"And what?" Lindahl said. "My clients went to her on their own and now say they want her to help with the case, and I'm supposed to say, 'No thanks. I have no intention of even looking like I'm trying to protect the city's interests'? If you think Newbury's breathing down our necks on some of this 'old business' now, just let him get wind of that. At least if she's working, ostensibly, for me, I'll know what she knows."
"If she tells you," Carney said. "But I'm more worried about what she tells that fuckin' husband of hers. We don't want him taking an interest."
"I'm not worried about him," Lindahl said. "His jurisdiction begins and ends on the island of Manhattan. This is a Brooklyn case as far as the assistant district attorneys go, and a city matter with the police department. He's not in the picture."
Stupenagel couldn't hear the muffled replies as the men put out their cigars and moved inside. The lights went out but she waited to make sure anyone looking out the window wouldn't see her. She was ready to go when a large hand came down hard on her shoulder and turned her around. She found herself face-to-face with the big police detective who'd guarded the meeting room at the Sagamore.
"Hey, you're the bitch from the hotel, what the fuck are you doing here?" he snarled.
Obviously wasn't at the top of his class at the academy, Stupenagel thought. She smiled sweetly. "I was driving by when my car ran out of gas. I saw the light was on and came to ask for help. But I can go ask someone else if this is a bad time." She tried to walk past the cop but he grabbed her by the arm. "Yeah, well I think you need to come in and talk to the boss."
"Hey, asshole," said a voice behind him.
The cop whirled and got a face full of pepper spray. "Goddamn mother fucking gaaaaaah," the man bellowed and began groping inside his coat for his gun.
Stupenagel saw her opportunity and kicked up as hard as she could between his legs. "Oh fuck," the cop groaned and passed out face-first in the snow.
"Big baby," Stupenagel said. She looked up and saw her frightened boyfriend still holding the pepper spray. "Hey, you better put that away before you hurt someone, Honey Buns."
Murrow dropped his arm. "You okay, Sugar Lips?"
"Great, thanks to my hero, Agent Murrow."
"Please, call me Bond…James Bond."
The cop groaned and appeared to be coming to. Stupenagel leaned over and took his gun out of his coat. "Come on, Bob, Mrs. Ewen is going to love hearing about this place."
They ran back along the tree line, where Stupenagel tossed the gun into the woods. Driving back to the hotel as fast as they could, they hurried to their room, packed their bags, and were back in the lobby in ten minutes. "We're going to check out now," Stupenagel told the sleepy clerk. "And I'd like to pay with cash. Would you please give me any credit card imprints you have. Sorry, a little paranoid about identity theft."
"I understand," the clerk said. "It's a big problem these days."
"Oh, and would you be a sweetie and get me the manager's business card," Stupenagel said. "I'd like to write and congratulate him on the service."
When the clerk trotted to the back office to get the card, Stupenagel reached over the desk, flipped to the page in the hotel registry where they'd signed in, and tore the sheet out. The clerk returned but there was no one to give the business card to.
A big sedan came barreling toward them as they crossed the bridge. "Duck," Murrow said, slapping his deerstalker onto his head. He looked away when the car bearing an angry New York police detective, as well as Ewen and Carney, passed.
"Drive like the wind, baby," Stupenagel said, sitting back up.
"What was that 'Mrs. Ewen is going to love this' comment?" Murrow asked.
"Just something to throw them off our tail, maybe panic them a bit. I want them to think that we're private investigators working for the real Mrs. Ewen."
"Wow, nice work," Murrow said with genuine admiration.
"Experience, lover. I've been talking my way in and out of trouble for more years than I care to admit," she said.
On the way back to Manhattan, they argued about what to do next. Murrow wanted to go to Karp with what they'd seen and heard.
"Not yet, baby, not until I've had a chance to get to the bottom of this," Stupenagel pleaded. "I want to figure out how this all adds up. I mean, what do we really have? A bunch of people who normally wouldn't be caught within a mile of each other have a secret meeting. Ewen has a house he can't afford, but I'll bet you he's not stupid enough to have it in his name. Not to mention we just committed trespass and then aggravated assault on a New York City police detective."
Stupenagel leaned over and nibbled on his ear. "Please, baby? Just a few days, then I promise we tell Butch everything."
"Well, a few days, but that's it," Murrow agreed.
"Cross my heart, hope to die. Oh my! Look what I found."
"Stop it. I'm driving."
"That's okay, baby, just don't take your hands off the wheel or your eyes off the road."
17
Monday, December 20
Karp walked into the morning meeting like a man crossing an open meadow during a lightning storm. There was something in the air that made his hair stand on end and his skin crawl waiting for a bolt out of the blue.
The apprehension began at the premeeting conference when he noticed that Murrow seemed more than a little preoccupied. "What's up, Gilbert?" he'd asked after the others left, and Murrow hesitated at the door as if he intended to say something. But he just mumbled, "Nothing," and wandered off.
The premonition increased as Karp entered the meeting room. Harry Kipman, who'd begged off the earlier conference, looked up, said, "Good morning," and went back to reading his book on Ulysses Grant.
At the other end of the table, Rachel Rachman hunched over her files like a junkyard dog guarding its supper and rapidly drummed the fingers of both hands on the table. She was staring at Kipman and it was not a friendly look.
The other bureau chiefs and assistant DAs seemed subdued, as if they were reluctant to be the one to set off the spark. Well, let's get this over with, he thought as he took his seat, then nodded to Murrow, who mumbled, "Harry, you're up."
Kipman closed his book with a definitive snap and opened the file in front of him. "In the case of People v. Salaam and Mohammed, I'm afraid I have to concur with the appellate court that this conviction was wrongfully obtained. We withheld exculpatory evidence that the complainant knew one of the defendants, whom she claimed, both to the investigating officers and, even more damning, under oath on the witness stand, she did not know. In fact, she had sexual relations with this defendant several days prior to the incident from which the charges arose."
"Nonsense," Rachman hissed, half rising. "The shield laws were created to protect sexual assault victims from defense attorneys-and I guess some prosecutors-making an issue of their past sexual history when the ONLY issue is one of consent."
"Rachel, please," Karp said calmly but firmly. Rachman didn't look at him and continued to glare at Kipman but she shut up.
"The rape shield laws, which I fully support, were created for cases in which a perpetrator sexually assaults a stranger-say someone abducted off the street-and it's clear a crime was committed," Kipman said, his voice level but tight. "In those instances, the past sexual history of the victim is irrelevant. However, at the time of the creation of the shield laws, little attention was being paid to date or acquaintance rape. These are often he said/she said cases-difficult to prosecute, as we all know, in part because there is a legitimate question as to whether a crime was even committed. In these instances, a complainant's sexual history, especially if it is a history involving the accused, is certainly relevant for both this office to consider when deciding whether to prosecute and the defense to argue before a judge in pretrial motions."