Resolved (32 page)

The usual butterflies as he took his seat. The little rituals of assembling the court. Time stretched. Then the court clerk took the sheet of paper from the jury to the judge, the clerk asked his dreadful question, the foreman rose, answered, and it was over: startled wails from the police families, applause from some others, gaveled into silence by Higbee.

Then the short formalities of thanking the jury, disposing of the convicts, the exit of the judge, and then chaos, a blur. People slapping his back, pumping his hand, the pressing crowds, the cameras and microphones. He gave a brief press statement, answered a few questions, ignored the personal ones, and broke away into the DA's wing. From his office he could hear cheering from the square.

The phone buzzed and, as he had expected, the DA wanted to see him.

When Karp walked into the DA's office, Keegan got up from his desk and gave Karp the full politician's handshake, with forearm grip and shoulder slap.

“Congratulations, kid!” said the DA. “Would it be insulting to say I always knew you could pull this one off?”

“Only mildly.
I
didn't realize I could win it until a little while ago.”

Keegan laughed and gestured Karp into a chair. Sitting down behind his desk, he lifted his feet up and waggled his prop cigar. They discussed the details of the case for a while and then, in a convenient silence, the DA said, “Butch, we need to talk about something else. I guess you've heard the rumors?”

“About you and the federal bench? Yeah. Any truth to them?”

“The president will put my name in day after tomorrow.”

“Congratulations to you, then.”

Keegan nodded his thanks. “It just goes to show you: naked and shameless ambition pays off. What about you? Have you thought about what you want to be doing?”

“What I'm doing now, I guess. Maybe take a few cases to keep the juices flowing, if it works out.”

Keegan looked at him steadily, as if waiting for something else. He shifted his gaze to the tip of his Bering. “The governor will be asking me for names to replace me, a courtesy. I understand from his people he'd like nonpartisan types. Good government, above the fray; I mean until the next election. It'd be a year and change. I'm intending to put your name in.”

Karp felt his face flush. Even with Murrow's warning it was still a shock. He managed to say, “Thank you. I'm flattered,” with the aid of some heavy throat clearing.

Keegan said, “I heard them cheering the verdict. We don't hear that very often.”

“No. And that should tell us something about the system. When do you think we'll know? I mean, about the governor.”

“Oh, a matter of days. But don't worry. I think it's all wired.” A political smile here, and a cool assessing look. What's he looking for, Karp wondered. Probably for the first tender blossoms of corrosive ambition. Again, he found himself wishing that he trusted Jack Keegan a little more.

“Good thing we won the case, then.”

Keegan burst out in startled laughter.

 

When he got back to the office, he saw that Murrow had arranged a celebration. Terry Collins was there, in a wheelchair, together with a large number of the more senior ADAs. Karp was surprised to see that they had waited so long after work to wish him well. He was one of those men who, without being popular, inspires great devotion in his subordinates, a fact that had entirely escaped his notice. He was prevailed upon to make a speech, and did, thanking all the little people who made it possible and saying he wanted to devote his career to advancing world peace. He was just starting to relax when his secretary tapped him on the shoulder and said that his wife was on the line.

“You're on the news,” she said. “You won your case.”

“I did. Let's hope we don't need any favors from the police anytime soon.”

“Yes, always looking on the bright side. Well, good for you!”

“Thank you.”

“I expected you home by now.”

“They threw a little party, but I was just about to leave. Anything wrong?”

“I don't know. I just found out one of your ADAs is concocting evidence. Does that still qualify as wrong?”

“I'll be right home.” said Karp.

 

“This is bad,” said Karp, after Marlene had told him her story. “How sure are you that Palmisano knew about all this?”

