Robert Tanenbaum - Enemy within

A knock at the door and in came Murrow, looking forlorn, a special assistant with no one special to assist. As acting bureau chief, Karp did not rate a special assistant, and Fuller, who had immediately moved into Karp's old office, had no use for him. Technically, Murrow was an ADA, but one with little experience. He had been reassigned to criminal courts, but no one knew quite what to do with him at this point.

"How are you getting on, Murrow?" Karp greeted him. "Working hard?"

"They have me in the complaint room. I'm thinking of bailing out, actually."

"Yes, I can understand that. Being an assistant DA is harder than being a special assistant lounging on velvet cushions and reading spicy novels the day long, as was your wont."

"Yes, I'll miss that," Murrow said, smiling faintly. "And the imported chocolates. The fact is, while I enjoyed working with you, I don't like regular ADA work… I don't think it's my cup of tea."

"No, but neither is it anyone else's. I think you're spoiled."

"Quite possibly. I feel sort of squishy and rotten. In any case, I thought I'd drop by to say thank you and farewell."

"Not so fast. Listen, if I were to get you up here temporarily, how would that be?"

"Homicide?" Murrow looked pale.

"Not as such. But I have various things going on where I'll need some help. Technically ADA work, but not routine at all."

Karp made some calls, called in some favors, and the thing was done. Murrow went off happy to get, as he said, his toothbrush and teddy bear. Karp called Vasquez, but got the recorded message from the cell phone company. He intended to stick Murrow as second seat to Vasquez on the Marshak thing, a fairly outrageous act, but he was feeling outrageous lately, cut off by the toxic situation from his usual careful habits. It would work, though: Murrow was tenacious and bright, and maybe the case wouldn't come to trial at all. The kid could get his feet wet without too much harm done.

The phone rang, the private number, and he snatched it up. It was not, however, one of his family or the DA or one of a small group of close associates. It was Shelly Solotoff.

"I hear you got fired again," said Solotoff.

"It was Roland who got fired, or resigned. I'm just helping Jack out here."

A low chuckle, not pleasant. "Poor Roland! All his bile displayed in the press. I was glad to see that Jack didn't even make a pretense at defending him. I mean why be loyal or anything when the feminists are on your ass?" The ironic smoothness of Solotoff's voice was tempered by crackle and the sound of traffic. A cell phone.

"What can I do for you today, Shelly?" asked Karp, nor did he keep the distaste from his voice.

"You're handling the Ramsey shooting, I take it."

"Mimi Vasquez is, but she's reporting to me for now. Why?"

"Because earlier today Ralphie Paxton called me."

"Him being…?"

"How soon they forget! Ralphie is, or was, Desmondo Ramsey's friend, adviser, and running buddy. Our witness. He saw the whole event. And he picked up the knife."

"The knife."

"Yeah! The knife Ramsey was going to stick into my client."

"Uh-huh. Where is this person now?"

"Sitting right next to me. We're on our way to the precinct to make a statement."

"We? Are you representing Mr. Paxton, too?"

"I'm advising him. I don't think he needs representation, as such."

"Really? I thought leaving the scene of a crime in which you were a participant was against the law."

Solotoff laughed. "Oh, well, if you decide to charge him with crap like that, maybe I'll take him on pro bono. Sorry to deprive you guys of your great white defendant, but I assume I can tell Sybil that no charges will be filed."

"That would be a premature assumption at this time. Let's talk to Mr. Paxton first and then we'll see."

Solotoff did not respond to this. Shelly often did not respond to things he did not want to hear, Karp recalled. He sounded high, excited, as if he had pulled off some coup. He wanted to chat, but Karp did not want to chat with him. After he hung up, Karp rang Vasquez again and got her this time.

"Where are you?"

"With Raney at Midtown South. What's up?"

Karp explained. Vasquez said, "Crap! Well, that's that. She seems to be off the hook if this guy holds up."

"Not so fast. I want you to grill old Ralphie, slow fire, lots of basting. Make sure he really saw something. If you have to, take him down to the garage, draw chalk lines. Obviously, full forensics on the knife. Get a picture of it, pass it around to his homies, see if anyone ever saw him flash it."

"Got it. I take it you think Ralphie showing up just now is a little too convenient?"

"A little. Especially with Solotoff involved."

"He's shady?"

"I don't know. He has something going on, an extra agenda." With me, Karp thought, but didn't say. "Oh, and another thing. We need to know about the watch."

A pause. "I'm sorry? What does the watch-"

"Oh, come on, Vasquez! The guy is holding a Rolex worth five, six grand retail. Why is he trying to mug a woman in a parking garage? Where does a street guy get a thing like that? Even on Park Avenue they don't throw gold Rolexes away in the trash. It doesn't fit, and I hate it when stuff doesn't fit. One more thing: I'm giving you Murrow as your second, assuming we go forward with Marshak."

"Mookie?"

"Yes, Mookie. And, yes, he looks like a preppie dweeb, but, in fact, he's incredibly smart, energetic, and you can abuse him to your heart's content. He'll bounce back like an inflatable doll."

Vasquez grumblingly agreed and conceded also that the watch was peculiar, but did not sound particularly anxious to throw energy into the question.

After she was off the line, Karp diddled around for an hour or so, then called for a car, drove to St. Joseph's, picked up the twins, and came back to the office. There they were made much of by secretaries and staff, given copy paper and colored markers, and diverted much government property to private use in contravention of the laws of New York. It was a rare treat for both of them; Zak hung around the cops, who were always passing through, eyeing their gear and striking up remarkable firearms conversations; Giancarlo drew pictures of rockets, ray guns, and aliens. Lucy called back on the page, and he told her to come by the office, which she did shortly thereafter.

"How's Mom?" she asked.

"She says she's okay. We'll see. Let's be extraspecial kind tonight, okay?"

"I thought she wasn't carrying guns anymore."

"It wasn't her gun, and she apparently saved the life of one of her people and also her client. It must have been a tough choice." He looked her over, suppressing like a good dad his desire that she look more like the schoolgirls he saw on the street instead of like a postwar refugee.

"You look tired," he said solicitously. "Where've you been?"

"At the church, with Father Mike. Daddy…?"

"Mn?"

"Did you ever have two really good friends that both like you, but who didn't like each other?"

"I've had that experience."

"What do you do? It's horrible!"

"You can't do anything, honey. Keep 'em apart and hope for the best. These are friends at school?"

"No, it's Mike. He thinks David is, I don't know, strange or something. He really kind of flared up about it, which is not like him… I mean about other people. He flames me all the time."

"Well, he is strange," said Karp, and got one of the famous Ciampi-women black looks. "I meant most people don't live like St. Francis and go off to dangerous places to help refugees or whatever. What do you think Mike was getting at? That the guy was a phony?"

"No, not really. I think Mike screwed up himself, with the Church, I mean, so he's always on the lookout for people who think they know more than the Church does about religion."