“Not as far as you might think,” said Newbury. He pulled a third sheet out and tugged it into position. “This is owned by the Viva Corporation. Where do they get these names? See what happens?”
The red zones on the third map covered up all but two tiny slivers in what was now a red quadrilateral about five acres in extent in the center of Long Island City.
“And who is this Viva?” Karp asked.
“Viva is a Long Island developer. Homes of distinction. It’s owned by a man named Salti, who must be a far-sighted businessman, since he is obviously not going to build $175,000 split-levels with car ports in the middle of Long Island City. I had somebody look into it. It seems that Mr. Salti, besides his business acumen, had the taste and good fortune to marry a perfect peach named Rose Maccaluso.”
“Don’t tell me …” said Karp, feigning astonishment.
“Yes, the sis; it’s all in the family,” said V.T., “except for the two properties you see here.”
Karp studied the map in silence for a moment. “Tell me, V.T., I can see the point in blocking up property like this. You want to do a big project and you don’t want anyone to know about it, so you use multiple purchasers or fronts … But why the arsons?”
“That’s easy. The places that got burned were mostly tenements. New York has the strongest tenant-protection laws in the country. It can take years to move people out legally. A fire does it overnight.”
“So what’s wrong with waiting years?”
“Nothing. Zeckendorf does it all the time. Except if, one, you’ve got to have the property ready for something that you know is going to need a home within a tight time frame, a parkway interchange, for example. A civic center. Or two, you’ve got notes due. You borrowed big and short to buy the land, and you’ve got to move it fast.”
“Uh-huh,” Karp nodded. “And that would go double if the folks you borrowed it from were not as friendly as the folks at Chase Manhattan.”
“I see a light in your eye, Roger,” said V.T.
“Yes, it’s the light of understanding. I just recalled something Bernie said, that the Hustlers have been wanting a new stadium. Wouldn’t it be convenient if when the city gets around to building it, a major site in Queens should suddenly become available for immediate occupancy. And not only the site itself, but a sufficient buffer zone around it so that there’s no pesky citizens to complain about the neighborhood or people being displaced. We’re talking serious money here, aren’t we?”
“Gravely serious,” said V.T. “I’d estimate, judging from what they paid for these properties, that if a sports and commercial complex was built there, the profits could easily run into the hundreds of millions.”
“Worth burning a few buildings for,” said Karp. “Worth killing a basketball player for.”
V.T. looked puzzled. “The buildings, yes. But Simmons? What’s his connection?”
Karp shrugged. “It’s not totally clear. But we know he was involved with Julia Mackey. Say he found out about the real estate scam. Say he was talking about it, maybe he flipped Mackey the bird. Mackey gets worried …”
“Mackey had him whacked?”
“I’m not saying that, although given that Simmons was schtupping the wife, he was probably not on Mackey’s All-American list. I’m more concerned with Mackey’s associates. He’s an old Scarfi alumnus. The two characters that apparently have been lighting buildings are from Philly, so maybe the connection is still live. If there’s Mob money in all this, and if Mackey happened to mention that some guy was close to queering the deal of the century, they’d take Simmons out in a New York minute.”
“It’s fancy, but it makes some sense,” V.T. replied.
“Yeah, and it ties up a lot of things. We have motive. We don’t have to worry about the drug angle anymore. That was a fluke. The sister was making a delivery and the stuff just happened to be in the glove of the Caddy. A stroke of luck for the bad guys. It gives them their excuse to fuck up the investigation, and it gives them their patsy, Doone.”
“But that doesn’t answer the question of why they’re bad guys in the first place. Queens D.A., I mean.”
“You went to Yale,” said Karp. “Give it a try.”
V.T. leaned back in his chair and simulated deep concentration. “Hmm, I’m going to go out on a limb and blame it on insensate greed. A handsome if slimy profit from blocking a likely site and selling it to the taxpayers. The cast of characters would have to include … let’s see, Dan Logan, the Queens borough president—we know he’s in it; D’Amalia, the Queens D.A. himself; the cops, maybe up to the level of borough commander. There’d have to be a majority on the Board of Estimate too, although that’s probably assured with normal procedure. They’ll logroll if Queens is backing something as important as a major stadium.
