Trap (9781476793177) (18 page)

All at once, Forsling's mind cleared. He still had a mission to complete. He hurried over to the front door and locked it. He then walked back to the restroom and checked to make sure there was nobody in there. Then returned to the front and slipped behind the bar.

LaFontaine was still alive, holding his hands against his belly. “You son of a bitch,” he gasped weakly.

Forsling aimed at the man's head and was going to finish him but then reconsidered.
If you're lucky, nobody heard the first shots,
he thought. The bar was in a warehouse section of Hell's Kitchen and there wasn't a lot of foot traffic. But he didn't want to risk someone hearing more shots.

“You should have given me the van,” Forsling said to the wounded man, who didn't reply except to writhe and grunt in pain. He looked under the register and found a box of shells for the Luger. He thought about taking the shotgun but decided against lugging it around. Instead he opened the cash register and took the money before roughly rolling LaFontaine over on his belly and removing the man's wallet and keys.

Someone knocked on the front door. Forsling quickly stepped over the pool of LaFontaine's blood and walked toward the back of the bar. Opening the door and walking out into the alley, he spotted the beat-up, older model Ford Econoline van. It had once belonged to a welder and the faded sign for Eric Woodbury & Sons Metalworks could still be seen on the side. He'd thought about the van on his subway ride over from East Harlem to Hell's Kitchen, and it had helped formulate his plan for revenge.

Forsling got in the van and saw a New York Yankees ball cap on the passenger seat, which he put on to hide his shaved head and tattooed forehead. Starting the van, he drove fast down the alley, nearly striking a white-haired man in a business suit at the entrance. He then pulled into traffic, headed for Third Avenue and 29th Street and Il Buon Pane.

Arriving at the bakery, he noticed workmen for a glass company packing up their truck. He waited and then pulled into the spot next to the side of the bakery, just behind an area of blackened snow where the car had burned the night before.

Pulling the ball cap down and sticking the Luger in the pocket of his black leather coat, he got out of the van and quickly walked to the front of the store. Opening the door, he walked inside and saw two teenaged boys at the counter saying something to the old woman on the other side.

The old woman smiled and made a welcoming sign with her hands though she didn't speak. The boys looked at him curiously. “Sorry, but we're closed,” one of them said.

“Oh, uh, I'm with Woodbury and Sons Metalworks. I was told to stop by and see if there was anything the owners needed,” Forsling replied, looking past the boys at the room beyond. He'd expected to find the old couple who fit into his plan to get even with Karp. But things had worked out better than he'd hoped.

Forsling had recognized the teens. He'd seen Karp talking to them the night before from the backseat in the police cruiser. But that wasn't all. The district attorney had photos of his family on the wall of his office where he'd been brought. One of them showed Karp with the young men he was looking at.

“Metalworks?” the other, bigger teen asked. “I didn't know someone called for a welder. Who are you?”

The teen's attitude and question irritated Forsling. He pulled the pistol out of his coat pocket. “I'm the guy with the gun, jerk-off,” he said. “Now you're all coming with me.”

“Like hell we are,” both boys said at the same time.

Forsling pointed the gun at the old woman. “Then you can watch her die first,” he said.

“All right,” the smaller teen replied, and grabbed his brother's shoulder. “Just everybody stay cool.”

“That's smart, Jewboy,” Forsling sneered. “Let's go.”

Forsling made the boys go out the door first. “The old bitch is going to be in front of me,” he warned. “So if one of you says something or makes a run for it, I shoot her first.”

They got in the van without encountering anyone else. Forsling made the teens sit in the front two seats while he sat in back with the old woman.

“Where we going?” asked the bigger teen, who was driving.

“East Harlem. I'll tell you where once we're rolling.”

As the van pulled away from the curb and started to turn right onto Third Avenue, a black truck turned onto 29th Street. The teen hit the brakes and honked.

“What the hell are you doing?” Forsling yelled. “I'll shoot the old bitch and your brother right now.”

“Take it easy, man,” the teen yelled back. “I'm not used to driving and that guy freaked me out.”

“Just drive,” Forsling demanded. “But any more crap and somebody's going to die.”

A
FTER
F
ULTON LEFT
K
ARP
'
S OFFICE
to make his phone calls, everything seemed to happen in bang-bang fashion, like tumblers on a bank vault clicking into place. First, Mrs. Milquetost announced with some trepidation that “a Mr. Garcia and a Mr. Gallo are here to see you. They said you're expecting them?”

“Yes, send them in.”

As the pair entered the office and took seats across from his desk, Karp looked them over. They were both Hispanic, blessed with Latin good looks, though one was tall and slender and the other short and built like a fire hydrant. He'd known Garcia for years, but thought Gallo would be new to him except what Marlene had just said. However, when he saw his face, he remembered the news stories several years earlier about the ambitious charter school founder in Brooklyn who'd run afoul of the law.

Back then he was surprised that such a big deal was being made of what seemed to be a minor transgression, and suspected that politics between the charter schools and the teachers union had something to do with it. The young educator had disappeared from sight, and Karp had forgotten about him until now.

He nodded at Garcia. “How are your hands? That doesn't look good.” He pointed to the bandages on the young man's right hand, where a spot of bright red blood had appeared.

“Sore, but I'll be okay. A hell of a lot better than the three people I drove there with.”

Karp nodded. “Rose was a wonderful woman and a dear friend, and the other victims didn't deserve what happened to them either. All I can say is that we're working to get to the bottom of it.” He paused, but only for a moment. “Marlene said you needed to talk to me, but she didn't give me a lot of details.”

“We didn't tell her any so she wouldn't be involved in what we had to do,” Garcia said. “But we wanted to talk to you about something that we think involves the people who killed Rose and the others.”

