Robert Tanenbaum - Counterplay

The telephone was silent for a moment before Jaxon spoke again. It’s not that I like or don’t like him. I mean, the guy’s obviously a pro. He’s just not much of a team player, if you know what I mean, or maybe he doesn’t see me as being on his team. But I might just be grousing about playing second fiddle in my own neck of the woods.

Karp tried not to dwell on Andrew Kane and what he might be up to, especially as it affected his family. But it was pretty hard to entirely ignore a homicidal maniac who has promised to wipe your DNA from the planet.

So he’d tried to turn the negative into a positive by focusing on spending quality time with his family, in particular Marlene. Their marriage had survived a few recent rocky patches, but was still challenged by recent events. If it wasn’t Kane, then she was dwelling on the January death of her mother and the increasing mental deterioration of her father. So he’d taken to sending the kids out to a movie or some other activity-with a police escort-so that he and Marlene could spend more time together just necking on the couch or discussing the issues of the day. They’d even managed a couple of dinners out, which she seemed to appreciate, especially when she’d spent the day dealing with her father.

Meanwhile, Lucy was living in New Mexico, but there was nothing much he could do about that. He liked her boyfriend, the cowboy Ned Blanchet, who’d proved himself more than competent in tight situations, and John Jojola, the Indian police chief of the Taos Pueblo, was also out there keeping an eye on them.

Somehow, he’d even found more time to spend with the twins. Zak and Giancarlo were studying for their bar mitzvah, which unfortunately had just been scheduled for late October, right before the election. Karp was still teaching classes at the behest of the young rabbi at their synagogue for those taking their bar mitzvah (and even a few girls studying for their bat mitzvah). That ate up another night of the week.

With all that attention to the family and the job, he knew he wasn’t being fair to Murrow, who’d been working his butt off on the campaign. “I’ll try to pass off some of this office stuff so that I can attend as much as I can,” Karp told his assistant.

Karp saw that the next item on Murrow’s yellow pad was “Television Ads” for which he had a particular aversion, but was saved by the buzzing of the intercom. He reached forward and punched the answer button. “Yes, Mrs. Milquetost.”

“There’s a Mr. Espey Jaxon on the line for you,” she said. “He says he’s calling from California and that it’s urgent.”

Karp felt his stomach muscles tighten. I believe a harbinger of bad tidings will soon arrive from California… “Put him through, please,” he said, hitting another button to engage the speaker-phone.

“Hello, Espey, you taking up surfing?” he asked, leaning back in his chair and wishing the conversation would remain as light.

“I wish,” Jaxon replied. “Can I talk freely?”

Karp glanced at Murrow who asked with sign language if he should leave. But Karp shook his head. “Gilbert Murrow is here, if that’s okay,” he said. “I’d trust him with my life.” He winked at his aide who blushed and smiled.

“Yeah, sure, I know Mr. Murrow…hi, Gilbert…. Anyway, I’m afraid I have some bad news. Fey’s been murdered.”

Karp knew his jaw was hanging open, hopefully not as far as Murrow’s, but he couldn’t help it. He felt suddenly prescient in that he knew the information was only going to get worse. “When?” he asked, not sure why that was important at this point.

“Apparently, last night,” Jaxon said. “But nobody counted him missing until this morning. They found him out in the barn…. I have no idea why it took so long to discover he was missing and get word to me, but I flew out as soon as I heard.”

Karp heard the disgust, and the suspicion, in the agent’s voice. “How’d it happen?”

There was a pause on the other end of the line. “I’d rather talk about some of this in person, tomorrow morning when I get back,” he said. “But he was strangled…with a set of rosary beads.”

There it is, Karp thought, the other shoe…or maybe better, the ax, has fallen. “Kane,” he said.

“Looks like it,” Jaxon replied. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

He’d hardly hung up when the intercom on his desk buzzed again. “Your wife is here to see you, Mr. Karp?”

Karp slapped a hand to his head. “Shit. I forgot,” he said to Murrow, who got up and started to leave. “I’m having dinner with Marlene and…some old friends.” He was about to tell Mrs. Milquetost to send Marlene in when there was a squawk-some sort of strangled cry really-from the intercom and Karp’s office door flew open, nearly knocking Murrow off his feet.

“Well hello, Gilbert,” Marlene Ciampi said, her eyes narrowing. “Are you the reason my husband is having the gendarme stop me from entering?”

“Don’t hurt me,” Murrow squeaked, only half in jest, and scooted past her.

Marlene slammed the door on the still protesting Mrs. Milquetost. “The next time that woman tries to stop me, I’m going to scratch her eyes out.”

Ten minutes earlier, the security guards at the Justice Center tensed as the attractive woman with the dark hair and Mediterranean features nonchalantly pulled the Glock 9 mm from her purse. She’d already shown them her license to carry a concealed weapon and told them about the contents of the purse. But it wasn’t until she expertly slid the magazine from the handle, pulled back the slide to demonstrate there was no bullet in the chamber, and handed it to them that they were able to relax.

“Hold on, boys, there’s more,” she said, her hand moving slowly to the small of her back and lifting her shirt above the top of her blue jeans to expose the smaller Colt.380 tucked into a belt holster. She removed the gun, went through the same motions as with the first weapon, and handed it with a smile to the slack-jawed guards.

“Oh, and you’ll find a knife and a can of pepper spray in here,” she said, shoving her handbag toward one of them.

“Expecting a war today, Marlene?” asked Harry Kipman, the brilliant chief of the DAO’s appellate division. His security pass had allowed him to waltz in the building ahead of her though they’d arrived at 10 °Centre Street at the same time.

“I’m expecting a war every day,” Marlene Ciampi replied.

“I thought your hubby told me you’d given up gunslinging,” said Ray Guma, who’d seen them enter the building and had waited beyond the security desk.

“Times change,” Marlene said.

“Criminal masterminds escape,” Guma added.

“It’s just plain frickin’ dangerous out here,” noted Kipman, who absently patted his other arm, which was being supported by a sling. He was still recovering from being stabbed in the shoulder by Sarah Ryder and subsequent surgeries to repair nerve damage.

“I know, poor Harry,” Marlene said, passing through the metal detector and walking up to kiss him on the cheek. “Threw himself in front of me just like Superman and took the bullet.”

“Scissors.”

“Bullet…scissors sounds like you got in a fight with Hillary Clinton and she won.”

“Okay, bullet,” Kipman agreed.

“Machine-gun bullet, fifty cal,” Guma laughed.

“ ’Twas only a flesh wound,” Kipman replied with what he thought of as his “stiff upper lip” English accent as they walked to the elevator.

Even though it was almost closing time, they had to navigate through the human flotsam and jetsam that floated about the lobby. They skirted a mother who slapped her son, a hulking three-hundred-pounder, and scolded him for “hanging around that bad element.” The young man hung his head and took his medicine, though he looked like he would have preferred hearing it from a judge. “Yes, Momma. Sorry, Momma.”