No Lesser Plea (36 page)

The next morning, early, Dunbar went to Centre Street to let Karp know what he had found. Karp was in court. As he left Karp’s office, he ran into Marlene Ciampi in the hallway. As soon as he saw her, the bell finally rang.

“Hey, Champ. What does the name ‘Chingo Ray’ mean to you?”

“Chingo Ray? A.K.A. Charles Hargreaves, A.K.A. Charlie the Bomber. He’s the guy who got blown up in the townhouse. I’m prosecuting his buddies. Why do you ask?”

“Oh, nothing much. His name turned up in an address book I picked up on uptown. He’s waxed, you say?”

“A probable. We know he was at the townhouse the night it blew up. They recovered a male body—in smithereens—from the wreckage. It could be him. On the other hand, he’s a slippery bastard and smart as hell. It’s not beyond him to have set up the explosion and leave us with a plausible stiff, to cover his tracks. Also, the bomb that blew away that judge’s secretary. Very similar to letter bombs Charlie made in the past. So … tell me about this address book. Where did you get it?”

“Just stumbled over it, is all. Look, Champ. I gotta go detect. Catch you later.”

As he walked to his car, Dunbar thought hard. He had asked Barlow about Elvis. The call made right after he left Barlow must have been triggered by his questions. He didn’t think Barlow was calling out for a pizza; he was calling somebody in the book. Elvis’s name was not in the book, therefore he was calling somebody connected with Elvis. Thirty-two addresses to check out. He decided to start with the late Chingo Ray, resident, according to his little list, at 351 Avenue A.

Nobody answered his knock at the apartment on Avenue A. He slipped the lock and went in, pistol drawn. The place looked like a typical East Village crash—mattresses on the floor, a sleeping bag, filthy sheets, garbage bags full of rotting stuff, graffiti sprayed on the walls, political and head-shop posters. A cheap table and chair stood in the center of the main room. The apartment was deserted, but Dunbar was delighted to see evidence of hurried flight—drawers half open, clothes strewn around, a pot of coffee, and dirty dishes in the kitchen sink.

Dunbar put his gun away and checked out the main room. The floor around the table was covered with short snippings of bell wire in different colors. On the table itself were several large manila envelopes. These were stamped and postmarked from different cities— Berkeley, Chicago, Detroit. Oddly, they were not addressed. Dunbar poked around some more. By the stinking trash bags he found more wire, some thin springs and a crumpled package of peel-off labels. It looked like somebody was going through a lot of trouble to create envelopes that could be made to look like they were coming from different places. Dunbar felt a chill run through his body. It had just occurred to him why somebody might want to take such trouble. He grabbed the envelopes and ran out of the apartment without bothering to close the door.

It took him nearly an hour to drive up to Boynton Street, running lights, cutting people off, pounding his fist on the wheel, and cursing every vehicle in front of him. His most vehement curses were reserved for himself. With the wisdom of hindsight it was clear that, once Elvis’s dwelling had been located, someone should have watched it continually thereafter. Now, for some reason, Elvis had formed an association with terrorists. Who could have figured it? Stick-up artists don’t usually move in political circles. The more Dunbar thought about it, the crazier it became.

He screeched to a stop at 563 Boynton, flung himself out of the car, and raced up the stairs. At the Higgs apartment he yanked out his pistol and used it to pound on the door.

When Vera Higgs opened the door a crack, Dunbar threw his weight against it, knocking her to the floor. He stormed through the apartment, kicking through doors, tossing the bed, yanking out drawers. Nothing—no Elvis, no envelopes.

He returned to the living room. The TV was on and the child sat on the floor in front of it. Vera Higgs was just climbing to her feet.

“You knock me down. You din hafta.”

“Right, sorry, it was an accident. Look, Vera, where’s Preston? I’m not fooling now. I got to know where he is.”

Sulkily, she walked slowly to the ratty couch and sat down.

“He ain’t here.”

“Goddamn, I
know
that! Where is he?”

“I don know. He lef.”

“When? When did he leave?”

“Bout an hour, somethin’ like that.”

“Oh, Christ! Where to?”

“He din say. He never tell me.”

That figured. Dunbar pulled one of the manila envelopes out of his jacket pocket and held it up.

“Vera, did he have an envelope like this?”

“I don have to tell you no thin’. He say, you come back here, I don have to tell you nothin’.”

