Reckless Endangerment (31 page)

“Couple of angles,” said Karp. “One, my wife works with them—a kind of volunteer, so I was concerned. The other thing is that Arab girl that got lifted—she’s connected to a couple of homicides I’m looking at. …”

“Wait a second! What Arab girl? Nobody said anything about an Arab girl.”

“Yeah, I guess. I imagine you know, the shelter being on your turf and all, that Ms. Duran sometimes pinches the criminal code of the state of New York when it suits her.”

A short, hollow chuckle sounded on the other end. “Oh, yeah. Mattie and I go way back. We’ve been known to look the other way, and she does what she thinks is right, which if you want to know, most cops would agree with. We cut her a lot of slack because she’s a fucking indispensable resource. Harboring a homicide suspect is a little rich even for her, though. Who was she?”

“Name’s Fatyma Daoud,” said Karp. “Age fourteen, around there. The story is she’s a runaway, the dad is an old-fashioned kind of guy, wanted to marry her off, kept her chained up. Yeah, literally. This is the kind of daddy who when the girl acts up figures death before dishonor. In any case, she runs, ends up on the Deuce, with the usual results. Oh, yeah, when she split she took the family dagger, and apparently when some pimp tried to get heavy with her, she stuck him with it. That’s how we traced it was her. Then she headed for the shelter.”

“Okay,” said Schenck ruminatively, “this stuff is coming back. There was a circular about this girl a little while ago. So she whacked a pimp on the Deuce—this is not the focus of your interest, I’m thinking. I mean, it’s not the kind of case you guys usually go after teeth and claws.”

“No, we usually handle those with a framed certificate of appreciation and a nice dinner,” said Karp. “The interesting part is the Daoud connection. The girl’s brother, Walid, was the guy who fingered the perps in the Shilkes case. You remember Shilkes?”

“Who could forget?” There was a brief silence on the line as Lieutenant Schenck engaged his experienced and highly paid, if exhausted, detective brains. “Um. So … brother Walid has, could I say, terrorist connections? The family wants the sister back, and suddenly we have the sister kidnapped by a well-drilled team carrying automatic weapons. You’re assuming that Arabs grabbed her? That there’s an operating Arab terrorist cell in New York City?”

“Oh, it’s more than an assumption. There’s no question she was lifted by Arabs.”

“What do you mean, no question?”

“My daughter happened to be staying in the same room as the girl. She was hiding when the snatch went down and heard the perps speaking Arabic. By the way, according to her, you’re looking for an Abdel and a Rifaat.”

“Your daughter speaks Arabic?”

“Among other things—it’s a long story. Meanwhile…”

“And—wait a minute—she was, like, pals with this fugitive …”

“Well, Lieutenant,” replied Karp, dropping his tone down half the Kelvin scale, “of
course
no one in my family
knew
she was a fugitive. What do you take me for?”

“Yeah, sure, but … okay, let’s see here. Tell you the truth, Mr. Karp, I got a lot of expertise chasing P.R.’s down stairways in Alphabet City. Black fucking September is a little out of my line. I’m open for suggestions. I mean, there must be other parts of the system plugged into this.”

“Yeah, there is, sort of. The key guy is Jim Raney up at Midtown South. You know him?”

“Oh, yeah, everybody knows Pistol Jim. He was through the Five a couple years back. He’s got the Shilkes thing, right?”

“Right. What you need to do is give Jim a heads-up on this raid, share your material with him, the ballistics and other forensic stuff. My sense is this is going to end up in a city-wide task force, operating out of the fourteenth floor, and you might as well start laying it off on Raney.”

Karp knew that neither Schenck nor his watch commander would have to be nudged very hard to get rid of a file like that, and his casual mention of the deck of One Police Plaza where the chiefs of the NYPD dwelt in their glory could not but accelerate such a movement. After Karp had finished with Schenck, he called Midtown South and, on being told Raney was at home, used Marlene’s Rolodex to get Raney’s home number. The detective listened without comment as Karp filled him in on the night’s events.

“That’s what we know so far,” Karp said, “and the obvious next step is to talk to the Daouds, dad and junior.”

“Yeah, I’ll get on it,” Raney said. Then, after a thoughtful pause, “Well. It’s out of the closet now, anyway. That ought to make Fulton happy. Have you heard from him on the FBI angle yet?”

