Robert Tanenbaum - Resolved

"Sor-reee. So when do I blow the judge?"

"Tomorrow morning. I will give you further instructions then. Now, I have more work to do. You will leave now."

Felix made no move to follow this order, but wandered around the room poking into the various bins.

"Do not touch those things, please! I ask you to leave. Now!"

Felix had found what he was looking for. "Okay, okay, don't get all bent out of shape. I'm going."

He went out of the room. Rashid shut the door and threw the bolt. Felix took a moment to study the combination lock hanging open on its hasp. The sense of confidence and brilliance from the methamphetamine was still strong in him, and the idea that popped into his mind at that moment seemed like a stroke of genius. He left the house and walked with a spring in his step along Broadway to the hardware store he had visited that morning. There he purchased a Master combination lock exactly similar in appearance to the one on the cellar door hasp. He went back to the house and down the basement stairs. The door was still shut, and the lock was still hanging open. He switched locks and crept up the stairs.

When the Spaniards came home, Felix was in the living room watching television. He had been surprised to find that the house had cable, something new since he left for upstate. He was watching MTV with the sound off. He liked watching the girls but thought the music was shit. Carlos picked up the remote and switched the channels rapidly until he found a soccer game. Felix didn't object. He had scored some downers, too, and was working on his mix, just the right combination of prescription drugs for the feeling he wanted, strong and confident, but relaxed, too, so that he wouldn't get into one of his rages. Later maybe, but not now. He had to find the money, find out where the little Arab fuck stashed it. There had to be money. Everyone knew terrorism was a cash business. Then all these fuckers would get theirs.

The little Arab fuck came up from the basement and started jabbering in Arabic to the two Spaniards. They spoke Arabic, too, which didn't make much sense, since they were spics. Maybe part of Spain was Arab now. A lot of things had changed while he'd been in- cable, computers, all this terrorist shit, the weird people on the streets, women in fucking veils, niggers from Africa. He didn't like it, but what could you do? The main thing was the money. Keep calm, get the money, that was the plan. And revenge, that was important, too. That girl.

Rashid went out and drove off in his green Toyota station wagon. Of course, he got to drive a car. Felix waited until the sound of the car had faded. The Spaniards were glued to soccer. He went down to the basement, opened his lock, and went in. The completed bombs were racked neatly in a cardboard box, seven of them, separated by bubble wrap. He took one and adjusted the wrap to mask the loss. He replaced the original lock, went up to his room, and stashed the bomb under his mattress.

"What the hell was that?" said Karp to no one in particular. The sound had been loud and sharp, and seemed close, quite different from the muffled roar that he and everyone else in lower Manhattan had heard on September 11. Karp was in the fifth floor hallway of the courthouse proper. For a moment after the sound, everyone froze and let out an exclamation similar to Karp's, exclamations of astonishment, curses, a few prayers. Then the small crowd moved as one down to the end of the hallway by the elevator banks, to where tall windows gave views of the street. Karp could see nothing except wisps of dark smoke. The word "bomb" was much heard. And "terrorists." This was New York in the zero years of the new century.

Karp crossed through the security door to the DA's side of the building and climbed the three flights to his office floor.

"Did you hear it?" he asked Flynn, the secretary.

She had. She thought it sounded like a bomb, too.

"Murrow!"

Murrow came out of his cubbyhole. "It was a bomb, apparently," he said without being asked. "One of the judges' cars."

"Anyone hurt?"

"Yes, one killed. A court officer, Bedloe. You know, the one who tells you you can't park in the judges' lot. He was moving one of the cars like he does when the lot's jammed and it blew up."

"Christ! Where did you find this out?"

"When I heard the explosion, I called Jerry in the ground-floor snack bar. He always knows what's going on before anyone else. What do you think? More terrorists?"

"Doubtful. I was under the impression that the terror community was into clipping federal judges, not lowly state ones. Do you know whose car it was?"

"A brown Lincoln is all I heard. I could find out."

"Do so. Oh, and Murrow? Did you get anywhere on that other thing? I'm booked in with Jack and Rachman later."

"Yeah, Dr. Hirsch and the lovely Leona. Memo's on your desk."

Karp found that Murrow had done his usual thorough job, a page and a half of pure fact, which the sex crimes bureau should have discovered, but did not. He absorbed the details and turned to other things.

At lunchtime, Karp went down the street and walked around Foley Square to the special lot where the judges and other court officials kept their cars. Crime scene tape was up and the area was thronged with police and media wagons. Also present were the small band of demonstrators, with placards and bullhorn, demanding justice for Mr. Onabajo. They had been there since the trial started, local Nigerians, the women in loud prints, the men in African caps, together with the usual representatives of the African-American community. The wrecked car had been towed away, but a police tow truck was lifting another car damaged by the blast. Karp approached a detective he recognized from another case.

"What's the story, Sam?" he asked.

Sam Moscow looked around with a hard cop expression on his round face, which softened when he saw who it was. In response to Karp's questions, he said, "Oh, this here? We like it as an attempted assassination of a judge. Unless someone had a hard-on for old Bedloe. He gave out one ticket too many."

"Who owned the car?"

"Judge Horowitz. Nice Lincoln Towncar. There's frag all over the lot. No question it's high explosive, not any cheap-ass black powder jobbie."

"That doesn't sound good."

"Tell me about it!" said Moscow, turning a hard eye on a couple walking past, the man bearded with a turban, the woman in a sari, and also taking in the Onabajo people.

"Fuckin' city these days."

Karp let this pass. "You on the case?"

"Me? Nah, our loo sent a bunch of us from the Five down here to help out with the canvass. A red-ball obviously, with a judge being a probable target. The bomb squad will get most of the action. We're trying to see if anyone saw the perp."

"Did anyone?"

"Not yet. What's this Horowitz like? A hard ass?"

"Not particularly," said Karp. "He's been in Supreme Court about twelve years. I don't recall anyone shaking their fist at sentencing-'I'll get you if it's the last thing I do, you bastard.' But you never can tell. Or it might have nothing to do with his courtroom life. He might not even be the target. You recall those scumbags who were whacking cops at random, back in the day."

"Oh, yeah, them," said Moscow, morosely. "That's all we fuckin' need. Anyway, we'll find out which. Or not, as the case may be. I gotta go."

Karp watched the detective walk over to a group of uniforms. He thought about bombs, and bomb cases, of which there had been more than might be expected in his career, and Judge Horowitz. Out of his vast memory for cases the connection floated up: Evan Horowitz had been the judge who sentenced Feisal ibn-Salemeh to life imprisonment without parole for several murders and for plotting to bomb the offices of B'nai Brith, what was it? ten or so years back. That was a connection, thin but real, between terrorism, bombs, and the judge. He thought briefly of going over and telling Moscow this, but dismissed the idea. They'd find it out in short order. As the man had said, people who tried to assassinate judges got the full attention of the police.