Dunbar gave a strangled cry. He went over to the little boy, picked him up, and put him on the couch next to his mother. Then he went over to the TV and pointed his pistol at “Lust for Life.” He cocked the hammer.

“Lady, you don’t tell me what I want to know, I’m gonna waste your TV. I swear it!” Dunbar shouted. The child began to blubber.

She got to her feet, her eyes widening in terror.

“No! Don! I got my programs comin’!”

Dunbar put up his gun and eased the hammer down. “OK, what about the envelope?”

“Yeah, he got one—it look the same, but it be real fat, thick like.”

“Was there an address on it? Can you remember the address?”

“No, but, like, Pres, he tol me to write one on it, on account of I got real good handwritin’. The teacher, she be sayin’ I could be a schoolteacher, I got such fine writin’. But I had to quit school, you know?”

“Right,” said Dunbar, moving closer to her and trying to control his voice. “Now, Vera, can you remember the name and address you wrote on the envelope?”

“I don know. I copy it down. He done have it writ out, you know?”

“Try, Vera.”

“It somethin’ like Carl, the las name. And some street like Senn, San, somethin like that. It start with a C.”

“Senn? Was it Centre Street, One hundred Centre Street?”

“Yeah, that it. I think.”

I’m so stupid, I should turn in my potsy and be a fucking doorman, thought Dunbar.

“Vera, baby, tell me. The name was Karp, Roger Karp, right?”

She smiled for the first time. “Yeah! Thas right! Karp.”

“Where’s your phone?”

“They cut it off,” she said. “Hey, I don be in no trouble jus for writin’? I din do nothin’.”

But Dunbar was already gone.

Marlene Ciampi was looking for an excuse to see Karp again, and make up. At the same time she despised herself for wanting to. I can’t believe it, she thought for the millionth time. I’m having an affair with a married man, who works where I work. It was so degrading—like the secretary screwing the boss, like a public convenience or one of his perquisites. Here’s your big office, Mr. Karp, your special couch, your walnut bookcases, your leather judge’s chair. Oh, yeah, you want some pussy? Ciampi, put down that case file and drop your pants.

Then again, she felt, she feared, she was truly in love. She could feel herself flush when he came near her. Her belly gave a jump even when she saw his name written. When she awakened in her own apartment, she felt empty, and it took all her self-restraint not to rush to the phone and call him.

And she couldn’t tell anyone about it. Most of her friends from high school were married and had settled suburban lives. They’d think she was a freak. Her family? Mama, I’m fucking this married man. No, he’s not Italian. He’s not Catholic, either. Instant coronary. Her professional friends? Out of the question. That’s all she needed, this story to get around the office.

She rubbed her face and tried to shake these thoughts out of her head. To work. Maybe he’d call. She turned to her brimming in-basket. Sorting through the papers, she noticed that they were still sending her Karp’s mail.

Karp was in his outer office talking with some of his staff when the call came through.

“Mister Karp, there’s a call for you—they say it’s extremely urgent,” said Helen Simms.

“OK, guys, back to work. The city never sleeps. It’s probably the laundry calling, they put in extra starch by mistake.”

The voice on the phone was scratchy and interrupted by bursts of static.

“Butch, it’s me, Sonny. Listen, I found Pres.”

“What, who? Speak up, Sonny, I can hardly hear you.”

“Pres. The third man. His name’s Preston Elvis, and he SKRRRCHHHH, the paper that Louis worked for.”

“You got him? Is he in custody?”

“No! Look, I’m on the Deegan, they patched me through over the radio. Butch, he’s got SKRCHHHWOOOOWRR in an envelope. He’s tied in with that guy, the terrorist. Butch, I think he’s heading for you SSSSCHHHRRWOWR already called the bomb squad, they should be there any minute. So don’t WOORRSCHH.”

“Jesus, Sonny, what the fuck are you talking about. What’s this about the bomb squad. I can’t hear shit on this line.”

“The third man, Butch. Louis set him up with a bomb. Don’t touch any CCCHHWWOOOOWRRCHH.”

“Any what? What?”

“Any mail! It’s a letter bomb. The bomb’s in a nine by twelve manila envelope, with an out-of-town postmark. You better get your office cleared out, too. Butch, are you there? Butch? Ah, shit!”

