Robert Tanenbaum - Enemy within

"Phil Garrahy was a number of things," said Karp, feeling the edge creep into his voice, "but fraud wasn't one of them."

"Oh, give me a break! Mr. Fucking DA! He was in office as long as Brezhnev and just as sharp there at the end, and even when he had his game, the Mafia controlled half a dozen major industries, all the unions, and Tammany Hall. Corruption was absolutely endemic in practically every city bureau, and virtually every cop in the city was on the pad, during which time Garrahy's greatest achievement was nailing the quiz show scandals."

"We'll have to agree to disagree on that, Shelly."

"What, it's not true? Plus the guy caught the biggest fucking break any DA ever caught-all the years he was in there crime rates were at the lowest in centuries. Which might have been helped by the fact that the cops were running a reign of terror in the less desirable parts of town. You ever notice how you never see a black face in those Times Square photographs from the forties and fifties? Fifth Avenue? Central Park? That's why. Nightstick justice, aided and abetted by you guys back then. Totally corrupt, and based on wholesale police perjury. And don't think it's not still going on."

"I said we'd have to agree to disagree on that," Karp repeated in a tone that did not invite rejoinder. Solotoff locked eyes with him for a long moment, and Karp saw something in them that he could not identify-not fear exactly, but… something dark and complex. Then it was gone, and Solotoff laughed again. "Jesus, I had you going there for a while. Still the old grouch… good old Butch! Ah, here's our food."

They ate, and the conversation turned small. Sports, political anecdote, the antics of judges, movies, family. Solotoff was on his third wife, a cosmetics-empire heiress, and trophies of the hunt. Solotoff had the big condo on Park, the place in Quogue, membership in the best of the clubs that took Jews. He did most of the talking, he having the best toys. Boasting, sure, but maybe a tone of desperation there underneath? Karp wondered why this fellow was trying to sell a half-stranger his life in this way, or why he was trying to crap on Karp's. But he had determined to get through the wretched meal with good grace and covered adequately his lapses of attention. He found his mind drifting toward the Cooley case, running along in a parallel track that allowed him to utter the required grunts of appreciation, ask the appropriate questions. An idea rose, gelled-a plan, risky but feasible.

They finished. Karp declined the dessert and watched Solotoff line his arteries with creme brulee. Solotoff made a call on his cell, and when they got to the street, a pearl-gray Lincoln was just gliding up to the curb.

Solotoff shook Karp's hand vigorously and said, "Hey, I was serious a while ago. I hate like hell to see a smart guy like you fucking wasting his time." He lowered his voice "The DA's no place for a yiddisheh kop, bubeleh, and you know it. Let the goyim take out the garbage! See you around, pal."

Not if I see you first, thought Karp, but he smiled politely until the car door closed. By the time his own ride showed up, the plan was fairly complete. This is why I'm still at the DA, asshole, was the thought he threw after the retreating limo.

At The Seventeenth Precinct, the Desk directed Marlene to a detective second grade named Fred Paradisio, whom she found in a typical detective-squad bay of the type that has been described so often that it is as familiar as a suburban bathroom. It smelled of burnt coffee and sadness, and the mingled low-end aftershaves of its inhabitants. Paradisio was a barrel of a man with oily, thinning black locks, and a head disconcertingly wider at the jaw than at the top. He had large, friendly eyes that lied, "Hey, I'm just a slob like you, you can trust me, pal." Marlene identified herself and asked to see her daughter.

"Sure, Mrs. Ciampi," said the detective, "but if we could, I'd like to talk to you a bit first. You want some coffee or a soft drink?"

"I want to see my daughter."

"In a second." He pointed. "Have a chair."

Marlene bobbed her head and sat.

Paradisio settled himself in his swiveler and opened a notebook. "Okay, the situation here is that at two forty-six P.M. today 911 logged a call from your daughter saying that she had found a dead body in a makeshift shelter on a service walkway above the MTA rail yards. She was told to wait for the police. At two fifty-seven, a patrol vehicle arrived at Eleventh and Thirtieth, and the officers descended to the scene described by your daughter. This was a shelter made of newspapers baled together and waterproofed. Apparently there's a kind of homeless hangout under there."

"Yes, I know," said Marlene impatiently.

"Oh, yeah? You're down there a lot, communing with the homeless?"

"No, but she is."

"You mean you let her run down with those people? She's not like a runaway?"

"No, she is not. Detective, what's the point of this? I'd like to see my daughter now."

"Just a second, let me just get through this." He peered again at the notebook. "The officers at the scene entered the newspaper structure and found a black male later determined to be Jerome Watkins, and he was determined to be deceased at the scene. They called it in, and me and my partner proceeded there. We are ruling it a homicide right now, subject to further investigation. We rousted all the other derelicts in the area and found your daughter in a packing-crate structure occupied by a black male named Ali Rashid Kalifa, aka Moses Belton. Belton has a record: armed robbery, assault, larceny. Served a couple of jolts upstate back in the eighties. Did you know about this? Your daughter hanging around with that type of person?"

"Yes."

"You approve of this?"

"Detective, are you investigating my fitness as a parent?"

"Uh-uh, no, what I'm trying-"

"Then get to the point, finish whatever you are doing, and let me see my daughter!"

Paradisio looked hurt, in a studied way. "Fine. Your daughter actually found the body. According to this Ali, or Belton, she went and made the call, cool as anything, and then lost it. Ali or Belton said he was comforting her when we got there. She looked like she'd been crying, as a matter of fact. Okay, let me get to the point here…"

"Thank you."

"The structure where the body was found was occupied by a man named John Carey Williams, aka Canman. Williams is a two-fer man. He buys aluminum cans from other homeless and crushes them and transports them to the recycle center. Apparently this person is some kind of special friend of your daughter. We would really like to talk to him."

"You like him for the bum slasher?"

Paradisio's genial-slob persona nearly cracked beneath this unexpected remark, but he coughed and recovered. "Gosh, I didn't say anything about the bum slasher. I didn't even say that Watkins was slashed at all."

"But he was, or you wouldn't be going through this act with me. What is this, vic number four? Even if he's just taking out lowlifes, you still got a serial killer on your hands. You think Lucy saw something, or knows something about this Canman."

"Let's say she hasn't been forthcoming."

"If you would just let me speak to her, Detective, I'll let you know whether she knows anything or not. Or do I have to go all lawyerly on you now?"

Paradisio did not want lawyerly. Marlene was led to an interview room, in which she found her daughter with an American-history text and a notebook open in front of her, calmly doing her homework.

"Well, homework!" said Marlene. "We should get you in jail more often."

To Marlene's surprise, the girl rose and embraced her and said, "Oh, I'm so sorry! I mean about yesterday… I keep losing my temper at you. I don't know what gets into me. Demonic forces." Lucy laughed unconvincingly. Marlene held her away and looked her over. She was wearing her usual uniform: a black sweater over a white shirt, a black wool skirt, black tights, and some kind of surplus combat boots. There was no color in her face and her eyes looked bruised.