He looked and felt ridiculous. It was a stupid idea, living in his office, but having decided on it, he felt bound to continue. It was only another couple of weeks until the trial.
He took his shower, alone in the steamy room. The shower was used only when shifts changed, and Karp was careful not to use it at those times. He was just pulling on his sweatpants, sitting on a locker room bench, when he heard a clanking sound behind him.
It was one of the trustees on the clean-up crew. Karp pulled up his pants and knotted the cord. He slipped into his sneaker and got his crutches under his arms. When he tried to stand, one of his crutches slipped on a wet spot and skittered away across the floor. Karp sat back down on the bench heavily, cursing.
The trustee left his bucket and got the crutch and brought it over to Karp. He looked up, and his smile froze on his face. It was Hosie Russell.
Karp cleared his throat and said, “Thanks.”
Russell nodded. It was silent for a while there in the locker room, except from the gurgle of water in pipes and, far off, the continuous murmur of thousands of confined men.
Russell wasn’t wearing his glasses. He was dressed in an orange jail uniform with TRUSTEE stenciled across the chest and back. Karp wondered for a moment why they had let Russell be a trustee, and then it struck him that no one was better suited than this man, who had spent two thirds of his adult life behind bars, who understood the routines of jail and prison perfectly, who had never given his various warders a lick of trouble.
Russell broke the silence, “You got a cigarette?” “No, I don’t smoke.” Then, to his own surprise, he added, “I could bring you some. I’m here every night about this time.”
12
Roland,” said Karp the next morning, “even you have to admit that this U.N. thing is looking less and less like a terrorist crime.” They were in Karp’s office, trying to have a professional conversation about late developments connected to Tomasian. They were doing fairly well at it, considering. Karp was snappish and Hrcany was sulky, but they were avoiding actual violence.
“Why? I don’t see how all this shit that you and Nancy Drew have dredged up affects the basic case against Tomasian in the slightest.”
“Roland, it’s the context. It’s reasonable doubt,” explained Karp wearily. “Look, let’s review the bidding here. First, we find out that Gabrielle Avanian was killed the night of the murder day in a random act. That shuts down the theory that she was involved in some kind of Armenian plot.”
“She was. Tomasian admits it.”
“What?”
“When we went in there and told him his girlfriend was dead, he said she’d been going out to northern California to raise money for the cause. A lot of Armenians around there.”
“What ’cause’?”
“How do I know?” Hrcany replied in a tone of annoyance. “Some business connected with his secret army. He didn’t expand on it, and I didn’t press him.”
“How did he take his girl getting killed?” Karp asked.
“Pretty broken up. Of course, it could’ve been because there went his alibi.”
“In any case,” Karp continued, “you’re still looking for the other guy on the hit, who seems to have vanished into thin air. That’s another weakness. You assumed Tomasian would crack in jail and give up his partner, but he hasn’t. That makes me think he didn’t have one, because he wasn’t there. And a jury will too. No, wait, let me finish.
“There’s still the money. The Turk from the U.N. says it was a slush fund to buy back antiquities. But Rodriguez, the art cop, says the Turks aren’t likely to do that, and he never heard of Ersoy buying art on the shady market.
“Finally, we know there’s a connection between Ersoy and Kerbussyan. Ersoy called him from his office in the U.N. mission a whole bunch during the month before he was killed. That’s a connection we haven’t explained, and it’s one that Kerbussyan is anxious to keep quiet. He was lying about not knowing about Ersoy’s money.”
“How do you know that?” Hrcany challenged.
“I just know. Also, I’d like to know why two wise guys are talking about Turks in relation to an airport theft operation.”
Hrcany shook his head in mock rue. “I don’t know, Butch. I think hanging around with Marlene is starting to soften your brain. None of this has anything to do with the case. Focus on the case! Tomasian’s car, Tomasian’s jacket, Tomasian’s threats against the Turks, Tomasian’s gun collection. That’s the case. Who the fuck cares the vic called another Armenian? He could’ve called the Pope too.
“Same with the money. There’s no evidence the money had any goddamn thing to do with the crime. Remember evidence? You used to think it was pretty important. Hey, here’s an explanation. The Turk’s into art, Kerbussyan’s into art. They discuss, they trade. Could be, right? It don’t matter if it is or isn’t. It doesn’t affect the case.”
“The case sucks, Roland. The D.’ll blow you away.”
“Wanna bet?”
There was a beat when everything stopped except the whirling in Karp’s brain, and then he said, “Yeah, I do; five grand says Aram Tomasian never goes down for killing Mehmet Ersoy.”
Hrcany snorted in amazement. “You’re kidding.”
“The fuck I am.” Karp scribbled on a piece of yellow bond and whipped the page across the table to Hrcany. He had written, “I owe Roland Hrcany $5,000 if and when Aram Tomasian is convicted of the murder of Mehmet Ersoy,” and signed and dated it below.
Hrcany read the thing and looked narrowly at Karp, his eyes pinpricks of gas-flame-colored light in their deep sockets. “You fucker,” he said, “you know something.”
Karp raised his hand in oath-taking position. “I swear, Roland. You know absolutely everything I do, just like we agreed, the whole truth, so help me God.”
“Then how the hell can you bet five grand?” said Hrcany, his voice strained. “You don’t have that kind of money.”
“No, but you do, which is why I won’t mind taking it off you. You jumped for this guy because you have the killer instinct, which is good, but you also have a hard time arguing against yourself, asking the questions the defense is going to ask, trying to wreck your own case. When the great Roland has decided you’re gonna take the fall, you better take the fall.
“But Tomasian’s not gonna take the fall, Roland. Because he didn’t do it. As for how I know: I know cause I know. I can smell when a case is right and when it’s not. Because I’m the best, Roland, and you’re the second best. Now put up or shut up.”
Roland’s face went brick red, and the muscles of his jaw popped up like immies. He scratched an opposite-bet IOU on the bottom half of the sheet, tore it across, shoved it over to Karp, and walked out of the office without another word.
“You did what?” shrieked Marlene.
“It’s okay, Marlene. It’ll be fine.” Karp calmly took another bite of the sausage and pepper sandwich she had brought him from the cancer wagons.
Marlene shoved the plastic spoon into her yogurt cup and slammed the cup down on the desk. Bits of Dannon spattered an affidavit.
“What do you mean, it’ll be all right?” she said, her voice shrill. “How could you have done something so moronic? And without telling me? How could you take a risk like that while we’re trying to buy the loft and pay for your operation? Besides, it’s unethical! Two prosecutors betting on the outcome of a homicide case! If it got out, you could be disbarred, the both of you. You have a piece of pepper on your chin.”
Karp dabbed himself with the flimsy paper napkin. “It won’t get out. Roland’ll pay up and contract instant amnesia. You think he wants anyone knowing I skunked him? And we won’t tell. So there’s no problem.”