“Not yet,” said Karp. “I got to go now, Raney. I have to call the D.A.”

Which he did, and informed that gentleman about what was indeed out of the closet: that an armed, skilled body of Arab terrorists was in fact operational and at large in New York City.

Khalid owned nearly a dozen separate identifications, only some of which were known to his employer, and he selected one of the unknown ones, which conveniently had an Hispanic surname (Jorge Gomez) for his Saturday visit to Rikers Island. Jodón Obregon did not know any Jorge Gomez, but he assumed that this was a pseudonym of his agent, El Chivato. He was therefore astounded to discover the visitor’s chair on the other side of the glass occupied by the man he knew as Lucky.

They stared at one another for a moment, each of them maintaining the calm visage required in such meetings. Khalid spoke first, in English, their common tongue. “That’s quite a boy you sent after me.”

Obregon allowed himself a tiny smile. “Yes. He is really the best.”

Khalid shrugged. “Well, he has succeeded in disturbing my business, and I can’t afford to have my business disturbed. I underestimated you, I admit that. I thought you were a chicken; it turns out you are a tiger. So, I was mistaken, and I have to pay for the mistake. The main thing is for both of us to return to business with no hard feelings.”

“I’m listening,” said Obregon.

“Hard feelings are not businesslike. I figure, your interests are elsewhere, my interests are elsewhere too. We started out on the wrong foot, but we could make it right. On the other hand, you could say, hey, this guy Lucky, he fucked me, I have to get revenge, but in that case we have war. Maybe your guy gets me, maybe I get you, maybe we’re both dead. This don’t make sense, agree?”

Obregon nodded.

“Okay,” Khalid continued, “here’s what I see the fix is. The guy who killed the cop Morilla is named Ahmed Falani. As it happens, he’s dead too. Now, suppose the police find his body, and on this body they find the policeman Morilla’s identification—”

“And the fingerprints,” Obregon interrupted. “Tell me, did this Falani really do it, or is this another story?”

“No, really. Morilla was too close to our operation, and … what did you mean about fingerprints?”

“My lawyer tells me that besides my idiot brother’s fingerprints on the gun there are others, on the bullets in the magazine. This was to be a point in our favor at the trial, a weak one, but you know, if your man’s really match these …”

“Of course. Also, there is a little man I know, a smalltime distributor who informs for the police. Sometimes these people are useful, as now, do you see? Let us say, he goes to the police, he says, ah, this Ahmed Falani, he was boasting to me how he killed this Narco cop and blamed the Obregons, and of course, he will have the whole story, with many details that only the police know, as if from the mouth of Ahmed. So that confirms the story, and you will be released. Now, as to the money … let us say our original agreement, the two million, plus, oh, ten percent for this … trouble, and to ensure good feelings. You are now—how should I say?—
whole,
with something extra, and free to go your way. This is satisfactory?”

Obregon did not answer immediately. He had imagined this scene many times. He had planned it, of course, and now it was bearing fruit. The problem was Lucky himself. He had expected to encounter a man terrorized, helpless, not the calm and confident figure who now faced him. There was not enough suffering here, and that made him suspicious. Ten percent, that was fine, but did it really pay for the indignity? No, of course not, but revenge could wait. In fact, it was better to wait, until this
chingada
would be off his guard, relaxed, enjoying himself, at which time Jesus Obregon would repay. He smiled at the man and nodded. “Yes, satisfactory, as you say. My lawyer is named Manuel Huerta. He will accept the money. When it is in his hands and your arrangements have made them release me and my brother, I will call off El Chivato.”

“Is that his name? Yes, but there is one other small thing. This man, he has taken something of mine, some information, which he must not have. It is not a matter of money, but political. You must arrange for him to be … delivered to me. Or else there is no deal—we go back to start and either your boy gets me or I get him, but either way you’re in jail and broke. So decide.”

It took little additional thought. Getting rid of El Chivato would represent a substantial savings for Jodón on the boy’s fee, as well as putting Lucky off his guard. There were any number of boys working the same trade along the border, and if none of them had quite the style of El Chivato, one or another of them would do just as well: when he returned to Mexico he could send them against this Arab in squads.

“All right,” Obregon said. “When the money is paid and we are released, I will give him to you.”

“When you are released, but before the money is paid,” said Khalid.

“Half the money first,” said Obregon, “and half after.”

