Justice Denied (41 page)

“Not cops,” said Marlene carefully. “Not as such. But there's backup, and more than three guys with machine guns.”

“Kerbussyan! You tipped the Armenians this was going down. But that means …”

She sipped from her mug and waited.

“You're going to give the thing to Kerbussyan?”

“What thing is that, Butchie?” asked Marlene, giving him a hooded look, of just the kind that some ancestress of hers might have produced in the aftermath of an affair of poisoned daggers at the Palermo court of Robert the Devil.

Kerbussyan arrived ten minutes later in the company of two silent, mustached men, the same ones Karp had seen at the house above the Hudson many months ago. They wore field jackets, though it was a warm night. They clanked with weapons.

The old man embraced Marlene warmly and kissed her hand.

“My dear, I have no words—”

“No problem, Mr. K,” said Marlene, “but before we get all excited, let's check what's in the box.”

Kebussyan's two shadows followed her back through the loft and returned bearing the crate. She gave one of them a short wrecking bar, and he took the top off the crate. Inside, in a nest of straw, was a package wrapped in padded cotton, secured with rigger's tape. One of the shadows drew it out and placed it on the dining room table. It was about the size and shape of a loveseat cushion, but obviously very heavy. The man grunted with the effort.

Kerbussyan approached the thing and studied it, as if he could see through the wrappings, through the centuries. He was pale and white around the nostrils. Marlene handed him scissors. Carefully and slowly he cut the tape and unwrapped layer after layer of gray padding.

Gold glinted as the last of the wrapping fell away.

“It is. It
is
!” cried the old man.

The cloth was swept aside and it stood there, a golden block the size of an atlas and as thick as an unabridged dictionary. On the closed doors of the reliquary triptych were embossed the figures of a man and a woman in Byzantine imperial regalia. They stood out, grave and holy, from a background studded with pearls and small diamonds.

“The emperor Zeno and the empress Ariadne,” breathed Kerbussyan. “The donors.” His fingers fumbled at the central catch, and then he threw open the doors of the reliquary.

Numen
flooded off it like water off a broaching whale, filling the room with emotional power, like light for the deeper feelings. The door on the left was inscribed with a gold and enamel-work martyrdom of St. Hrip'sime, and on the right was St. Gregory preaching to the Armenian nobles, assisted by angels. In the center, the golden face of the Illuminator stared out, terrible and marvelous, his eyes great sapphires, alive with blue flames.

The three Armenians fell to their knees and crossed themselves, and there was a chorused prayer in the ancient tongue. Marlene felt her own knees dip involuntarily, and her hand twitched to make the cross. Karp, the Jewish pagan, just watched, fascinated in spite of himself.

After some time, they shut the doors and wrapped up the soul of Armenia in its padding. Kerbussyan was nearly speechless with gratitude.

“Please,” he said, “what can I do for you? You must let me give you some—anything … anything I have.”

“Thank you, Mr. Kerbussyan, but I can't accept anything. It's just my job. We return stolen property, and the fact that it was stolen a long time ago doesn't enter. I'm glad you got it back.”

She walked them to the door. They were going to go to Centre Street to pick up Aram Tomasian. Marlene was thinking, naturally enough, about roots, about lost homelands, and a thought flashed into her mind.

“Ah, there is one small favor, if you could,” she said hesitantly.

“Ask.”

“You're in the real estate business. Do you know a guy named Morton Lepkowitz?”

“The name is familiar. What about him?”

Marlene explained their condo-conversion predicament.

“I'll take care of it,” he said.

“How?”

“My dear, don't worry about it. What you have done is worth a bracelet of buildings like this one. As long as there are Armenians you will never want for a home. That is the same as forever.” He gave her a flash of his shark's smile and left, flanked by his minions, bearing treasure.

Marlene walked back to the mattress. She felt lightheaded, wired, and exhausted at the same time. Karp was waiting for her there, propped up on pillows, his hands behind his head. “Well,” he said, “did you get your bribe?”

“It's not a bribe. I just asked him to see if he could convince Lepkowitz to go easy on us, and he said he'd do it.”

“I bet. Has it occurred to you what's going to happen when all this comes out at the trial?”

Marlene got into bed and looked at him. “Trial? Who, Djelal? He'll never go to trial. He'll plead to the top count.”

