Capture (Butch Karp Thrillers) (19 page)

The reporter turned back to Jaxon. “A little bird told me to keep on eye on the Trinidad and Tobago Dairy Products, Inc., office across the plaza, which I was doing when I spotted you and your boyfriend…”

“I ain’t his boyfriend,” Blanchett bristled.

“Like I said, Ned, you might want to pretend,” Stupenagel teased. “In fact, I’d suggest a small public display of affection would go a long ways…”

“Ain’t no way I’m—”

“She’s yanking your chain again,” Jaxon interjected, rolling his eyes.

Stupenagel laughed. “Sorry, Ned, but it is funny to watch you turn the color of a ripe tomato. But seriously, remember that everybody is watching everybody else in this town. My sources tell me that Omar is supposed to show tonight.”

“You sure?” Jaxon said, leaning toward her, his eyes intensely searching her face.

“That’s what I’m told. I was thinking I might ‘accidentally’ run into him and see if I could get him to sit down for an interview.”

“That could be dangerous,” Jaxon replied.

“Don’t I know it,” Ariadne said. “I certainly won’t go anywhere out of the public view with him, but it’d be worth a try.” As she spoke, the reporter glanced across the plaza and then froze. She nodded toward a tall, thin black man walking through the plaza toward the office. “That’s him!”

Jaxon glanced over Ned’s shoulder. “You sure? I can’t see his face clearly.”

“I’m sure,” Ariadne replied. “When the Soviets caught him, they broke his legs and he walked with a funny hitch after that…sort of like John Wayne. That’s him, all right. You going to take him down?”

Jaxon shook his head. “Look, I’m going to trust you with this, but just so you know, we believe a lot of lives could be at stake. We know he’s involved, but he’s not the only one or even the most important. We’re hoping he’ll lead us to the others, as well as to whatever is being planned. I’d appreciate it if you’d hold off on your plans to talk to him. It might drive him underground.”

Ariadne sipped her drink before replying. “I know journalists have a reputation for getting the story at any cost. But most of us are responsible human beings, too. Just remember who scratched your back on this one when it’s time to play little birdie.”

Jaxon slapped a hundred-dollar bill on the bar. “I will. Now, do you mind if Ned keeps you company for a bit? I need to go see a man about a horse.”

“Mind? If I didn’t know Lucy—and if I wasn’t trying to be a good girl for one Gilbert Murrow—I’d be on this boy like white on rice,” Stupenagel said, smiling at a suddenly nervous-looking Ned Blanchett. “As it is I’m going to have to slow down on the
babash
or I might accidentally forget my newly discovered scruples.” She licked her full red lips, which made Ned blush even brighter.

Jaxon laughed. “Well, try to keep your hands off the boy. He’s got a job to do.” He turned to Blanchett. “I’m going to go have a talk out of sight with Tran and Jojola. Keep your eye on the store and let me know on the cell when Omar reappears.”

“Good luck getting service on your phone,” Stupenagel added. “Mine’s been spotty at best.”

“Ned knows where to find me if the cell won’t work,” Jaxon replied. “And thanks again, Ariadne, I won’t forget it.”

“Say hi to Tran and John,” Ariadne replied. She turned back to Ned. “Now, where were we…tall, dark, handsome, and oh so temptingly young?”

A
TEAR ROLLED DOWN
M
ARLENE’S FACE AS THE DRIVER OF
the Lincoln, Detective Neary, turned right off of First Avenue onto Thirty-fourth and headed for the entrance of the Midtown Tunnel. “Remember when the kids were little and they would see who could hold their breath the longest whenever we’d drive through a tunnel?” she said, quietly changing the subject.

“Yeah, Zak cheated every time.” Karp laughed. “He’d only pretend to hold his breath and then after Giancarlo and Lucy exhaled, he’d make a big show of continuing to hold on—turn red, struggle, moan, and finally gasp as he let it all out. It was quite a show.”