“OK, the problem is that while I am shocked—shocked!—at the possibility that New York’s civic leaders are prey to corruption, it’s hard for me to see these guys going along with a hit. Sure, they’re despicable slime balls, but they kill with a ballpoint.”
“I’m not saying the pols ordered the hit,” said Karp. “I’m not even saying Mackey ordered it. But once it happened they fell all over themselves covering it—the Watergate effect. Because, figure it out, a real investigation of Simmons’s murder would’ve uncovered the connection with Mackey’s wife, and probably the connection between Mackey and Chaney, not to mention that a serious canvass of people Marion talked with, plus using what they got on the sister to make her cooperate rather than cover up, would have spilled probably everything that the kid knew about the stadium deal. Not to mention a major search for the diary. And that leads back to the arsons, and arson homicide, and the end of the deal and the end of Mr. Mackey and all his political friends. It ties together. What d’you think?”
V.T. chewed on his lip and his pale blue eyes went blank. He hummed tunelessly for a moment and then expelled a gush of air and shook his head, as if to rattle his brain into more efficient action. He removed his gold-framed half glasses and said, “It’s not very elegant, Roger,” he said. “It doesn’t sing ‘Dixie.’ Whodunit is all well and good, but as you yourself have often said, whodunit is bullshit unless you can build a case out of it. What’s the case?”
“That’s what we’re going to work on now. For you, the first thing is to pull complete financial histories on the principals involved: Mackey, Logan, D’Amalia, and Chaney. We’re looking for loans or any unexplained big-money transfers. Let’s find out why they were in such a burning hurry.”
V.T. replaced his glasses and looked at Karp over their tops, his eyebrows rising and a smile creasing his lips. “So to speak,” he said. “But, excuse me, surely you don’t want me to violate the financial privacy of a group of prominent citizens, without charge or warrant, using my personal contacts. You couldn’t have meant that, could you?”
“Absolutely not,” said Karp. “Perish forbid!”
Karp’s next stop was Roland Hrcany’s office, which was identified by the large picture of Arnold Schwarzenegger taped to the glass window of its door. Karp rapped on Arnold’s pecs and entered.
Hrcany was at his desk, in shirtsleeves, doing slow curls with a thirty-pound dumbbell. Peter Schick was sitting in a side chair, looking grave, arranging a stack of papers on his lap.
“What’s up, guys?” said Karp, perching on the edge of the desk.
Hrcany set the barbell down on the floor with a clong, and worked his massive shoulders. “Well, this is quite a thing we got here, Butch. I found the cop, first of all. He remembers the stop, all right, but not the names. That’s understandable.
“But somebody got to the precinct files and pulled the blue sheets on the arrest. The log book’s been doctored too. You know how they white the whole entry out when they make mistakes? What they forgot was that the other guy, this Corky bozo, was arrested with him. Levar Williams, street name Corky, possession of stolen vehicle, et cetera. He was there, all right, but there’s a whited-out
entry just after the one for Williams, at the date and time we would expect for our arrest. For Doone, there’s nada.
“A lot of sidelong looks and not meeting of eyes up at the old three-oh. I talked to one of the detectives, guy I know, he said that an order came down from way high up to bury the arrest.”
“Did he say who, way up high?”
“No, and I didn’t press him on it; I don’t think he knows. This isn’t the first time this has happened, you know. Cops forget lots of stuff.”
“Yeah, they do, like when one of the cardinal’s or the mayor’s people get caught with their zippers open. This is a little different.”
“Yeah, it is,” said Hrcany. “But that’s the bad news. Peter’s got the good news.”
Karp had not spoken with or seen Peter Schick since that dreadful day when his goof on the Chelsea Ripper had revealed itself and Karp had thrown his own body on the resultant legal grenade.
“That’s good,” said Karp. “I’m ready for some good news.”