“Did you try talking to the police who are looking into this?” Karp asked. “Maybe I should call my lead investigator, I think you know him, Clay Fulton, to join us.”

“Fulton's all right for a cop,” Garcia replied. “But we're not ready to talk to the po-po about this; everything that goes to the cops seems to get back to the wrong people, if you know what I mean. So for now, this is between you and us . . . and actually mostly between you and
mi hermano
here, Micah.”

At the introduction, the tall young man leaned across to shake Karp's hand. “I wish I was meeting you under other circumstances—Rose spoke highly of you and your wife. I also wish I didn't have to say what I'm about to . . . or pay the consequences, but I do.”

“I think we all wish circumstances were different,” Karp replied. “But if you don't mind, let's get down to business. Alejandro, you said this has something to do with the murder of Rose Lubinsky, Mary Calebras, and Tawanna Mohammad?”

Garcia looked at Gallo, who swallowed hard. “I should probably answer that,” he said. “You know who I am, right?”

“I remembered when I saw you come in and put two and two together with what Marlene told me,” Karp agreed.

Gallo nodded, and then dug into his coat pocket and produced a flash drive, which he tossed onto Karp's desk. “The information on this is encoded, but I don't expect it's going to be much of an obstacle for your people.”

Picking up the flash drive, Karp looked from Gallo to Garcia and back. “Want to tell me what's on it?”

“Mostly documents—secret bank accounts, real estate transactions, dummy corporation paperwork,” Gallo replied. “It will lead you to some people who can lead you to some other people, or sometimes directly to them, who own these accounts and property.”

“And the significance of that?”

“The money in those accounts rightfully belongs to the Greater New York Teachers Federation,” Gallo replied.

“Who do these accounts and the real estate belong to?” Karp asked.

Gallo bit his lip, then responded. “Three people. One of them is me.”

“You? You are admitting to the theft of union funds?”

“Yes. Another person is my boss, union president Tommy Monroe.”

“And the third?”

“Do you know who used to be the chief counsel for the union?”

The room fell silent as the two young men waited for Karp's answer. There had been other times in his career when there'd be a prescient moment, like that first clap of thunder, when he knew a storm was coming. This was one of those times.

“Olivia Stone,” he said quietly. “The current district attorney of Kings County, Brooklyn.”

No one spoke for a moment. They didn't have to until Karp cleared his throat and asked, “I take it there's a reason you're coming forward now with this information, and that you believe it's connected to last night's murders. You want to explain?”

“You're aware of the charter school bill that Rose crafted and lobbied for at the state assembly. The one that's opposed by the union.”

“Yes.”

“Do you know why Monroe and Stone are particularly opposed to this bill?”

“I know it would put nonunion charter schools on a more level playing field for funding and resources with public schools,” Karp said.

“That's part of it,” Gallo agreed. “But what they're really worried about is that part of the bill that calls for an audit of the union going back ten years. That was one of the things Rose was really pushing for—accountability—to determine whether fees paid by union members, as well as funds provided by taxpayers, were used appropriately. That's what they're afraid of.”

Karp held up the flash drive. “And it's all on here?”

“
Sí,
yes,” Gallo replied.

“How did you get it?”

Garcia started to say something but Gallo interrupted him. “I took it off of Monroe's office computer early this morning. You'll see that it's date/time stamped. I also sent a copy to a secure location via email.”

“Does Monroe know you did this?”

Gallo shrugged. “There are security cameras all over the building and in his office. I was wearing a mask, but I'm sure he'll figure out who was in his office. I wiped what we . . . I mean . . . I was doing on his computer, so he won't know exactly, at least not right away; I'm sure his tech guys will be able to figure it out.”

“You realize that what you did was probably breaking the law,” Karp said. “Even if you have authority to enter the building, I doubt you were authorized to take this information.”

“I realize that,” Gallo said. “I will point out that some of the information on the flash drive relates to me.”

“And then there's that,” Karp went on. “If you're implicating yourself in these crimes—the theft of union funds, grand larceny—I can't look the other way. You'll be charged along with anyone else.”

“I understand.”

Karp sat back in his seat and studied the young men. Garcia leaned forward with his head down, but Gallo was sitting up, looking him straight in the eye. “It's a brave thing you're doing, the right thing.”

Gallo shook his head at the compliment. “I should have done it a long time ago, maybe Rose would still be alive . . . and I wouldn't be looking at time in prison.”

“I think I read somewhere once that you never go so far down a path that you can't turn around and take a step back,” Karp replied. “You've taken that step. Now before we go any further, and you explain why you think what you've said so far about why this relates to last night's murders, I'd like to know if you'll give a formal statement. If so, I'll call a stenographer in, as well as Detective Clay Fulton. Alejandro may have told you, but he's a New York City police detective who heads a special investigations unit working for my office; he's keeping me apprised of this case, and I think he needs to hear this.”

“I'm ready.”

“And before we start, I'll be informing you of your rights, including your right to remain silent and your right not to incriminate yourself,” Karp warned. “And the right to have an attorney present during questioning.”

For the first time, Gallo smiled. “Mr. Karp, you don't know much about my ‘formative years,' but I've heard my Miranda warnings before. I'm waiving my rights and will do so again when the stenographer shows up.”

Twenty minutes later, sitting in a conference room off of Karp's main office, Gallo told his story, a narrative of union abuse, breach of fiduciary trust, and grand larceny. Karp mostly listened except to ask questions to clarify and expand on what he was hearing. The young man had just started talking about a meeting at Stone's office, when Fulton's cell phone buzzed.

Fulton looked at the caller ID and then back at Karp with a frown. “It's Guma,” he said as he stood and walked over to a corner of the room to answer.

Karp could tell by the way his friend's broad shoulders suddenly tensed that something was wrong. Fulton turned back to him and asked, “Can I speak to you privately?”