, what are you doing with your share? Got yourself a little young thing stashed away in a 'fishing lodge'?"

  Lindahl ignored the chuckles. "I don't like this. I don't trust those two niggers or that Russian faggot. If somebody saw us all together we'd be dancing pretty damn quick to explain it."

  Ewen rolled his froggy eyes. "Nobody likes working with them three," he said. "But we're hundreds of miles away from the city. We needed to sit them down and make sure we're all on the same page with that fucker in the DA's office, Newbury, and his little Goody Two-shoe investigators poking their nose in old business where they don't belong. Then that bitch Marlene Ciampi calls you and that fat fuck Louis and says she's been 'retained' as a private investigator by Repass and Russell and wants to see the files. Couldn't you have told her 'thanks, but no thanks'?"

  "And what?" Lindahl said. "My clients went to her on their own and now say they want her to help with the case, and I'm supposed to say, 'No thanks. I have no intention of even looking like I'm trying to protect the city's interests'? If you think Newbury's breathing down our necks on some of this 'old business' now, just let him get wind of that. At least if she's working, ostensibly, for me, I'll know what she knows."

  "If she tells you," Carney said. "But I'm more worried about what she tells that fuckin' husband of hers. We don't want him taking an interest."

  "I'm not worried about him," Lindahl said. "His jurisdiction begins and ends on the island of Manhattan. This is a Brooklyn case as far as the assistant district attorneys go, and a city matter with the police department. He's not in the picture."

  Stupenagel couldn't hear the muffled replies as the men put out their cigars and moved inside. The lights went out but she waited to make sure anyone looking out the window wouldn't see her. She was ready to go when a large hand came down hard on her shoulder and turned her around. She found herself face-to-face with the big police detective who'd guarded the meeting room at the Sagamore.

  "Hey, you're the bitch from the hotel, what the fuck are you doing here?" he snarled.

  Obviously wasn't at the top of his class at the academy, Stupenagel thought. She smiled sweetly. "I was driving by when my car ran out of gas. I saw the light was on and came to ask for help. But I can go ask someone else if this is a bad time." She tried to walk past the cop but he grabbed her by the arm. "Yeah, well I think you need to come in and talk to the boss."

  "Hey, asshole," said a voice behind him.

  The cop whirled and got a face full of pepper spray. "Goddamn mother fucking gaaaaaah," the man bellowed and began groping inside his coat for his gun.

  Stupenagel saw her opportunity and kicked up as hard as she could between his legs. "Oh fuck," the cop groaned and passed out face-first in the snow.

  "Big baby," Stupenagel said. She looked up and saw her frightened boyfriend still holding the pepper spray. "Hey, you better put that away before you hurt someone, Honey Buns."

  Murrow dropped his arm. "You okay, Sugar Lips?"

  "Great, thanks to my hero, Agent Murrow."

  "Please, call me Bond…James Bond."

  The cop groaned and appeared to be coming to. Stupenagel leaned over and took his gun out of his coat. "Come on, Bob, Mrs. Ewen is going to love hearing about this place."

  They ran back along the tree line, where Stupenagel tossed the gun into the woods. Driving back to the hotel as fast as they could, they hurried to their room, packed their bags, and were back in the lobby in ten minutes. "We're going to check out now," Stupenagel told the sleepy clerk. "And I'd like to pay with cash. Would you please give me any credit card imprints you have. Sorry, a little paranoid about identity theft."

  "I understand," the clerk said. "It's a big problem these days."

  "Oh, and would you be a sweetie and get me the manager's business card," Stupenagel said. "I'd like to write and congratulate him on the service."

  When the clerk trotted to the back office to get the card, Stupenagel reached over the desk, flipped to the page in the hotel registry where they'd signed in, and tore the sheet out. The clerk returned but there was no one to give the business card to.