Schick cleared his throat nervously and consulted a notepad. “Um, the first place I checked was the calendar courts. We don’t have the docket number, so I had to go through all the cases for the morning in question. Just to make sure, I checked the ones for the next two days as well. Drew a blank.”
Karp nodded, impressed. Schick must have gone through over a thousand case files.
“So then I pulled the docket number for the Williams case. I figured it had to be pretty close in sequence. I pulled the ten numbers on either side of that. There’s a gap, a number missing: 7718732.”
“Good, but that’s not proof of malfeasance. The clerks void numbers all the time.”
“True,” said Schick, “but then I realized that if it was our guy’s docket number, I could use it to check the paying desk records. The guy paid a fine, right? So I check it out: another blank. They never heard of the docket number.”
“I thought this was good news,” said Karp impatiently.
“Yeah, I’m sorry,” said Schick, flushing. “Here it is. When I was at the paying desk, I remembered. The fine clerk generates a form that goes back to the Tombs, so they can clear their daybook: the guy’s paid his fine, or he’s posted bond, don’t expect him back at the cells.”
“They didn’t get that?” exclaimed Karp.
“No. I have it here.” Schick waved a form, Karp took it and studied it and gave it back. Schick continued, “But the best part is, although they stole the intake form they didn’t get to the daybook. The Tombs receipted for Doone by name, and then when he cleared, they recorded the missing docket number that’s right on the paying clerk form. So we have documentary proof not only that Doone was arrested and in custody when the murder happened, but that somebody actively suppressed a file.”
Karp smiled and said, “Very classy, Peter. Nice piece of work.”
Schick nearly writhed with pleasure. “Glad to help, Butch,” he said, and after a pause added, “It’s the responsibility of the D.A.’s office to keep track of everyone in custody.”
Karp laughed ruefully. “Indeed it is. And we can assume that whoever ran this scam was less familiar than he should have been with the various procedures by which this is done. Who do you like for it, Roland?”
“Oh, as to that, I don’t think we need to look further than our own Sheldon Ehrengard,” Hrcany replied with a savage grin. “Means and opportunity—no problem. He’s a bureau chief, the whole case file is within Criminal Courts, he controls the complaint room, he has open access to all the fourth-floor court files. As for motive, Fat Shelly does what he’s told. As a matter of fact, I’ve noticed a certain cat that ate the canary about Sheldon recently. He’s started to refer to the D.A. as ‘Sandy.’ I think they’ve grown closer.”
“Well, I’m sure we’re all very happy for them,” said Karp. “Bloom has to be involved, hey?”
“I’d bet on it,” said Hrcany decisively. “What’re you gonna do, Butch?”
“Do? Nothing, for now. Remember, I’m on vacation. But, Peter, get notarized copies of all that stuff for me, would you? And stash another set in the safest place you can think of, preferably out of the office.” Schick ran off on this errand. Karp paced the little office in silence for a minute or so and then said, “Tell me, what do you think happened to the original case file?”
Hrcany snorted. “Deep-six. They’d be fools to hold onto it. If anybody found it, it’d be disbarment for sure, maybe jail.”
“Yeah, right, but we’re talking about fools here. If I was Shelly and I had something that hot, involving really major players, I’d hang onto it. You know, V.T. said something really interesting just now. Something to the effect that when people think they’ve got the law wrapped up, they get real careless.”
“Yeah, the Watergate effect. Christ! You think he hung onto it?”
“We shall endeavor to find out,” said Karp blithely, and left.
He stopped by Guma’s office and was directed to one of the grand jury rooms. He found Guma in the tiny antechamber, waiting for the jury’s deliberations.
“Big case?”
“Yeah, sure,” said Guma, wrinkling his nose. “The usual garbage. We don’t have big cases anymore. Shelly doesn’t like big cases. What’s up?”
“Oh, just checking on things. Any luck with our Chevy-driving twins?”