Marlene smiled and nodded. “Yeah, and remember the argument the boys—they must have been about ten—had over whether it was the same hole you went into and came out of…just in a different place?”

“I don’t remember that one,” Karp admitted. “But it would make a good science fiction story.”

“Zak argued that tunnels were really just one hole—the same at both ends—and that you go in one end, drive around for a little while, and then pop out of the same hole but near your destination.” Marlene laughed, but then grew somber again as she looked out the window. “Life’s kind of like that…you enter one end of it, drive
around for a bit, and then pop out at your destination. If you look back, you can see the hole you came out of, but everything you saw and did along the way gets sort of hazy or is a series of snapshots. You really have no idea how you got there. They can tell you all they want that you drove through a tube under the East River, but all you see is the road, the walls, and other cars and people.”

“Wow, getting a little existential, but I follow you,” Karp said. “I do suppose that in many ways life looks the same on both ends. For one thing, you start with nothing and you leave with nothing. But if you’re lucky, you find love, a family, and important work to do in between. If you can’t remember every detail later in life, maybe it’s because there were so many good ones, it’s impossible to recall each and every one.”

Marlene smiled and leaned over to rest her head on his shoulder. “That’s my guy. Mr. Sunshine on a Cloudy Day.”

Rain dripped like tears from the bare branches of the trees at Flushing Cemetery in Queens. Feeling a drop strike his bare head, Karp looked up at the lead-colored sky and then back at the sea of black umbrellas, hovering above the heads of those gathered around the gravesite that had been prepared to receive the body of Assistant District Attorney Stewart Reed.

Karp stole a glance at his wife, who was standing at his side. The expression on her face was tough to gauge as she stared straight ahead at the grave. But he knew that her mood didn’t have everything to do with Reed’s death and funeral. She was worried about Lucy.

It had been more than a week since their daughter had returned to New Mexico, and the only contact they’d had with her had been two text messages: one when she landed and another two days later saying she was fine and planned to enjoy some “meditative time” with friends in the mountains, without her cell phone. Marlene’s attempts to reach Lucy by text and by calling had failed and it appeared that her cell phone was turned off.

Karp tried to reassure his wife that neither of Lucy’s text messages had included the word “faith.” She and Marlene had settled
on the word sometime back as a way of telling each other that she needed help in case the messages were being monitored. Now Marlene lamented that it would have been better to use “faith” in all their correspondence, with the absence of the word indicating trouble.

When Karp tried to hint that she was being a little paranoid, it had not gone over well. And making matters worse, John Jojola was off, presumably with Jaxon and Ned, and so wasn’t in Taos to check up on her. Jojola was the former chief of police at the Taos Pueblo, but he’d left the job a couple of years earlier and now Marlene didn’t know who to call there
“without sounding like a hysterical mom.”

However, Marlene had continued to fret, so Karp promised her on the way to the funeral services that he’d call the sheriff of Taos County and ask him to do a welfare check on Lucy. His wife had nodded gratefully as tears sprang to her eyes.
“I’m sorry,”
she said, wiping at one on her cheek.
“I’m so tired of worrying about my kids, especially knowing that I have only myself to blame for some of what they’ve been through.”

Karp looked around at the other mourners, nodding to those he knew. The turnout from the DAO reflected Reed’s popularity and their respect for him as a man and a prosecutor. All of the bureau chiefs were present, as were all of the ADAs from the Homicide Bureau who didn’t have a trial. Many other ADAs and other office personnel were present, too.

Karp noted that a number of NYPD plainclothes detectives and uniformed officers stood in a cluster off to themselves. He knew that many of them had worked with Stewbie on cases and were stating with their presence that he was one of them—a rare tribute for anyone outside the thin blue line.

He spotted Kenny Katz standing with Sondra Bond, who had her hand on his arm. Kenny’s face was drawn and his already deep-set eyes had even darker circles beneath them.

After the service, Karp glanced ahead at Reed’s mother, a small, round-faced woman in a wheelchair, and Reed’s sister, a tall, stern-looking woman dressed in the uniform of an army captain.

