Capture (Butch Karp Thrillers) (32 page)

The young man’s unexpected rejoinder seemed to suck the air out of the courtroom. Mouths hung open, every eye traveling from Gianneschi to Leonard to see how the defense attorney would react. Then someone in the spectator section whistled and said, “Oooh,
pysch,
” which caused the courtroom to erupt in laughter.

It took Rosenmayer several minutes to restore order, including tossing the offending spectator out of the courtroom.

At last Gianneschi was allowed to get down from the stand. Karp watched him go and then turned to the judge. “Your Honor, Mr. Gianneschi was our last witness. That concludes the People’s case.”

Leonard and the rest of the defense team, as well as Maplethorpe, looked up in shock. Even the jurors appeared to be pleasantly surprised; they’d been told to expect the trial to last weeks, as the first trial had. Gathering his composure, the defense attorney addressed the judge. “Your Honor, perhaps we should discuss this outside the hearing of the jury.”

“I think that’s wise,” Rosenmayer agreed. He turned to the jury and excused them for the night.

When the jurors had happily trooped out of the courtroom, Leonard whirled to face Karp. “That’s it?” he said. “Aren’t you going to call any of the experts on your witness list?”

Karp shrugged his broad shoulders. “Not on direct. Maybe as rebuttal to your experts.” He looked at Rosenmayer. “There is one last piece of housekeeping before we break. A last piece of evidence I would like to have admitted when the jury returns.”

“And what’s that, Mr. Karp?” Rosenmayer asked.

Karp walked over to the prosecution table, where Kenny Katz handed him several copies of a black-and-white photograph. He handed one to the judge and one to Leonard.

As expected, Leonard got to his feet. “I object, Your Honor, what’s the relevance of this?”

Rosenmayer looked at Karp. “Want to explain?”

“Actually, Your Honor, this photograph is already part of the evidence,” Karp said. “You’ll recall the testimony of Detective Frank Cardamone regarding a framed photograph that can be seen on the
end table at the crime scene. He said it was a photograph of the defendant as a child standing with his mother.”

Karp walked over toward the judge. “As you can see, in this photograph, the defendant is dressed up as a cowboy—hat, gun in holster, boots…and chaps. It is our contention that the reckless environment created by the defendant, coupled with his penchant for violent, lustful conduct, which led to the death of Miss Perez, is a type of role-playing related to this photograph. In a pretrial hearing, before the first trial, you may also recall Mr. Maplethorpe suddenly grew violent and had to be subdued when the defense introduced this photograph and noted that Mr. Maplethorpe’s mother had left him as a boy—”

“
Leave my mother out of this, Karp!
”

Even though Karp expected to get a rise out of Maplethorpe with the photograph, he, like everyone else in the courtroom, was shocked as the defendant jumped up from his seat and screamed as he pointed at him. “
Not one more word!
”

Leonard rose from his seat and grabbed Maplethorpe by the elbow. “It’s okay,” he assured his client. “Don’t let him—”

Suddenly, the defense attorney started to shriek. Without a word, Maplethorpe had turned and stabbed Leonard in the thigh with his pen.

“You should have stopped, Karp,” Maplethorpe complained a moment before two large court officers jumped on him and knocked him to the ground.

Several of Maplethorpe’s followers screamed and tried to rush to his assistance only to be wrestled to the ground by more security officers, handcuffed, and dragged from the courtroom. General bedlam ensued for several minutes, as the defendant was hauled shrieking and kicking out of the courtroom, before it was over.

As a paramedic attended to the puncture wound in Leonard’s leg, the judge shook his head, stood up, and gathered his notebook and papers. As he started to leave the dais, he said, “Now that we’re off the record, Mr. Karp, has anyone ever told you that on occasion you can be annoying?” Rosenmayer smiled and added, “You don’t have to answer.”

But Karp cleared his throat. “Yes, as a matter of fact,” he admit
ted. “Your Honor, if I may, before we leave, you haven’t yet ruled on Mr. Leonard’s objection to the photograph.”

Leonard looked up as though dazed. “You’ve got to be kidding. That photograph has nearly got me killed twice.”

“Third time’s a charm.” Karp smiled. “But actually, no, I’m not kidding.”

