Malice kac-19

by Robert K. Tanenbaum

  At the same time, the men with Ellis who'd started to rush forward to help him were suddenly surrounded by other men with guns, shouting for them to drop their weapons. Karp turned to the bum behind him, who kept a Taser pointed at Ellis. "Cutting it a little close, weren't you, Espey?" he said.

  "You said to wait until he saw the photographs and admitted to the murders," Jaxon said with a smile. "I had him in my sights the whole time."

  Karp shook his head. That afternoon, when he met with Jaxon and explained the plan, the agent asked, "Why not me?"

  "What do you mean?"

  "Why don't you think I'm the traitor, Jamys Kellagh?" Jaxon said. "Lucy does. There are plenty of good reasons to think it could be."

  "And don't think I haven't considered them," Karp said with a smirk. "But there are a few better reasons why I know it wasn't you."

  "Such as?"

  "Well, let's start with Stupenagel's stories," Karp said. "I'll bet you're the anonymous government source who's been leaking her the information."

  "Damn straight."

  "Uh-huh," Karp said, then laughed. "It's probably something you don't even think about, but you've been saying 'Damn straight' ever since I've known you."

  "So?"

  "So Stupenagel is pretty good at quoting people verbatim," Karp said. "I noticed in three of her stories that the 'anonymous government source' kept ending his quotes by saying 'Damn straight.'"

  "Pretty flimsy," Jaxon pointed out.

  "On its own, maybe," Karp acknowledged. "But I also asked Clay to get me the tapes of the attempted assassination of Senator Tom McCullum from Channel Nine. They almost didn't let him have them, kept saying they wouldn't release anything that hadn't been shown on television, and even then only if they got subpoenaed. But Clay placed a call to the traffic division and started to tell them about all the illegally parked cars outside the station, and suddenly he had a tape."

  "Again, my question, so what?"

  "So Clay and I watched them a couple of dozen times, and we noticed something," Karp said. "When the shooting started, Ellis just stood to the side and watched McCullum, as if he expected him to get shot. But one 'former' FBI agent, named Espey Jaxon, jumped in front of the archbishop-the man he was supposed to protect-and it was one of your men who charged the gunman. Not exactly the behavior of co-conspirators."

  "Anything else?"

  Karp nodded. "Yeah. I think I'm a pretty good judge of character. I knew that murdering children was not part of who you were. Oh, and by the way, it was Lucy who suggested that we watch the tapes. She's a pretty good judge of character, too."

  It took a moment for Jaxon to respond to the last statement. He swallowed hard and said hoarsely, "I think I better call my 'niece' the next time I'm in New Mexico and take her out to lunch."

  Karp smiled. "If I'd had any other doubts, you just answered them."

  A groan escaped Ellis, who was gradually coming around. Jaxon nodded to his men who had patted the agent down and cuffed him. "Glad we could take this asshole alive. The federal government's going to try to claim jurisdiction, you know."

  "Been through that fight once recently," Karp said. "They'll have to wait for justice New York DAO style."

  Ellis was brought to his feet, still groggy from the fifty thousand watts of electricity that had coursed through his body from the Taser. He suddenly pitched forward as if stumbling and brought his hands to his mouth.

  "Grab him! He just ate something," Jaxon shouted to his men. He jumped behind Ellis and began giving him the Heimlich maneuver to dislodge whatever the man had swallowed. "Get an ambulance! Now!"

  "Don't bother," Ellis croaked. "Cyanide salts. I'll be dead before he can dial the number."

  Ellis crumpled to the ground, breathing deeply but rapidly. A convulsion shook him, followed by another. "Others will follow me," he whispered, his jaw clenched in pain. "They will not fail. Myr shegin dy ve, bee eh."

  Ellis vomited and was racked by more convulsions, then his body stiffened and went limp.

  Karp reached down and picked up the envelope with the photographs of the murdered children. Tomorrow, he would place it in the evidence file that would be boxed and sent to storage. But he knew he would never forget their faces.

  "I'm tired, Clay," he said as the big detective walked up. "I'm tired of all of this."

  Fulton nodded, then patted him on the shoulder. "Me, too, boss," he said. "But tomorrow's another day, and it's time to take you home. Your lady's waiting, and so is mine."

