Both Butch and Marlene were to remember this particular Christmas in elegiac terms, as a calm before the storm. Indeed, it seemed in retrospect almost to live up to the seasonal hype. The Ciampis were less operatic than usual, the babies were charmingly cute, Lucy discovered that being the big sister of twins had certain advantages, in that she was included, as impresario, in their act (the cousins changing their clothes, amid giggles, and seeing whether anyone could tell), brother Dom went early into stupor, and Marlene could tell her mother that she had not missed a Sunday mass all year.
On the day after Christmas, the Karps usually held an open house for friends and neighbors, but this year the co-op association was putting in a real elevator. This labor had begun at a time of maximum inconvenience, mid-December. It meant that their loft, being on the top floor and the location of the original industrial lift engine, which had to be removed, was the site of considerable construction and strewn with immense pieces of apparatus.
They did, however, go to the annual New Year’s Eve party thrown by V.T. Newbury at his Murray Hill brownstone. Although Taittinger poured like water, the affair was as decorous as a cotillion compared to what went on at the Ciampis’, and made an interesting change. Butch and Marlene sipped, ate shrimp and paté, conversed with numbers of V.T.’s astounding range of friends and relations. At V.T.’s party you could find an expert on slime molds, the CEO of a major bank, a defrocked orthodox priest, a diva, a man who lived alone on an island in the Queen Charlottes and only returned to civilization for this one event, the recipient of the Yale Poet’s Prize for that year, a man who lived upstairs and was in ceiling tiles, a welterweight contender, a Hungarian diplomat, and, apparently, as Marlene saw, the world’s premier female cellist.
“Edie!” Marlene cried, “you look great!” She glanced around. “Is Wolfe here?”
“I gave him the night off. It’s New Year’s Eve. Besides, I have Anton to protect me.” She clutched the arm of the reedy violinist standing next to her.
Marlene smiled uncertainly at Anton, who looked as though he might need some protection himself, and said, “Well, I haven’t heard anything from you, and Wolfe’s reports are terse to the point of nonexistence. I presume-”
“Oh, that’s all over,” said Edie breezily. “He still sends those notes, which I dutifully turn over to Wolfe, but nothing else. My life has been completely transformed. Besides, after we’re married, we’ll be living in Europe most of the year.”
“You’re getting married?”
“In June.” She hugged the violinist’s arm tighter and beamed. “We’re keeping it rather dark. The parents are inclined to make a fuss.”
“Well, I won’t tell,” said Marlene. “In fact, I’ll be glad to get Wolfe back. How come you’re here, by the way? I didn’t know you knew V.T.”
Edie smiled. “Oh, everybody knows V.T. I was at school with his cousin.” Suddenly she blushed, reached out awkwardly, and clutched Marlene’s hand.
“Gosh, Marlene, I can’t tell you how ashamed I am at the way I behaved after the concert! After how you tried to help me and-”
“Well, that’s all right,” said Marlene, patting her hand. “As I once said, I have a thick skin. At least we found out who the guy is.”
“Oh, no, Marlene. It can’t possibly be Vincent Robinson.”
“Why not?”
But the reason why not was never pursued, because at that moment Karp, who was standing with his back to her, spun around and said, “Excuse me, did you say Vincent Robinson?”
Which was how they found out that Marlene’s prime suspect for stalker-of-Edie was also Karp’s prime suspect for killer-of-Evelyn Longren.
The trial resumed its weary pace in January, although that grim month was more to Karp’s liking than the former gay season. The jurors had been distracted by family thoughts, thinking about what to get for Aunt Emma instead of concentrating on the evidence, and beyond that there had been the danger that, under the influence of the Yuletide spirit, they might be inclined to New Testament mercy rather than Old Testament justice.
As the prosecution’s case unfolded, Waley remained passive, rising only for perfunctory cross-examination and hardly objecting at all. The press, which had maintained a strong interest in the case, commented on this. The TV stations had talking-head lawyers on at night to render their opinion of what Waley was up to. Wait, they admonished: he’s biding his time, the fireworks will come.
Meanwhile, Karp constructed his typical careful case, a rising arc of evidence from the general to the most detailed testimony. First the crime scene, with photographs. Waley made the usual objection on the grounds that these were inflammatory and was overruled. The jurors got to see Jane dead. The cop who had found the body was brought forth to give his stilted testimony. He performed well on both direct and on cross, in which Waley merely brought out the position and condition of the body.
Next the medical examiner. Cause of death was defined in detail. Waley wanted to know if the medical examiner had found evidence of hypertension or atherosclerosis. He had. On redirect, Karp had to establish that Mrs. Hughes’s condition was not immediately life-threatening.
Then came a quartet of forensic specialists who talked about fibers, blood, flesh, and dyes for three days. Waley barely stirred during this time. He appeared more concerned with his client, as well he might have been, for young Rohbling seemed to be deteriorating as the trial progressed. Each day, as the officers brought him in, his step was slower, almost limping, his head hung lower, his face was more wan and blotchy, with what appeared to be yellowing bruises at the temples. His hair was even more unkempt, sticking out at all angles in the style of the late Stan Laurel. Karp wondered if this was a ruse to garner sympathy and thought briefly of going to the judge with a complaint, but what, after all, could he say? And he knew very well what Waley would say: that his client was fit for a rubber room and not much else. He looked crazy because he was crazy. So, stalemate in that corner. The witnesses who tied Rohbling to Hughes came next. Waley shined them on.
It was March before Karp had Detective Gordon Featherstone on the stand, his last witness, the prize witness. As on a TV show, the audience was now going to hear how the detective caught the bad guy. Featherstone looked the part too. He was a blocky, cordovan-colored man in his late forties with a brush mustache and close-cropped hair whitened on the sides. His voice was deep, strong, and confident. When the detective took the stand, Karp could sense the subtle vibration of renewed interest from the jury box.
Karp took him through the investigation from the beginning so that the jury could see how the evidence, which they had just heard certified by experts, appeared to the working detective, and how it led inexorably to the confrontation with the disguised Rohbling at the bus stop.
They came to the famous blue suitcase. Here it was: Karp raised it high, like a holy relic. The jury was allowed to paw it. Featherstone described the denial of ownership by Rohbling. No mistake about that. Karp had him repeat Rohbling’s words so that they would stick in the jurors’ minds. Now came the Opening of the Suitcase. The childish ceramic dish was displayed, entered as evidence, handled by the jurors, the affectionate message from the little girl read out in the detective’s deep clear baritone, the unscheduled sob from the mother of that little girl, sitting in the courtroom to see justice done for her own slain mother, the jury rapt.