“Why not have the photographer make you another?” Stupenagel asked.
Gregory’s eyes grew hard, but he waited for the couple to get up and leave before he spat out, “He was murdered. Unfortunately, he was also old-fashioned and used thirty-five-millimeter film instead of digital. He made this and faxed it to my employer. It is not very good quality. He was supposed to send the film, but someone burned his darkroom down with him in it, and the film went with him. So this is all we have, but will be enough, no?”
“Maybe,” Stupenagel said. “But now you’ve got me all excited, and I need to take a whiz before I pee my pants. So just hold that thought, and envelope, for a moment.”
Gregory gave her an amused look. “I have nowhere else to go,” he said, and smiled.
Stupenagel tottered rapidly to the far back of the restaurant for the bathroom, her mind whirling with the possibilities. First, a Russian spy implicated in the plot to kill the Pope, and now, in a few moments, she would see the face of Jamys Kellagh, the man behind the curtain. Pulitzer, here I come.
Out in the restaurant, Gregory sat back in his chair. As clandestine meetings went, this one had been rather enjoyable. The woman was pleasant to look at, with large breasts and a good sense of humor. Plus, she could drink like a man. Perhaps his boss would find other reasons for him to meet this woman.
Only then did he notice that the couple who’d been sitting near them had left their suitcase behind. He’d been trying to think why the woman had seemed familiar. She’d obviously dyed her blond hair brunette and the glasses seemed phony. Suddenly, though he’d never seen anything but grainy photographs of her, he knew who she was.
“Nadya!” he yelled, and started to rise from his chair just as the suitcase bomb exploded.
It blew the windows out with such force that an old woman standing in front of the restaurant died of a million little cuts that sliced through veins and arteries and bled her dry in seconds. Thousands of ball bearings shredded the two young families and the two friends who’d been drinking together, as well as a reputed Russian gangster named Gregory Karamazov. The simultaneous flash fire from a canister of high-octane jet fuel that took up half the suitcase immediately torched the interior of the café, incinerating anything that would burn, including the envelope and photograph that Karamazov was holding in his hand.
The walls crumbled and then the world was absolutely still for just a split second. The second passed and the vacuum was filled with screams and shouts and the sound of sirens in the distance.
11
ABOUT THE SAME TIME THAT ARIADNE STUPENAGEL WAS downing her first vareniki and shot of vodka at the Black Sea Café, Butch Karp opened the door of the loft a second time for Mikey O’Toole and Richie Meyers. “Welcome back,” he said to his visitors. “How was your day?”
“Great,” O’Toole exclaimed. “We took the boat to see the Statue of Liberty and then over to Ellis Island to check out the immigration museum, which was impressive. We even located the ship’s manifest with my great-grandfather’s name on it—Seamus O’Toole, steerage class, arrived in 1890 from Liverpool, just eighteen years old and with not much more than the clothes he was wearing. It was really something to stand in the same hall where he waited to hear if he was going to be allowed in or get sent back to Ireland. Must have been nerve-racking. I remember my grandfather talking about Seamus and how there was nothing but poverty, famine, and hopelessness for him back in Ireland. Gives you a real appreciation for the courage it took to leave everything and take a chance on a new beginning.”
“I know what you mean,” Karp replied. “Marlene’s parents were from Sicily and waited in those same pews. So did my grandfather—a Jew from Poland, escaping the tsar’s Cossacks. Imagine leaving that for someplace that promised everyone equal protection under the law and opportunity limited only by your willingness to work for it.”
“Which I guess is part of why we’re here,” Meyers pointed out. “So did you have a good day with your boys?”
“It’s always a good day if I’m with my boys,” Karp said with a smile. “Busy, though.”
Actually, it had been busier than he’d expected or hoped. First, there was basketball practice with the twins. As usual, Zak was the star of the team, but Giancarlo was no slouch, with a deft touch for outside shots. It was the only sport where he enjoyed some measure of success when compared to his brother, so at least the good-natured sniping was two-sided.
