“Yes, and they all lived happily ever after. It could be anything, V.T. This whole thing reeks of fanciness, from the bullet through the clock to Little Sally’s old lady in that goddamn shelter. Shit!” Karp rubbed his face, a characteristic gesture of terminal frustration. “I hate this crap. It’s wrong. There’s a mind behind this, fucking with us, and I think Mr. Lie knows who it is.”
“Maybe, but in any case, the fucking is succeeding. We are fucked. So what’s next, boss?”
“The usual. Keep poking. I don’t believe in criminal masterminds. Fu Manchu has left the building. There’s always something they miss. For example, where’s the money?”
“I told you, the guy doesn’t have a bank anywhere that I could find.”
“Bullshit! I can’t believe some of that murder contract didn’t stick to his fingers, and besides, the guy’s a gangster. A fucking drug lord, to quote our colorful press. Gangsters have cash money, lots of it. It’s not in his apartment, so where is it? Known associates? Girlfriends? Like the man said, follow the money. Get the cops to shake and bake down on Mott Street. And don’t take any of this oh, it’s Chinatown crap. They want to come out of there and play on our court, then they got to play by our rules. Who’re you working with in the Five?”
“Phil Wu.”
“What’s your take?”
“Good. Professional. Speaks the language. Besides that, what can I say-opaque.”
“I want to meet him. He’s got this double murder, too.”
“So you do see a connection. I thought you didn’t want to speculate.”
“I don’t,” said Karp. “But I would like to explore the issue with Detective Wu.”
After V.T. left, Karp explored the issue some more by himself and decided he needed some information from a source unconnected with the mysterious east, but mysterious enough for all that. He called Ray Guma and got him on the line, and came quickly to the point.
“You know Gino Scarpi, Goom?”
“I know all the Scarpis. I know his older brothers better, but I know Gino, too.”
“Have you visited him in the hospital yet?”
“I have not. Gino and I have drifted apart in recent years. You think I should?”
“It’d be a gesture. Go, converse, make him an offer. He’s looking at attempted murder, assault one, discharge firearms, reckless endangerment, B and E, attempted kidnap. That can’t be pleasant.”
A pause on the line. “The Scarpis tend to be stand-up fellas, Butch, I don’t know if-”
“Uh-uh, you misunderstand me, Goom. What I’m interested in is off the record, a sidebar. I need to know how they picked our Chinese guy for the hit on Eddie Cat. I mean, do you believe that they just grabbed one of their dope dealers and pressured him to whack a capo regime?”
“So you want the background on Willie, nothing you’re going to use in court?”
“Deep background. I also want to know how come it was just now that the wife left Little Sal. And how he knew where she was. And between you and me, if he plays nice on that, when it comes to it, we won’t drop the courthouse on Gino.”
“I’ll bring him some cannoli,” said Guma.
Karp hung up and, sighing, began work on one of his most tedious jobs, which was his monthly inspection of the various manning charts that attempted to ensure that whenever the criminal justice system required a representative of the People, a live and presumably competent human body would occupy a particular volume of space at a particular instant of time. This was difficult enough during three seasons of the years, but it was well-nigh impossible in summer, when people, including those who worked as ADAs, wished to take vacations. These charts were prepared by a team of trolls down on the fourth floor, but Karp had to look them over to ensure that the hardest workers were not being screwed and that the absolute power of judges to hold court when they pleased (or not, as was more common) did not become too onerous, and also that the various legal constraints on judicial delay were not being violated. He hacked away at this for an hour or so, making notes on a yellow legal pad. He reached the last page of the pad and reached for a new one from the stack on the side of his desk. The top sheet of the one on top had been scribbled on, so he ripped it off, crumpled it, and was about to shoot the paper ball into the waste can that stood on top of a bookcase at the far end of the room, as was his wont, when he paused and uncrumpled the paper. It was, in fact, the sheet that Mr. Lie had been doodling on during his interview. Doodles, yes, and what looked like Chinese characters. He smoothed the sheet out, folded it, put it in his shirt pocket, and then tried to resume work on the charts, but after a few minutes he tossed his pencil against the wall, grabbed the phone and called home.
Lucy answered, as he had hoped.
“How was the lab?” he asked.
“Labbish. What’s wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong. I’m bored. Want to go out somewhere?”
“Like where?”
“Where you choose.”
“There’s a Chinese calligraphy exhibition at the Metropolitan Museum.”
“Perfect,” said Karp with, to his credit, barely an inward groan. “You can impress me with your brilliance.”
“Can Mary come?”
“No, she can’t.”
“Why not?”
“Because you’re my darling and I want to spend a couple of hours alone with you before you get married.” There was silence in response to this. Karp continued, “Is your guy around?”
“Tran? He’s in and out.”
“Tell him he’s got the afternoon off. I’m sending a heavily armed policeman to pick you up. Be ready in fifteen minutes.”
Karp rang off and pushed a speed-dial button, connecting him with Ed Morris, his driver.
“You need to pick up a witness for me, Ed,” said Karp, and gave an address.
“That’s your place,” said Morris.
“Right. My daughter.”
“Uh-oh. Will I need backup?”
“Alert the tacticals just in case.”
In the unmarked, driving uptown, Lucy asked grumpily, “Isn’t this corruption? Taking your kid out in a cop car?”
“Not in the least,” said Karp. “After this we’re going to go to the hospital to see your mother, who is a witness in a major crime. As are you. Believe me, this is official; right, Ed?”
“Extremely.” He goosed the car’s siren, moving a cab slightly out of their way. “See?”
“Then why are we going to the Met?”
“To see the Chinese stuff, and you’re entitled to police protection while we do it. Afterward, if you’re not satisfied, it’s your right as a citizen to lodge a complaint against the two of us. Meanwhile, let me see you smile. Go ahead, it won’t break your face.”
Lucy managed a thin one, with which the dad had to be content, but somewhat later, in the Asian gallery, the girl’s mood lifted. They walked together down the halls of lit glass cases containing scrolls of calligraphy, Lucy occasionally stopping to translate a poem or stopping to stare, transfixed, at one of the cases. Karp spent his time staring not at the meaningless squiggles on brown silk but at his daughter, thinking about paternal love, and fate, and genetics, and about how he, being who he was, should have been landed with this particular child.
After an hour of this, he found her looking back at him. “You hate this, don’t you?”
“Hate is too strong a word. But I’ll admit that to me it compares unfavorably to an afternoon at Yankee Stadium, Ron Guidry against Roger Clemens.”
She laughed. “We could do that, too. But it was really nice of you to make the sacrifice. I’m really glad I got to see this.”
“My pleasure. Want to see more, or go down to the cafeteria and get something to eat?”
“Eat. I’m calligraphied out.”
Seated in the cavernous eatery in the museum’s basement, the two chatted amiably about Lucy’s experiences at Columbia, the scientists who worked with her, and what they were discovering, about the doings of her friends, movies she wanted to see, her reading, her recent work at the Chinese school, exactly as if she were a regular kid, and he a regular dad. The avoidance of certain topics was hardly any strain, and it did both of their hearts good. Mention of the Chinese school triggered something in his mind, and it niggled at him until, just as they were about to leave, he recalled the yellow sheet in his pocket. He pulled it forth and spread it out in front of his daughter.