Barney Wayne and Joe Frangi did not know, nor did they particularly care, after a long day. The Ersoy murder was a clearance as far as they were concerned. They had the guy. Hrcany’s thing with Karp was his own business, and while they were willing to go some extra for Roland, seeing as how he was an okay guy, they had other stuff on their plate. Wayne pointedly looked at his watch. Frangi got out of his chair and looked out the window of Roland’s office at the gathering dusk.
“Why don’t you ask Karp?” Frangi replied.
Roland said, “I did ask him. I just this minute got off the phone with him.” Roland could not keep a satisfied grin off his face as he said this. He had, of course, learned of Karp’s morning expedition indirectly from his driver, a detective, via the Centre Street police grapevine, into which he was well plugged. That he had thereafter felt free to call his nominal boss at home after hours to pump him for information had given him considerable pleasure.
Roland continued, “That’s why I want him checked out. According to Karp, he’s some kind of Armenian political. He claims that Tomasian had the guns because he was a gun runner.”
“You believe that shit?” snapped Frangi.
“It doesn’t matter what I believe. It’s a plausible story for a jury. We need to find out if it’s true, and also whether Kerbussyan’s ever been mixed up in any funny business. Speaking of which, Karp thinks that Kerbussyan knows something about the victim’s little treasure chest.”
“For instance …?” asked Wayne.
“Karp doesn’t know. But we should check it out. Why don’t you guys go up to Riverdale and find out what you can about this guy?”
Unenthusiastic grunts of assent issued from the two detectives.
“The other thing,” continued Roland, unfazed, “what’s the latest on the girlfriend?”
Frangi brought out his notebook. “On that, we got a woman answering her description getting off a plane at San Francisco and renting a Hertz car on a credit card made out to Gabrielle Avanian. We got credit card charges in San Luis Obispo, stores and a motel, the following day. Then we got charges in Disneyland, Huntington Beach, Monterey, and San Francisco. Looks like she’s on a vacation.”
Wayne said, “I don’t know. Disneyland: she could be targeting Mickey.”
“Yeah, or a terrorist assault on the Turkish taffy stand,” said Frangi. “I think we should all go out there, Roland. We might save countless lives.”
“Very funny. Okay, we assume the girl is either too incredibly cool or else not involved. Also, assuming she reads the papers, she doesn’t seem in any hurry to get back and spring her sweetie, which could mean the alibi is a piece of shit. In any case, will you do me one favor? Let’s pick her up when she gets back. Just to dot the I’s.”
Frangi made a notation in his pad. “Dot the I’s. Pick up girlfriend. It’ll be soon. MasterCard says she’s running close to her credit limit.”
The next day Karp went for his arthroscopy in Dr. Hudson’s office. His knee was shot full of dope, but he could still feel the conducted vibration of the instruments rattling up his skeleton, informing him that someone was working inside his living flesh. He sweated bullets.
After the procedure, Dr. Hudson was characteristically blunt: massive destruction of cartilage, bone abrasion, chronic inflammation of the bursa. The whole thing would have to be replaced, and soon. Karp told Hudson to set up the operation.
In a somber mood Karp was driven to his next appointment, which was with Milton Freeland at the Legal Aid Society offices on Leonard Street. The offices were suitably shabby, to go with the clientele, but Karp observed that Freeland had replaced Dora, Tom Pagano’s old secretary, with a shiny new model. Karp was ushered into the presence. It was wearing a yellow tie and yellow suspenders and a good false smile. Karp sat in an uncomfortable wooden visitors’ chair without being asked.
“We have a problem, Milton,” he said without preamble.
“Oh? What problem is that? Butch.”
“Well, specifically, that stunt you pulled the other day on Tony Harris in the Devers homicide, but-”
“It’s not my fault if your people don’t know the law,” Freeland interrupted.
“But,” Karp continued, “but, I just wanted to get together with you at the beginning so as to make sure that the good working relationship that my office had with Tom’s office continues.”
“And what was that, pray tell?” Freeland was smirking. He could tell Karp was embarrassed and was enjoying it.
“A certain respect. A certain understanding of the position of the formal adversary. We don’t break our word. We don’t pull funny stuff in court. I don’t railroad people or accept phonied evidence. You don’t yell racism and police brutality when none exists-”
Freeland laughed out loud, unpleasantly. “Oh, be serious. The next thing you’re going to tell me is that all the people you bring to trial really did it.”
“No. But I’d say if I bring them, I believe they did it.”
“What about Morales?” Freeland sneered. “Do you believe in that piece of shit case?”
Karp’s stomach lurched and he suppressed a sigh. “Between us? No, and I didn’t mean to imply we didn’t ever screw up. But there’s a good example. If Tom were still here, when he saw Morales he would’ve called me up and chewed my ass for a while and we would’ve worked it out some way.”
“What way?”
Karp stared hard at the smug little face and looked for something that he was more and more sure was not there. “Are you asking hypothetically,” he inquired calmly, “or are you interested in working something out?”
Freeland seemed to consider this for a while, leaning back in his swivel chair, with his feet on the desk, staring at the corner of the ceiling, tapping with a pencil.
At last he faced Karp and said, “Actually, no. I’m not interested in working something out. We intend to fry your Mr. Bergman’s shorts publically, in open court, and do the same in every case in which an innocent defendant is framed. Especially homicide. And especially when your cops have picked some poor black or Hispanic at random. And from what I can see, in even the short time I’ve been here, there are plenty. And this West Village murder-the body wasn’t even cold, before they dragged some pathetic piss bum out of a cellar and pinned it on him. It sucks, Karp! And it’s not going to go on. I don’t care what cozy little deal you had with my esteemed predecessor.”
“Good speech, Milton,” said Karp, “but allow me to point out one difference between Morales and the Weiner killing. In all probability Morales didn’t do it. Russell definitely did it. That strikes me as significant.”
“Oh, please! It’s another FAN job. A white woman gets stabbed and it’s grab the first available nigger.”
“Well, since we’re on the subject already, I presume that you won’t be pleading guilty to the top count in Russell.”
“The plea is not guilty.”
Karp rose slowly to his feet and looked down at Freeland as at something adhering to his shoe. He said, “In that case, Counselor, I’ll see you in court.”
He started to leave, but Freeland said quickly, “Wait a minute! You mean you’re trying Russell?” There was something flickering across his pale face: anticipation, excitement? Karp couldn’t be sure. He said, “Yes, the luck of the draw. Why?”
“Nothing. It’s a bullshit case. You’re gonna get creamed. Well. Maybe I really will see you in court.”
Karp walked across the small office, but paused at the door. “Tell me,” he said, “I’m curious. This is about winning to you, isn’t it? I mean, that’s basically all it is to you, a game to win?”
Freeland snorted. “You mean it’s not to you? What the hell are we doing here, then?” He gestured at his dingy office. “Making lots of dough?”
Karp ignored this. “You didn’t play any ball in school, did you?” he asked mildly. “I mean letter ball. Varsity.”