Then it was on to the bar mitzvah class Karp taught as part of a series presented to the synagogue’s youth by Jewish community leaders. Given a free hand by the rabbi, his classes tended to emphasize the impact of events in Jewish history on the American judicial system, or centered on topical moral discussions.
Many of his lessons had raised eyebrows among some of the other parents. And that day’s lesson was certain to do it again, as he’d asked the class to consider whether Jews were “culpable in the murder of Jesus of Nazareth.”
The question had caused his students to gasp. Then Sarah, who was studying for her bat mitzvah, angrily denounced the allegation. “Christians have used that as an excuse for centuries to murder Jews,” she said.
“Exactly why it’s important for Jews to examine the allegation and, if warranted, be prepared to debunk its credibility,” Karp said.
“But it was the Romans who crucified him,” replied Sarah, a plump, precocious teenager whose already well-developed bosoms were the object of great curiosity to her male classmates, much to her disdain.
“But only after Jewish community leaders accused him essentially of sedition against the Roman Empire, of which they were a part,” Karp pointed out. “Then when Pontius Pilate said he could not ascertain that a crime had been committed by Rabbi Jesus, those same leaders continued to press for his punishment. And when Pontius Pilate gave them the choice of executing a known murderer—for whom there was factual guilt and legally admissible evidence that led to his conviction—or Jesus, they chose Jesus. So would that make them guilty of conspiracy to commit murder?”
“They were afraid that he might cause trouble for them with Rome,” Ben, a thin, bookish scholar noted.
“I thought it was because he was a threat to their leadership in the community,” Karp replied. “However, even if we go with your theory, is it okay then to let fear of what might happen dictate how the law is applied? Was that a valid reason, and legally supportable, to conspire with the Romans to murder an innocent man?”
The class had broken down into noisy debate, which Karp was quite sure would be repeated at some of their homes. Especially when their homework assignment was to research the trial and execution of “the Jewish rabbi, Jesus of Nazareth” and then choose whether to prosecute or defend the Jewish leadership for conspiracy to commit murder.
“Why?” Sarah, who came from a very conservative household, demanded to know. “What does this have to do with us becoming adults?”
“Well, I was asked to teach this class as a so-called role model in the Jewish community,” Karp answered. “And as you know, my job is to determine whether to prosecute people accused of crimes based on whether they are factually guilty and there is sufficient, legally admissible evidence that is likely to result in a conviction. If it was to happen today, the allegations, trial, and death penalty given to Rabbi Jesus of Nazareth would make an excellent case study with important implications for the American legal system. And as you’ve pointed out, it has had enormous historical implications for Jews.”
“Good one, Dad,” Zak said later as they left class. “Hope you’re ready for a bunch of angry telephone calls.”
Karp shrugged. “Why should the weekends be any different than during the week.”
“Well, I think it’s an interesting question,” Giancarlo said.
“You would,” Zak said with an exaggerated rolling of the eyes. “Then again, you think opera is interesting.”
The boys were still squabbling when they got back to the loft, where Karp sent the
m off to their room, hoping to relax for a couple of hours, reading on the couch, before O’Toole and Meyers returned from sightseeing. He’d just settled in with John Keegan’s book Intelligence in War when the telephone rang.
“Got a minute?” Newbury asked.
“For you, yes,” Karp replied.
“I won’t keep you long,” the head of his white-collar crimes bureau said. “I just need your opinion. It has to do with the ‘No Prosecution’ files.”
Newbury and his gang had been investigating hundreds of “lost” files found in the District Attorney’s Office and stamped “No Prosecution.” They’d come to light during the initial investigation that brought down Andrew Kane, when he was still just a wealthy attorney, investment banker, and mayoral candidate, and exposed his plans to corrupt and compromise the New York City Police Department, as well as the Catholic Archdiocese, for his own ends.
