“You do it, though.”
“Yeah, but I don’t love it. It’s not my real thing. I’m trying to build a homicide bureau like we used to have, but I don’t have the material and I don’t have the support. Can you imagine what Garrahy would’ve said if Roland had delivered a case like Tomasian? I saw Garrahy make a guy cry once, and not a kid either, an old homicide prosecutor-reduced him to tears in front of a roomful of people because the guy had prepared an incompetent case. I’ll never have that kind of authority, not over guys like Roland anyway.”
“Maybe he should quit, then.”
“But he’s good,” Karp protested. “I don’t want him to quit. I wouldn’t give two shits about him if he wasn’t a terrific prosecutor. The pity of it is that he doesn’t get the point, and I sense that a lot of the best guys were on his side. Bergman. Guma even. They didn’t get the point, and if they didn’t get the point, how the hell am I going to get the kids to get it?”
“The point being he picked the wrong guy?”
Karp sighed. “No, he may have the right guy. Christ, you don’t get it either. Look, over on Mulberry Street around where we live, there used to be the old police headquarters, back in the eighteen-nineties. And in that building somebody got the bright idea of taking photographs of all the people they arrested and filing them according to crime. Very useful.
“And then it occurred to some other bright boy that when they had a mystery, they could reach into the drawer and pull out a photo of someone they were interested in getting off the street, and what they did was they put it in a frame on the wall, and then all the cops would lean on informants to come up with testimony that, yeah, this guy did the crime. That’s how they built cases back then. That’s where the word comes from, frame. It’s still the easiest way to clear cases.
“But not to win cases. People talk about lenient judges and juries. That’s bullshit. Scumbags get out on the street nine times out of ten because of prosecutorial incompetence. They’re lazy: they buy the cops’ story, like Bergman just did. Or they get entranced, like Roland. They forget that they have to learn everything about the case, not just the stuff that supports their indictment. Because if they have a halfway capable defense, it’ll all come out in trial. The jury doesn’t automatically believe the state and the cops anymore. Maybe the opposite.”
“Gosh, this is just like being in law school,” said Marlene, rolling her eyes. “But back to the matter at hand. What are you going to do?”
“I’ve been thinking about it. What I’d like to do is find out who did the murder. If it was Tomasian, fine. I’m an asshole, but at least we’ll have a case that makes sense. If it wasn’t Tomasian …” Karp grinned unpleasantly. “Then I’ll have made my point. To Roland. To the homicide staff. And to Bloom.”
“Are you going to make Roland cry?”
Karp laughed, a welcome release from tension. “Right now I kind of hope so.”
“I hope so too. You could sell tickets,” said Marlene. “And I can’t fail to note that I told you so on this.”
“Yes, dear,” said Karp flatly.
“Ah, the Olympic passive-aggression team takes the field. Time for me to get small. You coming?”
“In a minute. I need to make a call.”
She left, and he looked in his Rolodex to find a number that he called as infrequently as he could manage. It was late, but he figured the FBI’s New York office would still be open, fighting crime.
The man who answered was about as unhappy to hear from Karp as he was to have to call. They wasted no time on pleasantries.
“I need some information, Pillman,” said Karp.
Elmer Pillman was the FBI agent in charge of liaison with the criminal justice authorities of the greater metropolitan area. Once in the course of an investigation, he had made a very big mistake, a mistake that would certainly have ended his career and landed him in prison, a mistake that Karp had discovered. Karp had not ratted him out, however, for reasons of his own. It made for a peculiar and prickly relationship.
“About what?” asked Pillman after a meaningful pause.
“Armenian terrorism.”
A pause. “You said Armenian? What, are you writing a term paper? You mean historical stuff?”
“No, current. Here, in the City.”
“There ain’t none. No, wait, this must be about that Turkish attaché who got popped the other week.”
“That’s right,” said Karp. “You’re interested in that?”
“Not particularly.”
“Then you don’t think it was a terrorist job?”
“I didn’t say that,” Pillman snapped. “Don’t put words in my mouth. It’s just that Armenian organizations have no record of assassinations in the U.S. We have no evidence that they’re about to start. Europe, that’s another story.”
“They whack people in Europe?”
“They did at one time, a lot. Still do occasionally. Turks. Back in the twenties, they got all the people responsible for the so-called massacres. Gunned them down on the street, nearly every one of them. Recently? Not much. Couple of bombs, a shooting. Mostly young … I guess you can’t call ’em young Turks, can you?” He chuckled. “Nothing like the Arabs. Or the Krauts for that matter.”
Karp said, “But there is an Armenian nationalist movement locally, isn’t there? You keep tabs on them, don’t you?”
A longer pause. “I don’t know about tabs. I wouldn’t say tabs. Freedom of association and political activity is guaranteed by the Constitution. We don’t infringe on that unless we have reason to believe that such activity is a front for illegal activities.”
“Thank you, Agent Pillman, and I hope you had a flag flapping in the background when you said that. Meanwhile, cut the crap: who runs the Armenian nationalists locally?”
“Hang on,” said Pillman. The line echoed hollowly for four minutes. When he got back on the line he said only, “Sarkis Kerbussyan,” and then an address in Riverdale.
Karp said, “Thanks, Pillman. As always it’s been a-”
“We never talked,” said Pillman, and hung up.
The next morning, a Saturday, Karp rose early and, after checking that his knee worked, grabbed a quick bowl of Wheaties and left the loft for an unpleasant but necessary mission. He took the BMT uptown to 8th Street in the Village, stopped at a bakery, walked a block and then up the handsome pale sandstone steps of a town house. He rang the buzzer energetically for a full minute until he was admitted. He climbed a flight and rang the bell.
Roland Hrcany stood in the open doorway, looking frowsty, with his long tresses in a blond halo, dressed only in a heavy black terry robe. He said, “I oughta punch you the fuck out.”
“Yeah, and I oughta punch you out too, but you’re not and I’m not. It’s just another goddamn case, Roland. It’s not worth it. So I came here to get this settled.” He held up a redolent, warm paper bag. “I brought you a dozen onion bagels.”
Roland tried to maintain his glare, but it collapsed seconds later into something between a scowl and grin.
“Bagels! Fuckin’ guy! Okay, get in here, asshole!”
Roland stood out of the doorway, and Karp walked in. Hrcany had the whole floor, a two-bedroom with a large living room, a separate dining room, a real, as opposed to a Pullman, kitchen, and a nice view of 9th Street. It would have taken three-quarters or more of his salary to pay for it, except that he lived here for free, courtesy of his father, who was a substantial player in Manhattan real estate. Roland had the place furnished in Playboy modern: lots of black leather furniture, shaggy white rugs, chrome and glass tables and shelves, a Macintosh sound system with six-foot speakers, and big Warhol silk screens of Marilyn, one in yellow and one in red, chrome-framed on the walls. The place had an appropriate odor-sandlewood incense and some musky cologne. It stuck in Karp’s throat and made him want to sneeze.
They went into the kitchen, where Roland set about making coffee, using instruments that looked like they belonged in a jet fighter. He ground beans, which Karp had never seen anyone do in a house before. Karp found a knife, sliced two bagels, and Roland put them on a plate with chunks of butter and cream cheese. Roland poured the coffee, telling Karp stuff he didn’t much want to know about the origin of the beans. It tasted like regular coffee, thought Karp the peasant.