Karp had been sympathetic about his loss. He reminded V.T. that it was their fathers who first gave two young assistant district attorneys of such disparate backgrounds something in common besides the law. One of Karp’s favorite stories was how he’d learned to love the law while sitting at his father’s knee in the living room of their Brooklyn house in the fifties. Butch’s father, Julius, had graduated from law school as one of the best and brightest of his class. But the realities of supporting a wife and family had steered him into the business world, where he’d become moderately successful. However, he’d never lost his passion for the law, and the family living room was the scene of Saturday night gatherings of some of the best legal minds in the five boroughs. Over glasses of whiskey and through a fog of cigar smoke, they’d debated the great cases of the day and argued questions of constitutional law as if they were preparing to go before the U.S. Supreme Court.
One of those who regularly attended the gatherings was Vincent Newbury, at least until his duties with the family firm had put an end to his participation. It had been V.T.’s father who years later pointed out the connection when Karp and Marlene visited the Cape Cod beach home with V.T. I wish I could have spent more time with those folks, like your dad, he’d said. But I was expected to spend my time at the family firm.
V.T. also suspected that part of his uncle’s warming trend was the lack of a Newbury heir to take over the firm. In the past, the annual invitation to join the firm had come from his father, as both a wistful idea to be closer to his boy and a private joke between them, knowing what V.T.’s answer would be: No thanks.
However, the sales pitch he got from his uncle over dinner at Harry Cipriani, one of New York’s most expensive and exclusive restaurants, following his father’s death had bordered on the pathetic. Dean began by lauding V.T.’s “noble efforts” on behalf of the public. However, he said, no one could hold it against a longtime public servant “who in the twilight of his career opted to ensure his own golden years by taking over the family business.” The comment had caught V.T. by surprise, as he didn’t really consider himself to be in the “twilight of his career.” Nor had he considered that with his father gone and his uncle going, he might be considered to be in line for “the throne.”
Sensing V.T.’s uneasiness, his uncle had quickly noted that nothing needed to be decided at that moment and that all he was asking was that his nephew keep an open mind. He’d then requested that V.T. drop by the office so that he could introduce him to “a dozen or so friends and associates…important people who could be of considerable help to a bright young man such as yourself.” As a show of good faith for the turnaround in their relationship, he’d agreed.
That’s why V.T. was now looking at a photograph of himself with his father on a deep-sea fishing adventure off of Nova Scotia some twenty years earlier. A voice behind him interrupted the memory. “This could be your office, you know—or if you wait just a bit longer, you could have mine, if you prefer that view.”
V.T. turned and saw his uncle. He felt a little guilty, as if his uncle had read his mind about the contrasting views and personalities. He held out a hand. “Good to see you, Uncle Dean.”
The old man’s hand was cold as ice but his face was the picture of bonhomie. “Welcome. Welcome,” he said, clapping V.T. on the back. “Thanks for coming. I think you’ll find this evening’s meeting very interesting.”
As usual, Dean Newbury was impeccably dressed, in a five-thousand-dollar Armani suit and what V.T. presumed to be hand-made calfskin shoes, which probably added another grand to the ensemble. He looked every bit the elder statesman; his hairline had receded until he was bald on top with a fringe of snow-white hair around the sides, but his Aqua Velva–blue eyes were as sharp and piercing as when V.T. had been a boy.
Dean took him by the elbow and ushered him across the hall into his own office. “I wanted a minute alone with you before we meet the others,” he explained.
V.T. looked around with interest. All the years he’d been going to the firm to see his father, he’d only been in his uncle’s office once, and all he remembered was the view. The room had none of the warmth of his father’s, either. The office had a kitchen, done in black granite and stainless steel, all of which looked like it had never been used.