“I'm
not
sure,” said Marlene. “But it's hard to figure it otherwise. Look, Cherry Newcombe was paid off to lie and to supply underwear and physical samples to an agent of Fong. We know Fong wanted Paul's building and Karen wanted Paul to sell it to him, which he wouldn't. So they concoct this rape charge. There's no rape kit. The only evidence is the traces of Cherry in Paul's car and Paul's semen on the undies. The cop, Detective McKenzie, says he never handled the underwear, that Palmisano just announced that she had obtained it from Cherry, and that Palmisano ordered all the forensic work on it, the DNA matching and all. But Cherry says she gave all the stuff to Fong's guy. By the way, McKenzie said Palmisano seemed to take an unusual interest in the case, which he thought was more or less a piece of shit until the DNA undies turned up. He definitely did not believe Cherry's story, but, as he put it, quote, the woman was on my ass like Agnelli had whacked the president. She wanted him nailed, unquote. Paul swears there is only one likely source of such semen at the necessary time—Karen Agnelli and the fuck he gave her for old time's sake. That means that Fong must've slipped the mystery panties to Karen, Karen must've added the stain, and then taken it directly to Palmisano. Palmisano therefore lied to McKenzie about where she got them. Why would she if she wasn't bent? Q.E.D.”

“It's not Q.E.D., Marlene. You have no direct evidence that Karen gave Terry Palmisano anything.”

“True. Why don't you ask her?”

“Who, Palmisano?”

“No, Karen Agnelli. She's down at the Human Bean, waiting for you to show up. I called her a couple of minutes before you walked in.”

“I'm being manipulated,” said Karp.

“Yes. Relax and enjoy it. She's a small, cute blonde; she'll be dressed all in black, by Prada.”

“And you arranged this by…?”

“Telling her I knew all and that it was her only chance to stay out of jail.” She checked her watch. “Go. You know where it is, right?”

He stood and looked at her with a grumpy expression. “Yeah, corner of Broome and Crosby. You know, Marlene, there are other ways of doing all this shit, ways that many smart people have worked out over the years, ways we call—what's the word?—legal procedure. How come you never use any of them?”

“I do, unless they become inconvenient.”

“Speaking of which, how come little Cherry was so forthcoming with her story? Or do I want to know this?”

“You don't.”

“And I guess you realize that whatever else happens in this abortion, she can't be called as a witness because you fucked it up with strong-arm stuff.”

“I do. But all you need is Karen, and she's ready to fold.”

“You're sure of that.”

“Yes, I have utter faith in your interrogatory abilities.”

“Present company excepted.”

“Oh, just go, Butch!” she said sharply. “I can't be cute just now. I want this to be over.”

 

Rashid had promised Felix twenty grand for not telling, and had delivered five of it, and Felix had gotten himself cleaned up and into a decent Midtown hotel and bought himself a bunch of clothes and a couple of nights with an expensive whore. Five grand did not, however, go as far in the city as it had when he went into the joint, so he called Rashid and asked for the rest. Rashid yelled at him and accused him of revealing the plans about the tunnels. Felix denied doing this. He said it must have been one of Rashid's people. He added that if Rashid did not come through with the rest of the cash, not only would he confirm the cop's suspicions, but also give them detailed descriptions of Rashid and his two pals and the names and descriptions of the guys at the famous council of war. Rashid had sighed, a defeated man, and asked Felix where he wanted to pick it up. Felix then named a place on the corner of Tenth Avenue and Thirty-Ninth where they had just demolished a building, a lot filled with rubble surrounded by an easily penetrated chain-link fence. Eleven at night. This night.

Felix was early, to check out the scene, make sure it wasn't a set-up, not that they would ever try anything. One guy, he'd said, and sure enough, here was the one guy with the shopping bag he'd specified. The only light came from the street lamp and the neon on the avenue; Felix stood in the shadow of the adjoining building and watched the man pick his way across the rubble field. The man was twenty feet away when Felix stepped out into the light. The man stopped short when he saw Felix; no, it was a kid, a teenager, dark skinned, in jeans and a T-shirt, an Arab. Felix motioned him to come closer, but the kid didn't move. Instead he reached into the shopping bag.

That was wrong. Felix saw the gun in his hand and the flash and the crack of the bullet over his shoulder. The kid kept the gun pointed at Felix, but nothing happened. The kid looked at the gun, puzzled. A jam. He yanked at the slide. Felix started to move.