The judge thought about it for a moment. “In light of two witnesses’ testimony regarding chaps, and what would appear to be a connection between the defendant’s past, that particular article of clothing, and his current propensity for violence, I’m going to overrule the objection. I believe relevance has been established. I would suggest that you stay some distance from your client on Monday, Mr. Leonard.”

Five minutes later, the courtroom was clear except for Karp and Katz, who shook his head. “That went well,” he said.

Karp patted him on the back. “Yeah? What makes you think that?” Laughing, the two men left the courtroom.

K
ARP SAT ON A STOOL AT THE ISLAND IN HIS KITCHEN RUBBING
his stomach, which he’d filled with turkey, prime rib, stuffing, mashed potatoes and gravy, and cranberry Jell-O mold, his favorite, made from his mother-in-law’s recipe. Thanksgiving was Karp’s favorite holiday, and while he’d warned himself of the consequences of his actions, he’d gone ahead and indulged in two generous pieces of chocolate and banana cream pie brought by the Sobelmans. Now he was paying the piper.

The others who’d gathered at the Karp-Ciampi loft to celebrate the holiday were busy in the living room, engaged in noisy, overly energetic word games. They included the twins; Marlene; Kenny Katz and his girlfriend, Sondra; Moishe and his wife, Goldie; as well as Guma, who had shown up, unexpectantly and a little red-faced, with Darla Milquetost.

“Why, Guma,”
Karp had teased when he got him aside before dinner,
“I do believe you’ve developed a soft spot for my receptionist. I hope your intentions are honorable.”

Guma tried to blow it off as a humanitarian gesture.
“She’s been having a hard time since her boyfriend took off for parts unknown. I thought she might be lonely, and you said I could bring someone.”

“By all means.”
Karp laughed.
“And a good choice. I would have
invited her myself if I’d thought about it. But on Thanksgivings past ‘bringing someone’ usually meant whichever stripper or barfly you went to bed with the night before.”

“Maybe I’ve matured,”
Guma replied defensively.

“Or, more likely, you’ve identified Darla as easy pickings, hence my question about your intentions,”
Karp shot back.

That was two hours ago and Karp was no longer in the mood for teasing Guma, or word games. His poor stomach gurgled and rumbled as he attempted to take his mind off his gastronomic distress by retreating to the kitchen to make a few notes to himself about the previous day in court and the start of the defense case.

Karp knew that when the trial resumed on Monday the true test of his “minimalist” strategy would come. He was reminded of the DVD retrospective the defense presented the other day in court that began with the narrator, who Karp thought sounded like the guy who records voice-overs for NFL Films, setting the scene: “In a small town in Ohio, where a young boy once saw a traveling Broadway production of
The Music Man
, and dreamed of life in the theater…” The DVD featured scenes from some of Maplethorpe’s more famous productions, and interspersed were testimonials of famous Broadway and civic personalities.

The defense would be trying to overwhelm the jury with all sorts of bombastic expert witnesses with important-sounding credentials and lots of letters after their names, from shrinks to blood-splatter-pattern analysts. It would be up to him to cut through their bullshit without adding to their credibility.

As he looked over his notes, he felt prepared and looked forward to the resumption of the trial. But then he glanced at the margins of one page on his notepad and suddenly felt at a loss again. He’d written the words “Casa Blanca,” “art of war,” and “
It Happened in Brooklyn
” on the page, as if writing them would create some sort of magic and he’d understand. But he was no closer now than the day he first heard from Andy.

They meant something, of that he was sure.
“In Casa Blanca plans are made that have to do with the art of war.”
But what did they
mean? There were plenty of white houses in Brooklyn but none that stood out in the context of a potential terrorist attack. Or seemed to have any relationship to an ancient book of military strategy.

“Oh, and he said to tell you to think about the view.”
Dirty Warren was sure that was what the man said, and Karp had gone over it a thousand times in his head. Did he mean the view of Manhattan from Brooklyn? In that case, the view was principally of the downtown skyline and the Brooklyn and Manhattan bridges. Or was it supposed to be the view of Brooklyn from the Manhattan side of the East River, in which case the scenery ran the gamut from industrial waterfront, as far as the ship repair facilities, to the same two bridges down to Brooklyn Heights. Whichever way he looked—and he’d stood on both sides of the river plenty lately doing just that—nothing stood out.

The riddles were just too vague, but more than that, he felt like he was missing something. That the clue he needed was right in front of him, but he couldn’t see it.