“Nah, and I showed it to people who would know. There’s an old mustache who used to run with the Scarfi outfit down in Philly. He never saw them before. They’re not New York guys. I’m planning to put the pictures out on the wire to Chicago, Detroit, Boston—what’s wrong?”
“No, don’t do that, at least not yet. The less official this is, the better. We got bad guys among the good guys, and I don’t want to risk a wire photo being seen by the wrong people. And you know, when you said Chicago, the thought occurred to me. We got two classic out-of-town torpedos, who’re both wearing heavy tans and who think it’s cute to run somebody off the freeway. What does that suggest to you?”
“What do you mean? Oh, I get it. You’re thinking Miami, Phoenix, L.A.?”
“Yeah. You know people there?”
“If I don’t, I know people who know people. It’ll take a couple of days. And it … the people I’ll be dealing with ain’t that comfortable doing favors for the law. It might cost some chips.”
“Do it,” said Karp. “And use all the chips.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Karp walked out of the New York County Courthouse with a thick manila envelope under his arm and took the IND subway to the Queens County Courthouse. There he presented himself at Thelmann’s office.
Thelmann’s secretary brought out her most hostile expression and placed her hand on her telephone. She said, “Mr. Thelmann told me he doesn’t want to see you, and if you came by again I should call security.”
Karp placed his envelope on her desk. “I don’t really need to see him,” he said equably. “Just give him this.”
She snatched it and tossed it contemptuously into a plastic in basket. “I meant now,” Karp said, his voice hardening. “I’ll wait, if there’s a message. Oh, and tell him I have another copy that might be on its way to the Times.”
He stared her down, feeling faintly ashamed about playing the heavy with a secretary, until her gaze broke and she picked up the envelope and trotted down the hall to Thelmann’s private office. Karp settled himself in a vinyl-covered armchair and leafed through the sports section of Newsday. He didn’t have long to wait. Thelmann’s secretary emerged after less than five minutes, looking distraught. She said, “He’ll see you now.” Karp said, “Thank you,” and walked down the hallway.
The first thing Thelmann said when Karp walked in was “I had nothing to do with this. This was a New York thing.”
“You were misinformed, is that it?”
Thelmann attempted a manly glare, and then his eyes dropped. His typical pugnacity appeared to have deserted him. “What are you going to do?” he asked in a low voice.
“I’m not going to do anything, Jerry,” said Karp. “It’s not my problem. Of course, if Doone isn’t instantly released from jail, I’d feel obliged to turn this material over to his lawyer and the press, simply as a good citizen and an officer of the court. But I’m sure you’ll do the right thing.”
“Yes! OK, I’ll do it, all right?” snapped Thelmann. Karp smiled benignly, and Thelmann added, “How come you’re so interested in Doone? You got any idea what kind of shit we’re dealing with here?”
“I’m not interested in him at all,” said Karp. “But what fascinates me is why two prosecutorial offices should be organizing a frame-up to protect the real killers of Marion Simmons, including the suppression of police and court records. Would you care to fill me in on the background?”
“I told you, I didn’t know anything about it—”
“Yeah, you were misinformed,” Karp broke in, “but look here, Jerry: when you play dirty, you stay dirty. This isn’t going away, and when it’s over there’s liable to be a line of ex-lawyers sitting on the sidewalk out there with tin cups and cardboard signs. You could be one of them.”
“Don’t threaten me!”
“No threat, Jerry. Just a reasonable prediction from the facts at hand. So tell me, was Chaney involved from the beginning?”
He had to give Thelmann credit. He didn’t flinch. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Yes, you do. You hopped into Chaney’s car minutes after I spoke to you that first time, in the days of my innocence. Did you concoct the frame right then and there, or did you have to bring in the big players: Mackey? D’Amalia? Logan?”
Thelmann said nothing, but Karp could hear his breathing, rough and heavy, and he was white around the lips.
“Jerry, this is coming unglued,” Karp continued in the same pleasant tone. “The big boys are going to start searching for a fall guy, and it’s going to be the littlest fish in this dirty pond. I wonder who they’ll pick. Think about it, Jerry.”
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