In the prison yard there had been any number of debates about what to do if someone was trying to kill you. Jimmy Hoffa was often quoted—charge a gun, flee a knife—after which someone would always say, “Yeah, and look where he is now.” But Felix had always thought that was good advice, if you couldn't instantly duck behind cover and get to a car. The thing was, you couldn't outrun a bullet, and you had to figure that a target closing on the shooter would do a lot more to mess up his aim than one running away, where the guy could get into position and squeeze off shot after shot. And if you did have to take a bullet, it was better to be on top of the guy, rather than ten feet away, where he could fill you with holes at his leisure and you couldn't do shit back to him. If the guy was a pro, you were probably dead anyway, but you had to figure a small chance was better than no chance at all. This kid was definitely not a pro.

The Arab kid cleared his jam and brought his pistol up, just a little too late. Felix was on him, knocking his gun arm aside with his left and going in low with the knife. The kid screamed and fell off the blade onto his knees, trying to hold his belly closed and mumbling something in Arabic. Felix stepped behind him quickly and slashed his throat.

Lights flicked on in the windows of the apartment across the street. A car stopped on the avenue and a man stepped onto the curb. Felix heard a woman scream and he saw the man on the curb take a cell phone out of his pocket. Felix knew what number he was dialing. There was, naturally, nothing but newspapers in the shopping bag. He ran for the shadows, toward the river.

At Eleventh, he passed a storefront belonging to a glass company and examined himself in a mirror hanging there. He had been wearing black clothes, so that was all right if he got rid of them soon, but there was blood on his hands and face. He cleaned the knife handle and dropped the knife into a sewer, went into a dark saloon on Twelfth and washed his hands and face, then headed back to his hotel.

There were two police cars parked in front of the hotel, and several uniformed officers on the pavement at the main entrance. Felix was stunned. How did they know? Or maybe it had nothing to do with him, maybe he could just breeze by. No, too dangerous. No one looked at your face in a big commercial hotel, but if for some reason they had already associated him with that dead Arab, like maybe he had a note—“Meet Felix Tighe”—in his pocket,
that
could trigger this. No, that was crazy, the Arabs didn't know he was there. Or maybe they did. Maybe Rashid had dropped a dime on him, when the kid hadn't shot him. But no, that would mean the Arab in Auburn would be screwed…

No, fuck the Arabs, the Arabs couldn't have…but maybe some clerk had recognized him from the pictures they had in all the papers, on the TV, that
Most Wanted
program, he'd just made that this week. In any case, he knew he was sweating bullets, and he knew that cops could smell it on you, the fear, and he couldn't do it, he couldn't stand to bluff his way past. He couldn't think anymore, and he was getting close, he couldn't just spin around and run, that would have them on him in a second.

So he ducked into a steak house, and asked the cashier where Radio City was and then stepped out in the opposite direction from the hotel entrance. He walked over to Times Square, bought a nylon duffel, an eight-inch hunting knife, and a change of clothing: jeans, T-shirt, cheap sneakers, work gloves, a raincoat, and a wide-brimmed bush hat. He changed into these in the men's room of the clothing store, tossed the bloody clothes into a trash can, and headed west again. He couldn't take the chance of staying in a fleabag; that would be just where the cops were likely to look. He would have to drop out altogether, to go underground.

Fortunately, from his chasing after the Karp girl, he now knew something about the underground, about places cops hardly ever went. As he walked again toward the Hudson, he was conscious of a feeling he had not had in a while, the feeling of eyes upon him, rational paranoia. He found he didn't like it. He had loved being dead, and now his face was all over town. He was probably the most wanted man in New York at the moment. How to render himself invisible again? As long as his face was unknown, he'd been invisible as a uniformed workingman, and invisible in tourist gear. That wouldn't work anymore. He had to disappear, he had to become someone else, someone everyone saw but didn't look at. His memory threw up a few candidates, and one in particular, who had the added advantage of having some kind of screwy relationship with Lucy Karp.