Robert Tanenbaum - Resolved

"The bomb," she said. "Raney. Nora. The kids."

"I don't understand: what has all that to do with Agnelli?"

"Ah, don't grill me, okay? I know it doesn't make sense. I've stopped making sense, okay?" She picked up the remote and made laughter fill the room.

Karp snatched the remote from her and clicked the set off. "This is important," he said. "What's going on? Talk to me, Marlene!"

She turned to face him, so that her remaining eye could fix his. "You want to know what's going on? It's just blood lust, darling. I want to get the people who killed Nora Raney, just like I wanted to get the people who shot Giancarlo. And I couldn't so I took it out on a dumb-ass dope dealer and a silly teenage girl. I know it's crazy and irrational, I know that it's the law's business to find those people and put them away. And, lest you get all bent out of shape, I have no project under way to find them. Or Felix. But the feeling is in me. I want to see their blood. Should I go see someone about this? Yes. Will I? Probably not. I don't believe in psychotherapy. It's a faith, like Catholicism. You have to believe, on the basis of exactly zero evidence, that your maladjustments are due to the fact that Dad diddled you at age ten or Mom didn't love you. Or that your brain soup has the wrong kinds of molecules in it. And I don't."

"So, what do you believe?"

"I don't know. In fate. In doom. That I can't be with the people I love because my presence puts them in danger. That I'm an instrument of justice manipulated by powers outside this plane of existence, divine or demonic, I can't really tell. I need to get back to the island."

"Do you understand how crazy what you just said is?"

"Yes, I do, actually. Which means I'm probably still technically sane, at least in the eyes of the law. Speaking of which, now that you're going to be DA, my exploits are going to come under a good deal more scrutiny. I've just more or less admitted to you that I've committed serious felonies. Let me enumerate: possession of a silencing device, one count; criminal possession of a weapon, two counts; prohibited use of weapon, two counts; menacing, two counts; unlawful imprisonment, second, two counts. I think that's it. It's enough."

"What're you doing, Marlene?"

"I'm confessing to an officer of the law. Maybe jail is the best place for me."

Karp stood up. "No, you're just messing with my head," he said coldly. He felt cold, in fact, the cold of outer space. His wife was receding from him at speed, like an astronaut cut from her tether. "You can't confess to your spouse, as you very well know, but feel free to contact the police. I'm going to bed. You'll let me know your plans."

In the morning she was gone, with her dog and many of her cold weather garments. On the kitchen table was a workmanlike note describing in sufficient detail all the hoops that had to be gone through to get the boys registered in school, and a list of household reminders and contacts- doctors, plumbers, repairpersons, and all the various entities necessary to support a middle-class family in Manhattan. Marlene was severing.

His daughter asked him what was wrong when she came into the kitchen, so he supposed it showed on his face. "Your mom's off again. She left a note."

Lucy read it. "This is not good. It reads like she's not coming back."

"My thought, too."

"Well, don't worry, I can handle this stuff. Do you want me to make coffee?"

"No, sit down."

He sat, too, at the kitchen table, with Marlene's note fuming between them like a contract with the devil. "Listen, you are not, repeat not, going to leap into your mother's role around this house. You're still a kid, you're in college, you need to have a college kid's life. In fact, I think it would be a good idea if you finished up at Boston."

"I can't do that," she said instantly. "How will you manage? What about the boys?"

"I'll manage fine. If I need help, I'll hire it. In fact, I might even rent this place out and get an apartment in a doorman building. With a full-time housekeeper. I'm going to be a big shot with a car and driver and a bodyguard. And the boys are almost twelve. They can mostly look after themselves."

Lucy was about to object that the boys could not look after themselves, and would get into any number of scrapes if they were once outside the eagle eye of their sister, but then thought better of it. Being the district attorney was a completely different thing from being a mere minion thereof, even the chief minion. Her father would have police at his beck in any reasonable numbers. The Karp family had outgrown amateur security. Something in her sighed relief, and also whispered more enticingly of escape from the swamp her family had become and into if not precisely the arms of her boyfriend, at least into his daily presence.

"Okay," she said. "I guess you're right."

"You're sure? You're not going to go up there writhing in Catholic guilt?"

"No, I'm fine," she said, and gave him one of those illuminating smiles. "Sad but happy."

After the public announcement of John Keegan's nomination to the federal bench and the somewhat later and lower-key announcement that Karp had been nominated to fill his term, the usual King Lear power magic occurred on the eighth floor of the courthouse. Keegan immediately became a nullity as far as the DA's office was concerned, and all his power and influence flowed to Karp, even though Keegan was still formally the district attorney. Because Keegan was not actually retiring from public life (indeed, might even be said to be rising in it), there was no dimunition of phone calls or visits to his office. But as far as the DA's operations were concerned, Karp was in practical terms the DA. Those satraps- bureau chiefs and others- who had crony or political associations with Keegan, or who had rivalrous relations with Butch Karp, now either had to start looking for other work or, if they wanted to stay, had to come and render obeisance to the new magnifico.

To Karp's wonder, this latter group seemed perfectly natural in their expressions of congratulations and support, even though several of them, to his certain knowledge, hated his guts and had bad-mouthed him and worked to undermine him for years. During these sessions he experienced feelings he could not recall having previously, swollen bullfrog feelings, satisfaction of boot-on-neck feelings.

"What's the matter, boss? You look queasy," Murrow observed after one of these sessions.

"I am queasy. I can't get used to being brownnosed shamelessly. I want to say, 'Oh, fuck you, you slob, kissing my ass will not preserve your miserable job for a single day,' but I don't. Somehow it's not allowed. Strange."

"Yes. And we recall Lord Acton's famous apothegm, don't we?"

"Yeah. Are we corrupt yet?"

"I certainly am, since I'm browned by a lot more people than you are, being more accessible. I kind of like it, because I know that the hatred focused on the guy who guards the access to the great man and speaks with his voice is a thousand times greater than the hatred focused on the great man himself. And I'm really such a nice guy. So let them writhe in the dust."

"I'll pretend you didn't say that, Murrow," replied Karp, thinking now about power and how very much of it he had: that there are few public officials in American life whose power is more absolute within a defined sphere than that of a district attorney.

"Speaking of writhing," said Murrow, "Ms. Rachman is out there. You want her to come in, or should we make her sweat some of her makeup off."

"No cruelty, Murrow," said Karp. "Send her in. And stay yourself."

Laura Rachman came in in a suit so bright blue that it looked like it had been snipped from a French flag. She was wearing a white blouse and a red, white, and blue scarf, giving her the look of a Fourth of July float. She sat and they made pleasantries for a few minutes, during which it was perfectly apparent that Ms. Rachman was just as prepared to kiss ass as any other subordinate manager in the office. Karp, however, stifled a particularly fulsome trope by saying, "We need to talk about what we're going to do about Terry Palmisano."