Robert Tanenbaum - Enemy within

"That's not how it works in real life, though," said Karp. "In real life, the guy who looks like he did it usually did do it. It looks to me like Detective Cooley chased Lomax and executed him because of some prior relationship that your Canman knows about. And, unfortunately, Canman is in the crosshairs as the slasher just now, which means if Cooley found him, he could just take him out, and all anybody'd do about it is give him another medal."

"Provided the slashings stopped."

"Yeah, but that'd be too late for Canman. I wish someone could get word to him, to get him to surface."

"We're working on that," said Lucy. "He doesn't trust the cops."

"Who does? And what makes it a problem is this damn election. Jack's gone batty on the subject-don't rile the police, don't rile the Jews, don't rile the West Side Democrats, and so we're throwing cases right and left. It's like Italy or Guatemala down there."

She patted his arm. "Poor Daddy! There's nothing you can do?"

"You already asked me that. I have a nasty plan."

"Oh, no! I thought you were the only one in the family without nasty plans."

"Not anymore, obviously. There's still Giancarlo; he's pretty clean as far's I know."

"This is why you've been walking around with that long face lately?"

"Partly."

"And Mom. What are we going to do about her?"

Karp got up and put the cups in the sink. "Watchful waiting. I'm hoping she'll snap out of it, like she has before."

"She needs to go into detox."

"Thank you for the medical opinion. I tell you what, why don't you let me worry about your mother, and you worry about staying in school. I think they're serious this time. You flunk these midterms coming up, and you're toast."

"Don't nag, Dad! I know this."

"Well…?"

"I'll try," she lied.

"I'm unhappy with this," said Karp, frowning. "This is not what I wanted. And what about the watch?"

He said this to Mimi Vasquez and Gilbert Murrow. Murrow looked uncomfortable, and faintly embarrassed. Vasquez was angry. Her face was flushed and pouty. "You keep saying that, what about the watch, but it's got no goddamn connection with the Marshak case. In fact, there is no Marshak case, as I just got finished telling you. We've interviewed over twenty of Ramsey's known associates. We asked them about the knife. Answers: don't know; yeah, he had one, but different; yeah, he had that one, if you say so and twenty bucks. Did he do angel dust? Yeah, all the time; no, never; yeah, if you say so and twenty bucks."

"He didn't use," said Karp.

"Why, because your daughter says so? Paxton, who was a known intimate of the victim in this case, swears he used it all the time and got crazy and violent behind it. I would say he makes a more compelling witness than your daughter, who, if I can say so, tends to cast a more forgiving light over these characters than I do, or than a jury will, and I don't even mention the fact that it takes me an hour to wash the stink out of my hair. Nobody we talked to ever saw him with the watch, except for the three guys who said he stole it from them and could they get it back. There is no, repeat, no known association between Marshak and either Ramsey or Paxton. Paxton sticks to his story about the knife and the attack like it was attached to his left testicle. And, yeah, it's Ramsey's prints on it. Bottom line? It's a dead end."

Karp seemed to ignore her tone and frustration and asked, "What did you say she was doing in the building?"

"Her insurance guy has his offices there. She was going to do some business with him and then drive out to her place upstate. That's why she had her car. Perfectly innocent. She drove in there, did her business, returned to her car, he jumped her with the knife, she pulled her gun, shot him, panicked, got back in the car, and booked. End of story, an urban tragedy."

"Or so we're being led to believe."

Vasquez banged her hand on the arm of her chair. "Jesus! Those are the facts, damn it! There is no case against her on those facts." Her voice had risen to a shout. Karp stared at her, saying nothing. "Why are you obsessing about this goddamn case?"

"Because of the watch."

"Oh, will you please shut up about the watch already! Who cares how he got the watch!"

"I care, and I'm the bureau chief, and don't tell me to shut up in my own office, Ms. Vasquez."

They stared at each other. No contest: Karp had the hardest stare in the building. Vasquez dropped her eyes.

"I'm very sorry, Mr. Karp. I'm sorry you're not satisfied with my work." She seemed about to burst into tears. Karp was not feeling that great himself. He had nurtured Vasquez almost from her first day in the office because he thought she was a good prosecutor, and because she reminded him of his wife as she once was, a handsome, scrappy, humorous, tough ethnic girl from a tough part of town. Also contributing to his discomfort: he had thought she liked him and had liked that. In fact, she had been in love with him for years, hopelessly and silently (not unusual among a certain stratum of female attorneys around the place), a kind of office joke that everyone knew about except Karp, which made it funnier. Karp felt hurt and betrayed: Why couldn't she see the point? Vasquez felt abused: Why was he torturing her with this craziness?

At this point, into the strained silence entered the ever tactful Murrow, reading out of his tiny notebook. "Lady Rolex, chronometer, fourteen-K gold with diamond bezel and gold expansion band, serial number zero one seven eight five zero nine two, reading one oh six when logged in, reported stolen from NPK Bonded Warehouse at JFK last August, along with a bunch of other stuff, mainly watches, optics, and perfume. The cop I spoke with, a Lieutenant Robert Maguire, says they suspect that whoever did the theft is fencing the stuff out through a ring run by Augustine Albert Firmo, but have been unable to nail down a case. Firmo seems wise to the usual stings." Murrow looked up from the notebook. "Does that help?"

"I don't know," said Karp. "Is there a connection between Marshak and Firmo? Between Ramsey or Paxton and him?"

Murrow said, "Between a big-time fence and a street guy? Why would there be? Street guys usually sell fake Rolexes."

Vasquez shoved her notes roughly into a cardboard folder. "This is ridiculous. What does it matter? You think Sybil Marshak ordered a hot Rolex and killed Ramsey because she didn't like the way it looked on her wrist? You might as well look at their horoscopes."

"Calm down, Vasquez," said Karp.

"No!" She stood up, bristling. "I don't understand any of this. Christ, Butch, it's you who's always saying don't speculate, stick with the facts, can you make a case or not, and if not, forget it. And there's no case here, and you're speculating like crazy, like you're on some kind of vendetta against this woman. Or against her lawyer. I don't want any part of it. It's weird and it's… sick."

"Thank you, Mimi," said Karp stiffly. "I'll tell Tony you're back on the chart. Just leave your notes with Murrow." She stared at him for a couple of long seconds, then turned on her heel and left.

Karp leaned back in his chair and locked his hands behind his head. "Take a lesson from that, Murrow," he said wearily. "The key to this job is skillful management of people."

"You had her in the palm of your hand. It was masterful."

"Yeah, right. Yet another friend down the toilet. You think I'm crazy, too, don't you?"

"Not as such. But I also see her point. I'm also thinking, what if it wasn't his watch? That would cut into your objection about his motivation for his run at Marshak."

"Wasn't his watch? Whose watch was it then?"

"He could've been holding it for someone, transporting it. Maybe someone the cops had their eye on, who didn't want to get caught with it on him. Say this guy uses street people to mule stuff around. Ramsey was something of a hustler. He could've done favors like that for a commission."