The files were criminal complaints brought against police officers and members of the clergy. They had been originally sent to Kane’s law firm by the city attorney, aka Corporation Counsel, to review and make recommendations on how to make them go away. In most instances, Kane had recommended that the cases be settled (earning large sums of money for Kane). Then, if it suited his purpose, Kane would also recommend against prosecution for the accused. It was something he could use to manipulate the accused as well as the city, the NYPD, and the archdiocese.
Since the “No Prosecution” files had been given to Newbury’s Gang, as his cadre of assistant district attorneys and investigators were called, dozens of cases had been reopened and the accused indicted, as should have happened the first time around. Dozens more indictments were expected.
In the course of the investigation, Newbury had learned that Kane had spread the wealth to a few other large law firms. “Whether it was because they were part of what was going on, or he simply couldn’t keep up, we don’t know yet,” Newbury said. However, he’d just learned that his family’s firm, run by his uncle, Dean Newbury, had been assigned to a number of cases in which white police officers had been accused of racially motivated crimes in their precincts.
“All the cases were settled and no charges were brought against the accused officers,” he said. “However, so far there doesn’t seem to have been any irregularities, though some warrant further investigation. Maybe Kane kept the worst offenders for himself—to use as leverage—and shuffled the rest to other firms so as not to raise hackles. Be that as it may, I’ve assigned one of the other assistant district attorneys, Galen Benson, to handle the investigation of my uncle’s involvement. But if you’d like me to step down and move to another bureau, I’ll understand.”
“Why would I want to do that?” Karp asked, though he knew why Newbury had made the offer.
Vinson Talcott Newbury came from Old New York Money. His family could trace its roots back to the Mayflower on his mother’s side and the middle 1700s on his father’s. (Though we seem to know little enough about the paternal DNA before that, he’d once told Karp with a laugh. I suspect they were black sheep, and it’s been kept in the closet.) Whatever their beginnings, the Newbury side had established themselves as one of the premier white-shoe law firms in Manhattan; their clients included some of the wealthiest, most powerful men and corporations in the country. And V.T. had dutifully followed the predestined course set for him from boarding school to Yale and then Harvard Law. However, he’d then caused something of a minor scandal after law school by going to work for the New York DAO. Years later, they were still looking down their noses because instead of accepting a lucrative position in the family firm, he’d stuck with the blue-collar work of prosecuting Manhattan’s criminals.
Extraordinarily handsome with long, blond hair combed back from an increasingly sharp widow’s peak, but only about five foot seven, he could also be somewhat sardonic. But Karp knew him as a loyal friend, a man of honor, and one of the best white-collar crimes prosecutors in the country.
Still, heritage meant something and Newbury was the “death before dishonor” type, which is why he’d made the offer to step down as the bureau chief. “Well, there’s the potential for the press to see it as a conflict of interest,” he replied to Karp’s question. “Don’t want to start off your new term with a messy scandal, you know.”
Karp had brushed it off. “I don’t run my office according to what the press may think. I have no doubt that if something comes up with your uncle that you need to bring to my attention, you’ll do so,” he said. “But to tell you the truth, it is my opinion that you could be trusted to prosecute yourself if you deserved it.”
Newbury cleared his throat and seemed to be having trouble speaking, which made Karp smile. He knew that such shows of faith were the sort of thing his friend treasured most. A true throw-back to a better time, he thought.
“Thanks, Butch,” Newbury said at last. “And I’ll keep you apprised. Oh, and by the way, that very same uncle called this morning. He wants me to drop by and meet some of his cronies. I’m sure it’s the annual push to get me to join the family practice. Only it’s a little more pushy this time since Dad died. I think Uncle Dean is feeling the years and there’s no other heir to the family throne. The old man’s laying it on thick, all sorts of hogwash about meeting people who could do me ‘a lot of good’ in the future, whatever that means.”
“Take him up on it,” Karp chided. “Lot of money in private practice.”