  Epilogue

  Bill Florence raised a glass of orange juice and brandy to those sitting with him around the table outside Kitchenette. "The blood of patriots and tyrants," the old newspaperman toasted.

  "To Vince Newbury and Cian Magee," Father Jim Sunderland added. "Let's not forget whose blood was spilled in the cause of liberty."

  The artist, Geoff Gilbert, took a drink and sighed. "I miss those days at Julius's house when we were all so young, and Vince was still part of our little fraternity." He turned his face to the morning sun on a beautiful, cloudless day in April.

  "We were fortunate that Vince remembered those days, and came to us when he began to suspect the true nature of the skeleton in his family closet," Judge Frank Plaut replied.

  "He remembered the old oath we took," said clothier Saul Silverstein. "We believed in what the Founding Fathers worked so hard to create and swore to protect it with our lives, fortunes, and sacred honor."

  "We were also young, full of whiskey and fresh out of law school or just going into business like you and Mr. Florence…or hanging out with the Beats, like our own Geoffrey Gilbert," Dennis Hall noted. "Hell, I didn't even have a year in yet with the U.S. Attorney General's Office, and I'm sure none of us had any idea that our little fraternal oath would end up getting us mixed up in something as big as this."

  "I don't know about that," Murray Epstein, the defense attorney pointed out. "Julius Karp was pretty worried about how the ordinary citizen reacts when demagogues like McCarthy dredge up bogeymen in order to secure more power for themselves and the government. I remember him, a little tipsy on the front porch, quoting from Orwell's book, 1984…the part about how the government, Big Brother, used the lie about a false war being waged to keep people in line and stop them from questioning what the government was doing."

  "Yes, I remember," Epstein went on. "He thought Ike was saying much the same thing when he warned about the military-industrial complex, an enemy within that could be more of a threat to the Constitution than the enemy without."

  "But Islamic extremism isn't a fictional enemy, nor politically compatible with a Big Brother conspiracy…though one has to wonder now that we've learned something of the Sons of Man," Sunderland pointed out.

  "Bullshit," Hall scoffed. "Islamic extremism is the much greater danger. It cannot be reasoned with. How do you reason with people who believe that God has told them what to do? In fact, God has given them orders to subjugate the world…they have to obey or go to hell. There's a war for our lives, not just our way of life, going on, and we have to be careful that we don't hamstring the government so much because we're inflexibile-which the Constitution was never meant to be-that we lose both our lives and way of life. We need to keep an eye on government-and beware of those who think like the Sons of Man-but not a foot. There are other books that were as foreboding as 1984…one of them was Mein Kampf. The current appeasers on the left, and the United Nations, could well place us in a position occupied by Neville Chamberlain just prior to World War Two. Now, there's the greater immediate danger."

  "Spoken like a true Fox Network propagandist," the defense attorney Epstein scoffed at his friend the prosecutor.

  "Oh, a fine thing to say for a CNN lackey," Hall shot back.

  "Would you two quit fighting for a moment and tell me why," said Gilbert, "if we know that Dean Newbury is part of this 'evil empire,' we don't tell the FBI or somebody like that?"

  "And what would we tell them? That the he
ad of one of the most prestigious law firms in the country-a law firm representing a lot of powerful people and that contributes huge amounts to political action committees and politicians-is really part of a criminal cartel that dreams of taking over the country?" Plaut asked. "We don't even know who else is involved; Vince was never able to get that information for us before they killed him. And the book is gone. I guess it's hindsight and we can blame it on senility and lack of experience at the spy game, but we should have made copies. Now we'll have to try to find another, though we'll have to be careful; they may be on the lookout for anyone asking for it after Cian Magee."