And what did any of it have to do with the tape he’d received from V.T.? Just thinking about that made him feel guilty. After all of V.T.’s troubles and Fulton’s efforts, he’d tossed the recording in his desk drawer and forgot about it in the wake of the attack on Carmina Salinas and the subsequent arrest of AME Kip Bergendorf. Then the trial started and it wasn’t until Wednesday evening as he was leaving for home that he’d opened his drawer and there it was. He hadn’t even had a chance yet to tell V.T. about Bergendorf.

Karp had listened to the recording several times since, with no more understanding of what it meant than he had of Andy’s riddles. “The package is on the way.”
What package…a person, a bomb, an illicit case of Cuban cigars?
“No, there’s been a change…five days later.”
Later than what? Sounds like a target date got pushed back. But from what to what? And then there was the name…Ivan or Iben Jew-bare.
The first name was unclear and the second he had only a poor quality phonetic pronunciation. He’d had Fulton run a dozen different variations on both names through the national crime computer database, but nothing had come of it.

Karp would have liked to talk to Jaxon about all of it, but he hadn’t heard from the agent—or, for that matter, from Ned Blanchett or Lucy. The fact that Lucy still had not called convinced Marlene that she was off on this secret mission with the men but hadn’t wanted to worry her parents. “Next time I see that little brat,” his wife steamed, “I’m going to let her know in no uncertain terms that this is worse than knowing she’s off chasing terrorists.”

All day Karp had worried that whatever all of it meant, the target date was Thanksgiving. As part of the Five Borough Anti-Terrorism Task Force, he was well aware that NYPD and federal law enforcement had been worried for years that the annual Macy’s parade, with tens of thousands of people packed into a small area, was a prime target for a terrorist chemical or gas attack or a car bomb. But without any specific threat, there was nothing much he could do other than to ask Fulton to pass on to the NYPD higher-ups that there was an unspecified threat to add to their concerns. But the morning, when the crowd was at its zenith, had passed without incident.

What about tomorrow?
The day after Thanksgiving was the busiest shopping day of the year. Known as Black Friday because it was the day merchants “went into the black” in profits for the year, there were actually more people in the city, on the sidewalks and in the stores, than on Thanksgiving. Of course, both scenarios ignored the fact that neither the parade nor Black Friday’s crowds were in Brooklyn.

And if the attack was moved back five days—that could mean Tuesday
or
Wednesday or
—Karp stopped; the whole thing was giving him a headache to match the pain in his stomach. He became aware of an argument between Zak and Giancarlo in the other room.

The boys’ relationship had remained strained ever since Elisa Robyn asked Giancarlo to the dance. Or more accurately, ever since he’d accepted.

Zak was used to being the center of attention when it came to the two boys. The boisterous, competitive athlete, he wasn’t used to coming in second to his brother. He hadn’t said anything more about it—at least nothing that Karp had heard—but he’d started
doing more things on his own or with other friends. The two boys had been nearly inseparable from the womb to now, and Zak’s sudden independence said a lot about his level of resentment.

Giancarlo, on the other hand, wasn’t helping matters any. Despite all his musical and academic talents, when it came to “guy stuff,” he’d always been in the shadow of his bigger, stronger brother. However, “winning the girl” had changed that and he wasn’t shy about rubbing it in Zak’s face, especially when his brother said anything about Elisa and Giancarlo being “two-faced phonies.”

Marlene had tried to talk to Giancarlo about why Zak was reacting that way. But while he’d always been the twin who was the most likely to see both sides in an argument, he wasn’t having it this time.
“He’s being a big baby,”
he’d said to Marlene.
“She likes me and she doesn’t like him. And no wonder, all he can do is act like a macho jerk, running around flexing his muscles and saying stupid stuff. I shouldn’t have to walk on eggshells; he’s the one who should knock it off.”

Karp figured they’d eventually get over it. Elisa Robyn would move on. Zak would get a girlfriend of his own. However, it was driving Marlene crazy. She’d come from a big, loud but loving Italian family.

Now she was trying to moderate an argument between the twins while their guests pretended not to notice.

“What’s going on?” Karp asked, though he wasn’t sure he wanted to get in the middle of it.
A nap sounds good right about now
.

“We’re playing a riddle game and Zak’s pissed because his team lost,” Giancarlo complained.