“What makes you so sure, Counselor?”

“Because if he doesn't, we'll deport his ass to Turkey, and they'll try him for stealing national treasures.”

“He won't get much for that.”

“It's a death sentence. How long do you think an ex-cop will last in a Turkish jail? A week? Especially the kind of cop Djelal was. And especially a Turkish jail. No, he'll do his twenty to life in Attica and be glad about it, and he'll give us Nassif too. What's the matter? You look like you swallowed a frog.”

Karp blew air out, puffing his cheeks. “The bad guys are punished, the good guy is out—why don't I feel right?”

She put an arm around his shoulder and drew him close. “Because,” she said, “you're basically honest, and you believe in the system, and I'm basically a crook, and I only believe in the system when it comes out the way I want. I believe in myself. How'd that Dylan line go? ‘To live outside the law you must be honest …' Whatever that means, that's Marlene.”

Karp said, as Bogart, “Don't be silly, you're taking the fall.”

Marlene laughed. “Yeah, I know. You notice that Bogie doesn't marry Mary Astor and live happily ever after in that one. One of these days you'll turn my ass in. Why
did
we get married anyway?”

Karp reached for her. “Because you knew that someday you're going to need a good lawyer.”

A Biography of Robert K. Tanenbaum

Robert K. Tanenbaum is the
New York Times
bestselling author of twenty-five legal thrillers and has an accomplished legal career of his own. Before his first book was published, Tanenbaum had already been the Bureau Chief of the Criminal Courts, had run the Homicide Bureau, and had been in charge of the training program for the legal staff for the New York County District Attorney's Office. He also served as Deputy Chief Counsel to the Congressional Committee investigations into the assassinations of President John F. Kennedy and Martin Luther King, Jr. In his professional career, Tanenbaum has never lost a felony case. His courtroom experiences bring his books to life, especially in his bestselling series featuring prosecutor Roger “Butch” Karp and his wife, Marlene Ciampi.

Tanenbaum was born and raised in Brooklyn, New York. He attended the University of California at Berkeley on a basketball scholarship, and remained at Cal, where he earned his law degree from the prestigious Boalt Hall School of Law. After graduating from Berkeley Law, Tanenbaum moved back to New York to work as an assistant district attorney under the legendary New York County DA Frank Hogan. Tanenbaum then served as Deputy Chief Counsel in charge of the Congressional investigations into the assassinations of President John F. Kennedy and Martin Luther King, Jr.

The blockbuster novel
Corruption of Blood
(1994), is a fictionalized account of his experience in Washington, D.C.

Tanenbaum returned to the West Coast and began to serve in public office. He was elected to the Beverly Hills City Council in 1986 and twice served as the mayor of Beverly Hills. It was during this time that Tanenbaum began his career as a novelist, drawing from the many fascinating stories of his time as a New York ADA. His successful debut novel,
No Lesser Plea
(1987), introduces Butch Karp, an assistant district attorney who is battling for justice, and Marlene Ciampi, his associate and love interest. Tanenbaum's subsequent twenty-two novels portrayed Karp and his crime fighting family and eclectic colleagues facing off against drug lords, corrupt politicians, international assassins, the mafia, and hard-core violent felons.

He has had published eight recent novels as part of the series, as well as two nonfiction titles:
The Piano Teacher
(1987), exploring his investigation and prosecution of a recidivist psychosexual killer, and
Badge of the Assassin
(1979), about his prosecution of cop killers, which was made into a movie starring James Woods as Tanenbaum.

Tanenbaum and his wife of forty-three years have three children. He currently resides in California where he has taught Advanced Criminal Procedure at the Boalt Hall School of Law and maintains a private law practice.

Tanenbaum as a toddler in the early 1940s. He was born and raised in Brooklyn, New York.

A five-year-old Tanenbaum in Brooklyn, near Ocean Parkway.

Tanenbaum's family in the early 1950s. From left to right: Bob; his mother, Ruth (a teacher and homemaker); his father, Julius (businessman and lawyer); and his older brother, Bill.

Tanenbaum's high school varsity basketball photo from the '59–'60 season. He played shooting guard, center, and forward, and earned an athletic scholarship to the University of California, Berkeley, where he continued to play.