There were the usual law office diplomas on the wall. A photograph of Dean standing on a podium with then president Richard Nixon—one arm around the president’s shoulders and both of them raising the V for victory sign. However, two sets of paintings on the walls seemed incongruous with the sterility of the rest of the decor. One set was a series of portraits in oil that he knew were the senior partners of Newbury, White & Newbury dating back to the early nineteenth century. The second set was three oil paintings of sailing ships that were hung on the wall opposite the portraits, along with what appeared to be a primitive old map depicting Great Britain, Ireland, and Scotland surrounding the Irish Sea.
“I didn’t know you were such an avid ocean lover,” V.T. said, pointing to the paintings.
Dean glanced at the paintings and grunted. “I’m not,” he said. “Matter of fact, anything smaller than a luxury liner like the QEII, and I’m seasick as a dog. I inherited those from your grandfather Newbury, who insisted, as had every head of this firm before him, that they hang in the office of the next in line to remind us that our paternal roots were in seafaring folks.”
Closing the door, Dean turned to his nephew. “I wanted to again ask you to keep an open mind about joining the firm,” he said, moving over toward his desk. “But I do want to warn you, joining the firm is not an automatic ascension to the head of the firm. The men you’re going to meet are my most trusted advisors, and I can trust them to be honest when they let me know what they think of you.”
“So this is a test?” V.T. said, wondering why that made him feel so irritated when he knew that this was going to be either a sales job or a job interview.
“I suppose, but it’s because they’re being protective of me and this firm. Many of our families have been close for a very long time, and we look out for one another,” Dean replied.
The little speech took V.T. aback a bit. He’d never heard that much emotion for the death of his own son or brother. Then again, maybe he does have it in him and just doesn’t know how to show it, he thought. “That’s a great sentiment,” he said.
“Sentiment?” Dean snorted. “Call it self-interest. Our affairs are closely linked, and they just want to make sure whoever is in this office holds up their end of the bargain. But in the end, I will make my own decision.”
Dean turned to gaze out the wall of windows facing south, like an ancient king surveying his kingdom. “I’m an old man, Vinson,” he said, using V.T.’s Christian name for perhaps the first time in his life. “And I guess that your father’s death has reminded me of my own impending mortality, so I am trying to get my affairs in order. As you know, you are my only heir…”
V.T. thought he detected a note of bitterness in the statement but kept his expression unchanged.
“…and it is my preference—the preference, really, of all the men you see on that wall,” he said, pointing to the portraits of his predecessors, “that this firm’s leadership be passed on to a Newbury. So I thought that, perhaps, we might spend more time together, get better acquainted. And…perhaps…you’ll come around to understanding that you have a legacy here that a great many people—more than you know—are counting on a Newbury to continue.”
V.T. smiled. “Thank you. I’d like the chance to get better acquainted. However, as I always told my father, I enjoy working at the District Attorney’s Office. Like I said before, I feel that I make a real difference there.”
For a moment, the smile faded from the old man’s face and it was a struggle to replace it. “Yes, yes, of course, and you certainly have put in your time with little enough reward, but maybe it’s time to hand the baton to the next generation so that they can champion the cause of an ungrateful pu
blic.”
V.T. started to protest the description but Dean held up a hand.
“Please, why argue? Has the public ever thanked you for taking on the dregs of society?” he said. “No, they elect politicians who coddle criminals and pass laws so that after all your hard work their new ‘friends’ can go right back on the streets murdering, robbing, stealing, raping. That has to be tough on you. Nonetheless, it’s your life. I just want to make the point that you can make a difference here, too. The law isn’t just about putting criminals in prison. We also protect the rights of all citizens, which I might add—though perhaps it isn’t politically correct—includes the rights of people who have worked hard for their success and have the right to enjoy the fruits of their labors and to pass those fruits on to their descendants if they so choose. These people create more than great wealth. They create jobs, pay wages, build an economy and a nation. And in the end, they pay a far greater percentage of their income in taxes than does, if you’ll excuse the term, ‘the average Joe,’ or for that matter, welfare mothers and gangsters who pay no taxes at all, build nothing, are simply anchors on the ship of society.”