  Silverstein shrugged. "We wanted to get it into the right hands, but we didn't know who to turn to. Jon Ellis turned out to be Jamys Kellagh, at least according to our sources, but it could have just as easily been Jaxon. These Sons of Man-sons of bitches, I say-had, or maybe still have, the resources of the government at their disposal and are perfectly willing to kill. We're just a bunch of old farts who stumbled into something much bigger than we anticipated fifty years ago when we were all young idealists. We thought we'd write a few policy papers, protest unjust wars or support just ones, teach law at Columbia like our friend Judge Plaut, support those people and causes, whichever political party they belonged to, that supported the Constitution. Keep an eye out for guys like McCarthy. This group, the Sons of Man, could easily crush us if they knew who Vince gave the tape and book to and that we're onto them. We settled this question a long time ago, after Kennedy. Our role is to watch and work behind the scenes, helping guys like Jaxon do their jobs, while slowly growing a network of others like us."

  "Just as long as these others understand what it cost Vince Newbury and Cian Magee," Sunderland said.

  "Blood of patriots isn't just a slogan, Jim," Florence said. "But I agree with Dennis that we don't have enough to go to anybody yet. And who would we trust? The FBI? How about V. T. Newbury, the nephew of one of the leaders of this group and an assistant district attorney for New York? We hear he's getting closer to his uncle, especially after this latest bit of news."

  "I'd trust this guy," Sunderland said, nodding to the tall man who was approaching the cafe from the north. "Careful what you say…here comes Julius's boy."

  Smiles replaced the looks of concern as the Sons of Liberty Breakfast Club turned to greet Butch Karp. "Ah, our good DA has deigned to join us this morning," Florence said. "We understand that congratulations are in order. If Ms. Stupenagel's story about the goings-on in Idaho was accurate, it would appear that once again you've wielded the sword of justice very well indeed."

  Karp smiled at the poetic turn but held up a hand. "Other people had a lot more to do with it than I did," he said. "But Ms. Stupenagel's account was reasonably accurate, except where she made more of my role than it really was."

  "Such humility," Gilbert said. "But do tell us all about the notorious Basque terrorist who was killed."

  Karp wondered if it was his imagination or if the old men did lean a little closer to hear his answer. "I had even less to do with that," he replied. "You probably know more than I do from reading the newspapers." Or maybe not, he thought.

  "Phooey," the artist pouted. "I was hoping for something gloriously bloody… So maybe you could tell us instead about the death of that agent, what's-his-name, Jon Ellis?"

  Karp smiled and shook his head. "Still very hush-hush," he said, to Gilbert's visible disappointment.

  Officially, Jon Ellis had died in the line of duty. It was Jaxon who'd asked that the true story be kept under wraps for the time being. "If anybody asks," he'd said to Karp, "he was working with you and trying to meet up with a source tying the bombing of the Black Sea Cafe to the Russian mob. You arrived late, and he and his men had already been ambushed."

  "What about the men who were captured?" Karp asked.

  "They're going to be isolated and detained for aiding terrorism under the Patriot Act," Jaxon had said. "Seems sort of ironic. They wanted to make sure McCullum, or somebody like him, didn't water down the Patriot Act, and now they'll be held incommunicado because of it."

  At Kitchenette, Epstein changed the subject from Ellis. "So, Butch, we haven't seen you here much of late. Have we bored you already?"

  "Quite the contrary," Karp replied. "I miss the pancakes and the company, but it's back to the grindstone. Got the doctor's permission to return to the office, and I'm still catching up."

  "We saw in the paper that you're personally taking on the Campbell case?" Hall asked. "That's going to be a tough one. There's bound to be all sorts of wailing and gnashing of teeth over this 'postpartum blues' defense."

  "A terrible thing," Epstein said. "I have to admit that I have problems with prosecuting a woman who was obviously not in her right mind."

  "Of course you would," Hall responded. "But the legal threshold for being in her 'right mind' is whether she knew the difference between right and wrong when she murdered her children."

  "First, you'll have to prove that she murdered the children," Sunderland noted. "The cops still haven't found the bodies of those poor kids."

  "Any comment, Mr. District Attorney?" Plaut asked with a slight smile.

  "I'm afraid not," Karp replied. "I'll save my comments for the courtroom."

  "So do you have time for peach pancakes this morning?" Sunderland asked, pulling out the seat next to him for a place to sit.

  Karp glanced at his watch and shook his head. "I'm sorry," he said. "I wanted to drop by to get a midmorning walk in-the leg's better but still has a ways to go-and because I told Jim I would. But I'm sure you've heard the news about what happened to my associate V. T. Newbury two nights ago."

