Robert Tanenbaum - Absolute rage

He took the pencil out of his mouth and examined it with distaste. It looked like a dog had been at it. He tossed it at the wastebasket; it bounced off the rim and fell on the floor. He couldn't even sink shots anymore. The phone rang: Dick Sullivan, the new homicide bureau chief, with the latest on Lok the Decapitator, as the tabloids had named him. The ME report had come back on Emilio Solano, the seventeen-year-old deceased in the case. Apparently Lok had hacked the robber heavily enough to render him quite helpless before delivering the fatal chop. Therefore the decapitation was a homicide and not strictly self-defense. Sullivan was going to charge him with manslaughter one.

"Sounds right," said Karp. "Will he plead?"

"Not likely. The Asian community's got a huge defense fund already. They've retained Morrie Silver on it."

"I hope you gave him my regards, the sly fucker."

"He sends his, likewise," said Sullivan. "He was dickering for man two, minimum sentence, minimum security, the usual."

"I hope you told him to blow it out his ass."

"Not in so many words. Anyway, I guess maybe we're going to have to try this beauty, in the full glare of the media, editorials, ethnic cleansing, et cetera." There was a question in his voice. Sullivan had not been Karp's first pick for homicide. He came from the Queens DA, and Karp liked promoting people from within. Besides, Queens? Karp suspected that there had been some political juice for Keegan in the appointment. The man seemed competent enough, however.

"Well, try him and win it, Dick. That's what we used to do around here all the time."

"I assume it's okay with the chief."

"It's the right thing to do," said Karp blandly. "The district attorney always does the right thing, as you know."

Karp hung up, cursed, paced, kicked a steel filing cabinet. Sullivan would not take his word for it and would call Keegan, and of course Keegan would not stay the hell away from meddling in a case that involved two important electoral communities and was getting major press. Karp sat down and jabbed at a speed-dial button.

A treble voice answered, "Wingfield Farm, registered mastiffs, GC Karp speaking."

"Hello, this is Madonna. I'd like a dozen registered mastiffs in assorted colors, please."

"Hi, Dad."

"What are you doing in the office?"

"Answering the phone."

"I know that, dummy. Why aren't you playing and generally having a carefree little-boy childhood?"

"Lucy made me. She's being Cruella."

"You poor thing. I'm thinking of coming out there for a couple, three weeks. Maybe Lucy would let me answer the phone sometimes."

"We can use the help," said his son with a disappointing lack of boyish enthusiasm for merry hours spent with Daddy. "Actually, I like being inside. It's too hot out and I can play on the computer. Do you want to talk to the Luce?"

Karp said he did and heard the phone drop with a clunk. Minutes passed.

"Dad? What's up?" asked the Luce.

"You're being Cruella."

"Did that little rat call you and complain?"

"No, I called. Do you really need someone manning the phone?"

"Boying it, technically. Yeah, until we move the pups. The phone's ringing off the hook since we placed ads."

"Everything okay? The felons all in good order?"

"Yeah, they don't mess with Cruella. How's your lonely grandeur?"

"Hm. That's what I wanted to talk to you about. I'm on the horns of a dilemma."

He explained briefly what Saul Sterner wanted him to do, adding, "So the good part of the deal, besides its inherent virtue, is that I'd get to be with Mom for however long, the summer at least, until we saw how things lay, sort of a vacation in the mountains."

"Meaning you could keep an eye on her."

"That, too," said Karp, glad once again that another person in the world shared his view of his wife. "On the other hand, I'm uncomfortable with both of us being out of town and you stuck here in charge."

"We could all come down there," said Lucy brightly.

"What about the farm?"

"Oh, we'd bring Magog. Billy can handle the place after the puppies are sold, and if not, he can hire a teenager from town."

"I don't think so. That's all we need is to have to worry about you all. Apparently it's a pretty violent part of the country."

"Violence! Heavens to Betsy! What a sharp contrast that would be to my entire childhood! Well, you've succeeded in terrifying me out of that idea."

"I was actually thinking of the boys," said Karp, a little more sharply than he had intended.

"Oh, right-sorry," she said, and actually was, because she had not thought for a second about her brothers. What had immediately occupied the center of her thoughts when her father had proposed going to West Virginia was the prospect of seeing Dan Heeney again. "Okay, if you decide to go, I can hold the fort here. Don't worry."

"Are you sure? I mean, they can get someone else."

"But you're dying to go, right?"

Karp hesitated before replying to this. "I'm not sure… the main thing is I'm concerned about you. You have all that scientific stuff to do up in Boston. It doesn't seem fair to tie up your summer with babysitting."

"It's starting to sound like you're using us as an excuse. You're the responsible parent and Mom is the cuckoo."

"Not really…"

"Really. Look, the way it sounds is that they want you and you can do it better than anyone. And it's important-getting the rats who killed them. It's just your kind of thing. As far as the Boston guys are concerned, I already blew them off. It's not like they can find another me by placing an ad in the Globe. It's a seller's market in the prodigy biz."

"You actually are irreplaceable," said Karp fervently. "And I don't just mean all the Swahili."

"And you likewise. Since you're all guilted up, this would be a good time to ask you if I can get the Toyota fixed. It would be great to have."

"Is it fixable?" asked Karp, who knew little about vehicles.

"Russell says yes, and apparently he's a car maven as well as a dog agitator, kind of a Renaissance man. I'll pay for the fixing if you'll handle all the plates and insurance crap."

"A done deal. Are you absolutely sure…?"

"Of course. Go. Don't worry about us. And keep in touch, okay?"

After hanging up, Karp sat back in his chair. He had a peculiar feeling, hauntingly familiar, but it took him some little time to identify it. The last day of school? Winning a big case? Oh, right, he thought: happiness. He kicked off and spun his chair around half a dozen times. Swiveling around to the desk again, he dialed Saul Sterner's number.

Marlene was swinging in a hammock strung in the Heeneys' backyard, using a finger against the skull of her dog to push herself in a gentle rocking motion, and at the same time scratching him in the place he liked behind his ear. The dog was happy with this arrangement; Marlene less so. She did not like being stymied. She finished her beer and tossed it in a graceful arc, which did not quite reach the lip of the rubber trash can. Dan Heeney stirred himself from the lounge chair where he was drinking, reached out an arm, and flipped the can in. It was hot under a milk-glass sky. Only vagrant zephyrs stirred the dusty leaves of the maples. She was officially thinking about their next move, but productive thoughts were slow in coming. Had this been a real case, she would have been working with a private detective, doing the investigation that the cops had fluffed, maybe establishing an alibi for the defendant, maybe collecting new evidence. In this particular abortion, however, this was not going to do much good, because the cops and the criminal justice system would take anything she discovered and lose it, or phony up something that undermined it.

Stan Hawes might be interested. She didn't think he was really dirty yet, but it would take an extremely pure-minded state's attorney to actively cooperate in wrecking the biggest case he was likely to see in a decade. She needed something new and major then, the murder weapon maybe, or a signed confession from the real guys, one about as likely to turn up as the other. There was no crime-scene forensic evidence that did her any good. There were prints in the house from dozens of people, but distinguishing among these, separating the killers' from those of the Heeneys' many guests, was a job beyond her resources. If she had been there from the beginning, in charge of the investigation, or even on defense from the get-go… no, useless thoughts: if your grandma had wheels, she'd be a garbage truck. Still, if the cops had done a half-assed job, there might be areas still worth investigating. Where, though? She rolled out of the hammock, went to the cooler, and cracked another Iron City, feeling Dan's eyes on her as she did so. He was waiting for her to pull out rabbits, but she was all out of rabbits today.