V.T. understood the argument, at least the rational side of it.
He’d actually had it before with his father many years ago when he was a teenager and railing against “the establishment.” Expecting his father to take his side and not toe the company line, he’d been surprised and at first upset when his father actually defended the role of white-shoe law firms and their clients. By the time his father finished, V.T. had reluctantly conceded that the firm’s clientele had important, legitimate interests that required legal experts to protect. And, his father pointed out, he would have never been able to take on as many pro bono cases as he did if some wealthy real estate developer with a tax problem wasn’t footing the bill with his legal fees.
Like his father before him, V.T. had certainly enjoyed the benefits of having the best of anything money could buy. Education. Opportunity. Freedom to choose. He didn’t believe that money was the root of all evil, just—as the Bible actually said—the “love of money.” He didn’t love money as such, but he certainly enjoyed what it could buy—fine wines, frequent travels with first-class accommodations, and a nicer home than he could have afforded as just an assistant district attorney.
Yet, working for the DAO, he was acutely aware that money could buy a more equal protection for some than for others. Money paid for dream-team lawyers and armies of investigators; it greased palms and on occasion had been known to buy a public official, a witness, a juror, or even a judge. It was probably why he’d gravitated toward prosecuting white-collar crimes, to level the playing field.
V.T. didn’t like his uncle’s social-issues rant. But for the sake of familial cordiality, he just nodded and said, “I understand completely.”
Dean smiled broadly, pulled open the center drawer of his desk, and withdrew a small item. He held it out and V.T. saw that it was a ring. “As a token of a new relationship between us, I wanted to give you this,” he said. “It belonged to my son. That symbol has been a sort of family coat of arms for centuries.”
“A coat of arms? I thought the Newbury coat of arms has ducks and crosses or something on it,” V.T. said.
“Well, yes, perhaps coat of arms isn’t the right term,” Dean said, pressing the ring into V.T.’s hand. “More like a fraternity ring. A very old fraternity, and if you play your cards right, I’ll let you in on our deepest secrets someday.”
Holding the ring up, V.T. noted the three gold spirals joined at the center against a black background of onyx. “It’s beautiful,” V.T. said. “And it does look old. Is it Celtic?”
“Indeed. It’s called a tre cassyn. You’ll see that the men you’re about to meet also wear these, as do I. The symbol fits our motto: ‘Quocunque jeceris stabit.’”
“Wherever you will throw it, it stands,” V.T. interpreted. He saw his uncle’s surprised look and added, “One of the requirements in boarding schools when I was a boy was that we study Latin. I have to confess that I was one of those geeks who actually enjoyed the class.”
Dean laughed a bit too loud. “Well, good to see someone’s education didn’t go to waste. Anyway, it would make me proud if you’d accept it…if for no other reason than as a reminder of Quilliam.”
V.T. thought the comment about wasted educations in the con text of giving him Quilliam’s ring was a jab at both his son and anyone who wouldn’t jump at the chance of ending a legal career on the top floor of a Fifth Avenue skyscraper. But his uncle was already heading for the door. “Now let’s go meet the others. They’re not the sort who like to be kept waiting.”
Dean Newbury then pulled up short. “Oh, we also have another motto you may hear from time to time. It goes back to the first American Newburys. ‘What must be, will be.’ A bold statement, don’t you think?”
16
THE SAME STIFF BREEZE THAT HAD BUFFETED V. T. NEWBURY nearly half the length of Manhattan to the north caught up to Ariadne Stupenagel and Gilbert Murrow when they stepped out of the Whitehall Street subway station at the southern tip of the island where the Hudson and East rivers meet. “Maybe we should go home and call it a night,” Murrow suggested hopefully. “The doctors said you’re supposed to be taking it easy.”
“I can’t, sweetie,” Stupenagel responded as she pulled the sling supporting her cast around to cover her fingers better. “But really, you go. I don’t need an escort from here, and I promise to take a cab home when this is over.”