  A big sedan came barreling toward them as they crossed the bridge. "Duck," Murrow said, slapping his deerstalker onto his head. He looked away when the car bearing an angry New York police detective, as well as Ewen and Carney, passed.

  "Drive like the wind, baby," Stupenagel said, sitting back up.

  "What was that 'Mrs. Ewen is going to love this' comment?" Murrow asked.

  "Just something to throw them off our tail, maybe panic them a bit. I want them to think that we're private investigators working for the real Mrs. Ewen."

  "Wow, nice work," Murrow said with genuine admiration.

  "Experience, lover. I've been talking my way in and out of trouble for more years than I care to admit," she said.

  On the way back to Manhattan, they argued about what to do next. Murrow wanted to go to Karp with what they'd seen and heard.

  "Not yet, baby, not until I've had a chance to get to the bottom of this," Stupenagel pleaded. "I want to figure out how this all adds up. I mean, what do we really have? A bunch of people who normally wouldn't be caught within a mile of each other have a secret meeting. Ewen has a house he can't afford, but I'll bet you he's not stupid enough to have it in his name. Not to mention we just committed trespass and then aggravated assault on a New York City police detective."

  Stupenagel leaned over and nibbled on his ear. "Please, baby? Just a few days, then I promise we tell Butch everything."

  "Well, a few days, but that's it," Murrow agreed.

  "Cross my heart, hope to die. Oh my! Look what I found."

  "Stop it. I'm driving."

  "That's okay, baby, just don't take your hands off the wheel or your eyes off the road."

  17

  Monday, December 20

  Karp walked into the morning meeting like a man crossing an open meadow during a lightning storm. There was something in the air that made his hair stand on end and his skin crawl wa
iting for a bolt out of the blue.

  The apprehension began at the premeeting conference when he noticed that Murrow seemed more than a little preoccupied. "What's up, Gilbert?" he'd asked after the others left, and Murrow hesitated at the door as if he intended to say something. But he just mumbled, "Nothing," and wandered off.

  The premonition increased as Karp entered the meeting room. Harry Kipman, who'd begged off the earlier conference, looked up, said, "Good morning," and went back to reading his book on Ulysses Grant.

  At the other end of the table, Rachel Rachman hunched over her files like a junkyard dog guarding its supper and rapidly drummed the fingers of both hands on the table. She was staring at Kipman and it was not a friendly look.

  The other bureau chiefs and assistant DAs seemed subdued, as if they were reluctant to be the one to set off the spark. Well, let's get this over with, he thought as he took his seat, then nodded to Murrow, who mumbled, "Harry, you're up."

  Kipman closed his book with a definitive snap and opened the file in front of him. "In the case of People v. Salaam and Mohammed, I'm afraid I have to concur with the appellate court that this conviction was wrongfully obtained. We withheld exculpatory evidence that the complainant knew one of the defendants, whom she claimed, both to the investigating officers and, even more damning, under oath on the witness stand, she did not know. In fact, she had sexual relations with this defendant several days prior to the incident from which the charges arose."

  "Nonsense," Rachman hissed, half rising. "The shield laws were created to protect sexual assault victims from defense attorneys-and I guess some prosecutors-making an issue of their past sexual history when the ONLY issue is one of consent."

  "Rachel, please," Karp said calmly but firmly. Rachman didn't look at him and continued to glare at Kipman but she shut up.

  "The rape shield laws, which I fully support, were created for cases in which a perpetrator sexually assaults a stranger-say someone abducted off the street-and it's clear a crime was committed," Kipman said, his voice level but tight. "In those instances, the past sexual history of the victim is irrelevant. However, at the time of the creation of the shield laws, little attention was being paid to date or acquaintance rape. These are often he said/she said cases-difficult to prosecute, as we all know, in part because there is a legitimate question as to whether a crime was even committed. In these instances, a complainant's sexual history, especially if it is a history involving the accused, is certainly relevant for both this office to consider when deciding whether to prosecute and the defense to argue before a judge in pretrial motions."