Newbury laughed. “No thanks,” he said. “I want to be able to sleep at nights after work. I’m not saying he or the firm are scoundrels or crooks. God knows my dad was a good and decent attorney who did plenty of pro bono work. But when your bread is buttered by wealthy, powerful men who think of themselves as being above the law, or at least the IRS, well, the world can be full of compromises. And I’m not the compromising sort.”
Karp knew that Newbury wasn’t the compromising sort and hadn’t wasted any more time worrying about his friend’s uncle. His more immediate concern was Lucy’s sudden reappearance in New York in the company of S. P. Jaxon. He’d liked and trusted the agent since their rookie years with the DAO. But Jaxon worked in a world filled with terrorists and death, and his daughter had already experienced more of both than any twenty-one-year-old should have had to.
When she arrived at the loft late that afternoon, Lucy had told her parents that she was just in town for a couple of days to help Jaxon with a “translation issue.” While she was usually willing to discuss her life in great detail, she’d been taciturn about the exact nature of this problem. However, she had dropped one bomb and that was that Jaxon was no longer working for the FBI. He’d apparently gone over to what the now former agent used to call “the dark side” of private industry.
“Why didn’t he tell me?” Karp asked Marlene later as he helped prepare dinner by chopping onions and peppers.
“Maybe because he knew how you’d react,” she replied, forming another pillow-shaped gnocchi, a type of pasta made from potato. “You lifer public servants have a way of sneering at those of us former public servants who get tired of bureaucracy and grub for money in the public sector. But I suspect it has more to do with the fact that you’re both busy, especially him.”
Marlene took a sip of a Piccini Chianti, which she claimed she’d opened early to use as a base for the sausage and peppers, as well as the marinara sauce. “You’ve been out of the office—or at least you better be or I’ll wring your neck and then Murrow’s. And Jaxon has apparently been tracking Lucy down in New Mexico and God knows what else. The fact that he’s doing something for himself and his family doesn’t make him a bad guy.”
Karp sighed. Marlene ought to know. She’d been one of the founders of a private security consulting firm for VIPs. It had made her a lot of money, but it had also pulled her into a violent world. All of which got more violent when she turned her day job into volunteer night work, protecting battered women from the men who loved to hit them.
“Still, a call would have been
polite,” Karp harrumphed. “Especially as he’s now flying my daughter about in black jets doing mysterious ‘translations’ for some private security firm. I don’t like this at all.”
Lucy had retired to her bedroom, where she was moping about, unable to reach her boyfriend, Ned. When Karp went back to give her a little fatherly advice about dealing with men by “giving them some space,” he’d come under attack for allowing strange men to sleep in her room and leave their suitcases “where I’m tripping all over them.” She’d then burst into tears.
Retreating in confusion, Karp had asked his wife what was the matter with his daughter. Lucy normally wasn’t the sort to cry over some boy.
“You wouldn’t understand,” Marlene replied, giving him the “men are such morons when it comes to women” look before heading off to console her daughter.
Marlene had returned to the kitchen after placing the suitcases in the twins’ bedroom; she announced they would be “camping” on the floor that night. After they arrived and heard about the new arrangement, O’Toole and Meyers had again volunteered to find a hotel, but she insisted that “unless you’re allergic to pubescent boys and the smell of dirty socks stuffed under beds,” they should spend the night in the boys’ room.
“It’s only a few days until Thanksgiving,” she said. “You’d probably have a hard time finding anything decent, if you can find anything at all, at least without paying next month’s salary.”
“I don’t have a salary next month,” O’Toole pointed out.
“All the more reason to stay with us,” Marlene replied, pouring two more glasses of Chianti and insisting that the men have a seat while she finished up preparations for dinner.
Two hours later, the adults pushed back from the table with satisfied groans coupled with compliments to the chef and praise for the second bottle of Chianti. The boys and Lucy had been more than happy to eat in their rooms “so that the adults could talk,” but the conversation had mostly avoided O’Toole’s legal issues until—after helping Marlene with the dishes—the men retired to the living room.
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