As soon as Dunbar said “letter bomb,” of course, Karp had thrown down the phone and leaped for the door. He ran to his secretary and told her not to touch any mail. Then, with mounting horror, it came to him that he had still not told the mailroom that he had moved his office. His heart was pounding in his throat as he ran out of the office and toward the stairs to the sixth floor.

Marlene had three pieces of Karp’s mail lined up on her desk. One was an American Express bill. One was a letter from the University of California Alumni Association. The third one was the item that held her interest, a thick manila envelope with a Berkeley postmark, addressed in a flowing, patently feminine hand.

Marlene turned the envelope over and inspected it. The flap was fastened, but not sealed. She had a cold feeling in the pit of her stomach. She wants him back, she thought. It’s a long letter explaining her affair with that woman and how she realized it wasn’t for her and how she’s going to come home to New York and make a great little home for him and have kids. Or maybe she’s sending back a bunch of letters he wrote to her, begging her to take him back, he’ll be her slave, he’ll move to California and sell insurance. Telling her he’s been screwing this little guinea in revenge but that’s all over, she’s the one and only. Or maybe it’s divorce papers.

“Oh, God!” said Marlene out loud, “I can’t stand this.”

She undid the clasp and pulled the flap up.

Now even in the midst of this emotional turmoil, there was a part of Marlene’s mind that remained cool and rational. It was trying to send messages through to Marlene Central, but the circuits were blocked by hormones and random emotional noise. This part of Marlene knew pretty well what she held in her hand. Marlene had, after all, seen pictures of such envelopes before. Perhaps if it had been postmarked Detroit all would have been well.

“Bomb!” said that part of Marlene, as Marlene’s hand came up on the flap. “Bomb!” it said again as Marlene felt the tiny tug of resistance and saw the fine wire glued to the flap. By then it was too late, for electrons were already flowing from the battery to the primer charge. Marlene knew what it was now, and sent an urgent message to her hand and arm to throw the thing away. Her hand came dutifully up, slowly, slowly, while her mind screamed in overdrive. The envelope left her hand, but now it was hardly an envelope any more, more like a hot flower. Marlene brought her arm up in front of her beautiful face as the fireball swallowed her.

Chapter 18

K
arp’s chest hurt. He had a broken heart. He was breathing mere pints of air, and his face ached with unshed tears. His stomach was empty and his mouth was still sour, because after he had entered the shattered office and seen the scorched and bloody thing that lay behind Marlene’s desk, he had vomited. After that, he had knelt by her side and tried to help, covering her with his jacket and mouthing meaningless words of reassurance, more for him than for her, since she was mercifully unconscious. The cops and the emergency team had arrived a few seconds later and gently moved him aside so they could tend to her.

Now he was waiting in a hallway in Bellevue, studying the cracks in the peeling green paint and trying to forget his last sight of her as they wheeled her past, the black and red Halloween mask on her face, blowing red bubbles. He shared the waiting with a crowd of assorted Ciampis, sitting in stunned silence on benches, pacing nervously, or—in the case of her mother— sobbing without letup. Karp didn’t introduce himself, nor did they make any effort to include him in their circle of grief.

A tired young man in green scrubs came through swinging doors and approached the Ciampis. Karp watched from across the hall. The doctor spoke quietly to the family. Several of the women began to shriek at once. The mother fainted, and the family redirected its attention to this immediate crisis. The doctor saw Mrs. Ciampi settled on a bench and then strode briskly away. Karp followed him.

Once past the swinging doors Karp accosted the surgeon.

“Hey, Doc, wait up. What’s the story on Marlene Ciampi?”

“You are?”

“Roger Karp. I work with her. At the DA’s office.”

“Well, as I told them back there, she’s pretty badly hurt. In fact, it’s amazing she survived. Of course, she was sitting down at the desk when the explosion occurred, so there’s only minor damage from the waist down. She’s going to need extensive reconstructive surgery on her face, though. And the hand.”

“The hand?”

“Yes, it looks as though she was able to get her arm up over the left side of her face. She’s going to lose a lot of function in the left hand. And, of course, the right eye is completely gone.”

“Of course,” said Karp, the nausea rising in him again.

The doctor looked at him curiously. “Say, are you OK? You look like you got blown up, too.”

Karp looked down at his clothes, which were caked with blood and soot. “I wish,” he said. He turned away and walked out of the building.