“No way,” Murrow replied. “Wherever you go, I go, too. Remember?”
“You’re sweet, pookums,” Stupenagel replied, and kissed him on the nose. “But haven’t you ever heard the saying ‘Fools rush in where angels fear to tread’? There’s no reason for two fools to be rushing around on a night like this.”
“Well, I’m a fool for love, so let’s quit gabbing and get this over with,” Murrow replied.
The pair made their way across the street to the entrance of the Staten Island Ferry. They paid the fare and boarded the ferry, which on a Sunday night was nearly deserted. Any other day or time, and there might have been a few hundred commuters with homes on the island or tourists aboard. In the past, the ferries had carried cars, but all that had changed on September 11, 2001. It was too easy to hide a bomb in a car or truck and so it had been closed to all but pedestrian traffic.
Stupenagel and Murrow were neither commuting nor sightseeing. Several hours earlier, while enjoying a quiet late Sunday afternoon snuggling in the Fifty-fifth Street loft, Stupenagel had received a call on her cell phone from a male whose accented voice she recognized as belonging to her Russian source, the employer of the late Gregory Karamazov. He wanted to know if she would meet with him.
How do I know this is legit? Stupenagel had asked. I’m getting a little sick of people trying to kill me.
The unexpected reply caused the caller to laugh bitterly. I don’t blame you, he’d said. This is a dangerous business. I believe that you told Gregory, who by the way was my dear friend, that you were there on a blind date and he replied that you’d come to the right place. But I wouldn’t blame you for having had enough. If you like, I can see if what I have to say would interest one of your competitors.
Ooooh, that’s low, Stupenagel had replied. Okay, when and where?
The caller had not invited Murrow, but she’d made the mistake of admitting where she was going. Only afterward had she stopped to ponder if the sudden inability to lie to him—she’d always prided herself on being a fabulous liar when necessary—was yet one more sign of the strength of their relationship. He’d insisted on going and no amount of arguing or promising could change his mind, so she’d given in.
Now, as the ferry pulled away from the pier, she was having second thoughts again. You have no right to put him in danger, she admonished herself. But she had to admit, she was glad he was there, standing with her on the exposed stern of the ferry.
All the other
passengers were inside, and Stupenagel was about to suggest that they go there, too—despite instructions to remain outside—and get out of the cold, when a tall, strongly built man suddenly appeared out of the shadows. She did a double take, for standing in front of her was a man who, except for the scars on his face and a patch over one eye, bore a marked resemblance to Butch Karp. She glanced at her boyfriend, but he gave no indication that he saw what she did. She shrugged it off as coincidence.
“It is very cold out here,” the tall man said.
Here we go again with the corny codes, Stupenagel thought. It might have been funny in a Get Smart television spoof way, except it brought back painful memories of the Black Sea Café and the people who’d died there.
“Not as cold as it gets in Siberia,” Stupenagel replied.
On the other side of the ferry, Nadya Malovo had worked her way close enough to hear the exchange and smiled. Nor as cold as the grave, Ivgeny my love, she thought, signaling her men to take up positions.
Her spy inside of the Karchovski crime family had called two hours earlier and told her about this meeting. The man had been trembling with fear when he spoke. He was well aware that the last traitor in the Karchovski family had died at the hands of Marlene Ciampi, during a failed attempt to kill father and son Karchovski. The best this traitor could expect if the Karchovskis got wise was a bullet. Or it might be much worse.
However, there was no telling what even a coward would do for the right enticements of sex and money. She’d had to provide both, even though the former had disgusted her. She much preferred sex with women, but it was a powerful tool to use with men. She’d known that since she was a young KGB agent assigned to a Red Army unit in Afghanistan commanded by then colonel Ivgeny Karchovski. He’d used her to relieve the stress of an unwinnable war as much as she’d used him to try to further her own ambitions. But that was more than twenty years ago, and a lot had changed since.
Malice Page 24