“And Giancarlo guessed the winning answer,” Marlene pointed out. “But nobody else got it either, Zak. Come on, be a good sport.”

“It was a stupid riddle,” Zak sulked.

“What was the riddle?” Karp asked in spite of his headache,

“Think of words ending in ‘gry.’ Angry and hungry are two of them,” Marlene read from a game card. “There are only three words in the English language. What is the third word? The word is something that everybody uses every day. If you have listened carefully, I’ve already told you what it is.”

Karp thought about it. “Can I use my legal pad?”

“Sure,” Marlene said. “Shall I repeat it for you?”

As Marlene read it again, Karp wrote the riddle down. He stared at it for a minute as the others began to heckle him. He glanced up at the top of the page where he’d written “cut through the bullshit” and underlined it twice. Then it became clear to him.

“Well, the key to this is to realize that the answer here is surrounded by distractions,” he said, then looked at Katz. “Sort of like in the Maplethorpe trial. So start by disregarding the first two sentences, which are: ‘Think of words ending in ‘gry.’ Angry and hungry are two of them.’ They have nothing to do with this case…I mean, riddle.”

“You can take the lawyer out of the courtroom, but…” Katz said to general laughter from everyone except Zak.

“Yeah, yeah…now listen carefully to what you have left: ‘There are only three words in the English language. What is the third word?’ The rest of the riddle is all true but irrelevant. So the answer is: language. Language is the third word of ‘the English language.’ It’s also something we use every day.”

The others clapped. “Showoff,” Zak muttered. “Just like Giancarlo.”

Marlene scowled. “Zak, knock it off.”

The company shifted uncomfortably in their seats and tried to find something else to look at. The Sobelmans held hands and smiled, while Kenny and Sondra got “maybe kids aren’t such a good idea” expressions on their faces. Only Darla Milquetost, who appeared to have been enjoying the Zinfandel port that Katz had brought over, and Guma seemed oblivious as they whispered in each other’s ears and giggled on the couch.

“Okay, smart guy, try another one,” Marlene said to break the ice. She pulled another card from a box. “Who said ‘A riddle wrapped up in an enigma’ and what does it mean?”

“It means ‘a puzzle that is difficult to solve,’” Karp said. “And I believe it was Winston Churchill, but I don’t think that’s an accurate quotation.”

“Well, that’s what it says is the right answer,” Marlene replied, reading the back of the card.

“But I think they got it wrong.”

Katz laughed. “Now he’s challenging the trivia experts at Hasbro!”

“Quit while you’re ahead,
boychick
,” Moishe said.

“How can he be a boy and a chick?” Zak scowled.

“
Boychick
is a Yiddish term of endearment for a boy,” Moishe explained.

“He’s not a boy,” Zak countered. “He’s
old.”

“Not as old as I am,
boychick
number two.” Moishe laughed. “Now
that
is old.”

“Dad’s right!” Giancarlo said suddenly, looking up from his laptop computer.

“About what this time?” Zak replied.

“I searched the Internet for the quote ‘a riddle wrapped up in an enigma’ and this is what it says: ‘A form of a Winston Churchill quote in a 1939 radio broadcast: ‘I cannot forecast to you the action of Russia. It is a riddle, wrapped in a mystery, inside an enigma; but perhaps there is a key. That key is Russian national interest.’”

“Ah, that’s right,” Moishe said. “I remember it on the radio right before the war. It was the start of the bad years. That was very good, Butch. You know your history.”

All the eyes in the room turned to Karp, who stood with his chin cupped in his hand, staring at the floor. “Okay, I got one for all of you,” he said.

“Bring it on,
boychick
,” Marlene said.

“‘In Casa Blanca plans are made that have to do with the art of war. One can be a house, the other is usually not an art. But when you look at both what do you see? And so does the deadly connection between the two sides.’”

Karp looked over at Marlene. She was the only one in the room who knew the significance of the riddle. She gave him an apprising look, but the rest of the people in the room furrowed their brows in thought and mouthed the words like incantations. It did not surprise him that Katz was the first to speak.

“Well, let’s go back to the old legal pad theory of riddle solving,” Kenny said. “What if the first two sentences are just distractions? Well, in this case they’re more than that because they give us ‘Casa
Blanca’ and ‘art of war.’ But otherwise, they’re just there to disguise the real question.”