  "Yes, another terrible crime," Silverstein remarked. "Poor man, nearly beat to death by robbers from what I gather. How's he doing?"

  "Well, to be honest, beat to death is somewhat of an exaggeration. As he says, 'It looks worse than it is,' though it was bad enough," Karp replied. "He has a broken nose and a fractured cheekbone, plus a couple of broken ribs and a concussion. He'll be in the hospital for a few more days, but looks like he'll recover just fine."

  "Still, doesn't sound pleasant, but good to know he'll be okay," Sunderland said. "Give him our best wishes. I don't suppose he's Catholic and in need of a priest? I've discovered that I rather enjoy talking to attorneys with the DAO while they rehabilitate from their wounds."

  Karp laughed. "Not a Catholic. I think he's Protestant and not terribly religious at that. But I'll let him know you're available as an enjoyable companion… Anyway, I'll be on my way, but I hope we can catch up soon." Walking over to the curb, Karp lifted his hand to hail a cab to take him to Beth Israel hospital.

  "Oh, Mr. Karp," Judge Plaut shouted. "Did I ever tell you that we actually met a long time ago, when you were just a boy?"

  Surprised, Karp turned back. "I didn't know that, though I'll say that I've always thought you looked familiar."

  "Yes," the judge replied as a cab pulled to the curb. "It was at your parents' house. Some of us used to come over on Saturday nights to talk. You were the mouse listening next to your father's chair."

  A memory, distant and fond, came to Karp, who smiled and nodded as he got in the cab and rolled down the window. "I remember," he shouted as the cab pulled away.

  Karp smiled all the way to the hospital. Meanwhile, back on West Broadway, a group of old men sunned themselves, whistled at the pretty girls waltzing past on the sidewalk, and discussed the district attorney of New York City.

  About the same time that Karp was walking into the hospital lobby, Dean Newbury was attending to his nephew, who lay in the hospital bed looking somewhat like a beaten raccoon, with two black eyes, a splint on his nose, and a bandage around his head.

  "I can't believe those-excuse the expression and you know I don't usually use such vulgar language-niggers did this to you," Dean Newbury seethed. "If I wasn't so angry, I'd find great irony in the fact that a man who has devoted his entire life to putting this sort of trash
behind bars to protect the rest of us was so cruelly manhandled by inferiors who probably have a fifth-grade education and three or four children by as many mothers."

  V. T. Newbury reached out and grabbed his uncle's hand. "It's okay. I have to admit that I've been rethinking some of my beliefs since this happened. I was scared to death that they were going to kill me, and I hated them for it. I blamed it on their race, and hated them for that, too."

  Dean Newbury nodded grimly. "What's the saying? A Democrat is really just a Republican who hasn't been mugged yet." He laughed but saw the look on his nephew's face and quickly added, "Sorry, I didn't mean to make fun of what happened to you, my boy. I'm sure it was terribly frightening, and your reactions are most understandable."

  "Don't worry about it, Uncle Dean. I'd have laughed with you at that old saw, except it would hurt too much."

  Dean gave his nephew's hand a squeeze and dropped it. "So, perhaps this could be taken as a sign that you might be considering my offer to join the firm? I know it would have thrilled your father."

  At the mention of his dad, V.T. fingered the ring on his hand, looking down at the triskele. A few days before he was beaten, Lucy Karp had noticed the ring during a visit to the Karp family loft. "Where'd you get that?" she'd asked. She was smiling but there was something odd about her face, as if she was trying to control her mouth.

  "This?" V.T. replied. "It was my cousin's. He died in Vietnam. My uncle, his father, gave it to me recently. The emblem is sort of like a family coat of arms. Why?"

  Lucy shrugged and mumbled, "Nothing. Just, uh…just wondering." But he'd caught the look she shot her mother, who'd quickly changed the subject.

  A few days later, he'd gone to a park in Morningside Heights on the northwest end of Manhattan to meet with a source regarding one of the "No Prosecution" cases. But he'd been attacked in the park by two black men, who'd beaten him unconscious and taken his wallet and watch, but not the ring.