When he’d leaned over to shake the hand of Mrs. Gladys Reed in
the receiving line, he noted the red hair and pale blue eyes that suggested she’d once been a pretty Irish-American girl. But her eyes were red-rimmed and weepy, yet when he introduced himself the grip on his hand tightened.

“My son did not kill himself, Mr. Karp,” she stated, looking intensely into his eyes. “Suicide is a mortal sin and my Stewie was a good Roman Catholic. He was also a good son, and he knew how important it was to me that he be buried next to me and his father, God rest his soul. He would never have done anything to jeopardize that.”

Karp didn’t know quite what to say. “I understand, Mrs. Reed. I am so sorry for your loss and for our loss; we are all going to miss him.”

“Do you really understand, Mr. Karp? They won’t let him be buried at St. Joseph’s,” Mrs. Reed insisted, her voice cracking and desperate. “His father is there already, waiting, and I won’t be long. But our little Stewie will not be with us…. Oh, sweet Jesus.” A moan escaped the old woman, who then buried her face in her hands.

Reed’s sister, Meghan, leaned over and put her arm around her mother. “It’s okay, Mom. We know there’s been a mistake. Stew will be with us in heaven.”

“No, no, he won’t,” Mrs. Reed cried. “If he killed himself, he’ll suffer the eternal hellfires.”

“I don’t believe that, Mom,” Meghan said softly. “Even if Stew did this to himself, the God I love wouldn’t be that cruel…no matter what you’ve been told by a priest.” She stood up and looked Karp in the eye. “But I don’t think Stew killed himself.”

Karp nodded. “I have a hard time believing it myself.”

Still looking him in the eye, Meghan asked, “Mr. Karp, would it be possible to have a moment with you after the services? Alone?”

“Of course,” he replied. “And if there is anything I can do, or the DAO can do, just ask.”

“We appreciate that, Mr. Karp,” Meghan said. “And we may take you up on it.”

After the receiving line, Karp viewed Stewart lying in his coffin. He looked as together as he had in life, dressed in one of his expensive tailored suits. He noticed that the mortician had
done a good job of disguising whatever mark had been left by the noose.

A few minutes later, he met with Meghan Reed. Much of what she had to say he’d already been through a hundred times in his mind. She’d brought up again his Catholic faith—and its prohibitions against suicide—as well as his role as the doting son “who would have never hurt our mom like this.”

Meghan said she’d talked to several of Stewart’s friends outside of the DAO “and none of them ever felt the slightest inkling that my brother was suicidal. Yeah, he was disappointed in the hung jury, but he was happy that he was getting a second crack at that asshole Maplethorpe. In fact, he was getting downright antsy for the new trial and told Mom that he thought he’d found something important that might help.”

Karp’s radar went on alert.
Had Stewbie stumbled upon something?
“Did he tell her what that might be?”

Meghan shook her head. “No. He hadn’t checked it out yet and told her it might or might not mean anything. But he was confident about the trial either way.” The woman passed a hand across her eyes. “Mr. Karp, my brother and I were close. Even with me in Iraq, we spoke at least once a week. I would have known if he was contemplating this.”

“When’s the last time you talked to him?” Karp asked.

“Two days before he died. You want to know what we talked about? We talked about meeting in Italy next summer when I get my leave. He always wanted to see the Sistine Chapel and Rome. Now I ask you, does that sound like a man who is suicidal?”

All Karp could do was shake his head and agree with her. “But I have nothing else to go on,” he added. “The police did a thorough investigation. I’ve known the detective who was in charge for more than thirty years and there’s no one better. He insisted on a full write-up from the Medical Examiner’s Office with an eye to foul play. But everything checked out…nothing in the toxicology report. None of the neighbors heard anything unusual.”

“I know all that,” Meghan agreed. “And all I can say to that, Mr. Karp, is that something is wrong with this picture.”