“As you like,” said Khalid.

It was one of the chief virtues of the Karps’ marriage that in times of stress, when the fan was roaring and spraying the local volume with innumerable fragments of shit, they could suspend the usual who-struck-John business that occupies so much of married discourse, and drop together into the sort of cool collegial space in which they had both been trained to function.

It was by this time about two in the afternoon, on the Saturday before Palm Sunday. The boys had been exhausted, fed, and laid out for their naps; Marlene had finished her healing music and her bath and taken a nap of her own; Lucy had emerged around noon, made some calls and been picked up by a gaggle of Chinese-American girls of her own age, and was off watching a Bruce Lee marathon at the Chinese movie house on Canal, discreetly trailed by Tran; Karp had made a large number of calls, nearly all of which were unwelcome to the recipients, and was taking his ease in front of the TV, desultorily watching Wake Forest play a basketball game against Syracuse, and toying with some notes for the meeting he had set up for the Monday.

His wife entered the living room and plopped herself down next to him. She was warm and smelled of roses, and he put his arm around her.

“What’s the score, counselor?” she asked, snuggling in.

“I’m just calculating that very thing, counselor,” Karp replied. “I believe the bad guys are ahead at present, but the good guys are tanned, rested, and about to come out swinging.” Whereupon he reviewed the calls and arrangements he had made, she commenting intelligently and making several good suggestions, and, by way of coda, adding, “I note you did not rat me out on the Fatyma thing. I appreciate it.”

“Your appreciation is noted and stored away for when needed,” said Karp.

“Short-term, my big worry is Fatyma. She was a nice kid: born yesterday, but a good spirit. Luce was really down about it.”

“Clearly a priority for the cops. Raney’s on it as we speak.”

“Yeah, well, good, but I intend to look around myself too,” she said, glancing at Karp significantly.

“Look away, Wonder Person,” said Karp blandly. “I wish you luck.”

“Hmm, a changed fellow,” said Marlene. “No lectures? No furrowed brow?”

“Not a furrow,” said Karp. “And I also get points for not saying a word about you leaving our precious little girl in environs where automatic weapons are likely to be discharged.”

“I noticed. So what’s up? You changed your medication?”

“Not at all. Just the calm resignation that comes with maturity. Now that I’m semi-retired, I have time to take the long view, and also recent events have reconnected me with the ancient Talmudic traditions of my people. I’m married to you—that’s not going to change. As I’ve often said, either you’ll get nailed or you won’t. If not, fine, life goes on. If yes, I will visit you every weekend at the Bedford Correctional Institution, I’ll bring you from Dean and DeLuca, I’ll bring you from Zabar’s. I’ll take videos, the kids shouldn’t forget what you look like. When you get out, I’ll help with your rehabilitation, find you a decent job—maybe food service, maybe transportation …”

“Gosh, what a prince!” said Marlene. “I’m throbbing with gratitude.”

“As well you should be. As for the rest, the risks, the kids, I figure, you live in Kansas, it’s tornadoes; in California, it’s quakes; in New York, it’s my wife’s chosen lifestyle, so I’m either going to live in fear forever, or just live, and forget this Jewish mother catastrophe business. I’m overcoming my cultural conditioning is what it is.”

“I thought you were getting closer to the traditions of your people.”

“Closer, further, what’s the difference? It’s a mystical thing. It’s hard to explain.”

“To a shiksa, yeah. Is this where you start going dy-da-dee-dee-dee-deedle like in
Fiddler on the Roof
?”

“If it would make you love me more.”

“Um, let me pass on that,” she said. “As a matter of fact, though, I can’t recall a time recently when I
did
love you more. Understanding always makes me throb. Do you think that there’s the remotest chance that we could sneak in a hot quickie without waking up the twins?”

The phone awakened Roland Hrcany out of a sodden sleep just past noon on Palm Sunday. He cursed and pulled the pillow over his head and let the machine pick it up.

But when he heard the message, he cursed again and rolled over and grabbed the phone. Into it he growled, “Timmons, it’s Palm Sunday, why aren’t you in church?”

An unenthusiastic chuckle on the line. Detective Inspector Pat Timmons was a Police Plaza suit known to be close to the chief of detectives himself, and the man especially charged with following cases of particular interest to the NYPD in the County of New York. Like cop killings.