Robert Tanenbaum: Malice

"Probably gangs or some neighborhood spat," Dean Newbury said, scowling. "Or the slumlord was looking for an insurance payment. I thought they already buried the victim."

"This is a memorial service," Karp said. "There weren't many people at his funeral."

"And there will be now?" Dean Newbury asked.

"I think so," Karp replied. "Now, if you'll excuse me, V.T., you take care, and we'll talk soon."

"Yeah," V.T. replied without turning back to look at Karp. "See you around."

Karp took a cab to the Irish cemetery in Yonkers and walked as briskly as his leg would allow up a grassy hill to where a crowd had gathered at the gravesides of Cian Magee and his parents. As he approached, the pipes and drums of the Irish Society of County Heath struck up and began playing "Amazing Grace."

Making his way to where Marlene was standing with the guest of honor, Karp noted the great variety of mourners. A "real" memorial service had been, of course, Lucy's idea. "He deserved better than what he got after all it meant," she'd argued, and set to work.

Among the attendees were Espey Jaxon and several of his agents, as well as Tran, accompanied by a dozen shade-wearing Vietnamese gangsters who were giving Ivgeny Karchovski and a half dozen Russian mobsters respectful nods, which were returned. John Jojola and Ned were standing next to Lucy, who'd dressed in black like a widow and was crying softly near the small brass shamrock memorial she'd paid to have placed on Magee's grave. Surprised, Karp also spotted Edward Treacher and two more of the street people who hung regularly around the Criminal Courts Building, the Walking Booger and Dirty Warren, the newspaper stand owner with Tourette's syndrome. Beyond them, standing on a hill in the distance, he noted a tall, thin figure in a dark robe. Unfinished business, he thought as he turned and smiled at Murrow and Stupenagel, who'd been told she could come only if she didn't write a story until Lucy told her it was okay.

There were a dozen or more other faces he thought he recognized as some of Lucy's old friends, plus the twins, Zak and Giancarlo, who looked handsome but uncomfortable in their suits and ties. "Quite the turnout," he said as he walked up next to Marlene.

"Yes, nice, isn't it," Marlene replied, finding his hand with her own. "Butch, have you ever met Senator McCullum?" She turned to the tall red-haired man next to her. "Senator, my husband, Butch Karp."

"Never had the pleasure, though I enjoyed hearing you speak on one occasion," Karp said, reaching across Marlene to shake the senator's hand.

"The pleasure's mine," McCullum said. "I'm an admirer."

"In Montana?" Karp asked.

The senator laughed. "Actually, I hear the Karp name bandied about more in Washington and, of course, when I'm here in New York," he said. "But you can be sure that the news out of Idaho was reported in Montana as well." The music stopped and the senator whispered, "I think that's my cue."

Karp shook his head as McCullum walked over to where Lucy stood and hugged her. Although much of the case was still classified, and would remain that way until Jaxon found and destroyed the Sons of Man, Karp's daughter had asked the agent if he would tell the senator about the man who had uncovered the plot to assassinate him and died for it. When the senator heard about the memorial service, he'd insisted that he attend. His participation had been kept a secret, and quite a few eyes grew wider-especially Stupenagel's-when he stepped away from Lucy to speak to the crowd.

"We've gathered today to honor an American patriot," McCullum began. "And a man who took great pride in his Irish roots, as do I. We should all be proud of where we came from, because it's what made this country great. It's what creates patriots. A land of diversity and a land in which words and ideas are more powerful than bullets or bombs. I'm told that Cian Magee was a man who appreciated words, so I'd like to read you something my grandmother used to say to me whenever I left the house." He pulled a small piece of paper from his breast pocket. "It's an old Irish poem, and I'm going to try this in the mother tongue in honor of Cian. Those of you who speak Irish Gaelic better than I, forgive my mistakes; I've asked Lucy to translate when I'm finished for the rest of you. This is called, 'Go n'eiri an bothar leat.'"

"Go n'eiri an bothar leat," the senator repeated, his voice carrying over the green grass and beneath the oak, sycamore, and walnut trees that lined the roads of the cemetery.