The young woman reached into her handbag, pulled out a busi
ness card, and handed it to him. “My brother thought the world of you, Mr. Karp. He said you were the one man who would never stop pursuing justice. Will you at least think about this for my brother? My cell phone number is on the back.”

Karp dropped Marlene off at the loft and returned to the office, where he sat back in his chair and propped his feet up on his desk. He glanced down at the yellow legal pad where he had written “Casa Blanca,” “art of war,” and “
It Happened in Brooklyn
,” along with the warning “It’s the worst that could happen.”

My life seems full of riddles these days
, he thought. On the one hand, there was Andy and his father. On the other, there was the riddle of Stewart Reed.
Something is wrong with this picture.
Meghan Reed’s use of the same imagery that he’d been thinking in Judge Rosenmayer’s court days earlier reverberated in his mind.

Karp closed his eyes and imagined the scene in Reed’s apartment the night he died. He tried not to concentrate on any one detail but just let his mind’s eye roam. He sat bolt upright in his chair and punched in the number for Fulton’s phone.

A deep voice answered. “Fulton.”

“Hi, Clay,” Karp said. “You up for a drive to Queens?”

“Sure. What’s up?”

“Probably nothing,” Karp said. “Just following up on a request from Stewart Reed’s sister.”

“I’ll get the car and meet you out front.”

Karp hung up with Fulton and pulled Meghan Reed’s business card from his wallet and called. “Miss Reed? It’s District Attorney Karp…. Fine, thank you…. I was calling to ask if your mother has received Stewbie’s personal effects…. You have? Would you mind if I dropped by in thirty minutes? There’s something I’d like to check out…. I’d rather not say at the moment…. I’ll fill you in when I get there.”

Meghan Reed was waiting for them in the entry to the redbrick row house in Maspeth, an old blue-collar neighborhood in western Queens. He noted the Blue Star Flag in the window, indicating a member of the family was serving in a war zone. It reminded him
of childhood walks he used to take with his mother around their old neighborhood in Brooklyn post–World War II. She pointed out that the blue stars in the windows represented local boys—the high school guys he’d looked up to and their older brothers—who were away fighting in places like North Africa, Guadalcanal, Italy, Saipan, Normandy, and Iwo Jima. Some of the houses they passed—
“too many,”
she once said, and started to cry—had gold stars in the windows, occasionally more than one. Those were the boys, she said, as she tried to pull herself together,
“who won’t be coming home.”

It was his first realization that the life he enjoyed, the safety he always felt in his home, and his freedom that he experienced daily, had come at the expense of real people—young men like the baker’s son, Sam Caputo, and Bobby McPherson, whose father was a New York firefighter, and the rabbi’s kid, Irwin Brownstein. And it was a lesson he never forgot.

“By the way, I appreciate your service to this country,” he said as Meghan stepped into the house and held the door open.

At first she looked surprised, then her expression softened. “Thank you,” she said. “We don’t hear that very often. I believe in what I do.”

“Your brother also made sacrifices for this country,” Karp said, without knowing why he said it. “He could have gone into private practice—made more money, worked fewer hours. But he believed that he was protecting the citizens of this county.”

The young woman smiled and patted him on the shoulder. “I know he did, but thanks for saying it.”

She turned and led him and Fulton into the tiny living room where Gladys Reed sat waiting in a large, overstuffed chair. It was as if Karp had stepped back into his parents’ Brooklyn home in the 1950s; floral prints were in abundance—the furniture, drapes, and wallpaper—and a collection of Hummel porcelain figurines adorned the mantelpiece along with eight-by-ten photographs of her son and daughter.

“Mr. Karp, how lovely of you to drop by,” Gladys Reed said. “I know you’re so busy. I’m afraid the…the services…have left me exhausted. Would you or your friend care for a soda?”

“Thank you, but I’m good,” Karp replied. “This is Detective Clay Fulton. He headed up the investigation into your son’s death. Detective, would you care for a soda?”

“No, thank you,” Fulton replied. “Upsets my stomach, and I’m not thirsty.”