"I didn't know who I could trust," Stupenagel now told Karp and Marlene. "No one except Gilbert and my source knew I was going there. So either I was followed, which doesn't make sense because that couple was there before I arrived. Or somebody followed Gregory, but he seemed to be the sort who would have taken precautions against that. Or somebody was listening in on my telephone conversations, and I don't like that one bit."
"So what did Gregory have to say?" Karp asked.
"Nice interview technique, Karp, subtle," Stupenagel scoffed. "What makes you think I trust you either?"
"Then whisper it into Marlene's ear, and I'll get it out of her later," he said.
"Wild horses couldn't drag it out of me, buster," Marlene said with a laugh.
"Yeah, well, I know that Marlene is a Chatty Cathy with a couple of glasses of wine in her, so I'll just tell you what I know and save you the cheap merlot," Stupenagel said. "It's going to be in the newspaper anyway as soon as I can persuade Gilbert to bring me a laptop."
Karp sensed that Stupenagel was avoiding the subject of the people who'd been killed in the attack. Though she was tough and brassy, with the usual journalist's dark sense of humor, he knew that she actually had a big heart and that it had to be tearing at her that others, especially children, had been killed by someone trying to get at her or her source.
"The source, Gregory, was about to give me a photograph that he said showed Kane, Nadya Malovo…and Jamys Kellagh meeting in Aspen," she said, watching Karp's face for his reaction. When she saw it, she nodded. "Yeah, I know that would have been big. But that's when I had to take a tinkle, and we all know what happened after that. Which is why I'd like to know if a black-and-white photograph, probably inside a manila envelope, was found in the debris."
"The only photographs I'm aware of that survived were those found inside wallets and purses," Karp said, wondering what part his cousin Ivgeny had played in Gregory's meeting with Stupenagel. "Maybe there's another copy."
Stupenagel shook her head. "I don't think so. He said it was one of a kind and had been faxed to his employer, who I guess are the Karchovskis. Apparently, the photographer has since been murdered and his darkroom burned to the ground."
"Did you see the photograph?"
"Unfortunately, that's when I decided to answer the call," she said. "He said it wasn't very good quality, being a fax and all. But I hoped it would be good enough to smear all over the front page of the newspaper. Maybe we could have smoked that fucking weasel Jamys Kellagh out of whatever hole he crawls into between murders."
"Such language from a lady." Karp smiled. "But I wish your friend had brought that photograph to the authorities so they could arrest that 'fucking weasel' when we had a case to present to the grand jury." Next time I get the chance, he thought, I'm going to have words about this with my cousin.
"Isn't it obvious?" Stupenagel said. "No one is sure who to trust."
"Like me?"
"No, not necessarily. Then again, what takes you off the list of suspects any faster than some other people who have to be on it?"
Karp thought about the columns and names on his legal pad. I don't know who to trust either. Maybe I should put my own name on the lists.
"But it's not a matter of trusting you," Stupenagel went on. "Maybe they don't trust anybody in your office, or maybe they don't trust the people your office has to deal with in other agencies. But I'll tell you what, Butch. This is getting scary. The Karchovskis are nobody to fuck with. Not to mention that whoever did this was perfectly willing to murder a member of the press-tried twice, as a matter of fact-and risk the publicity just to stop me from finishing this story."
"Maybe you ought to cool it for a while," Karp suggested.
"Like hell I will," Stupenagel fumed. "This is going to come down to the last man standing…or in this case, the last woman standing."
"That's what I thought," Karp responded, then patted her on the shoulder. "My money's on the woman."
Three days later, it became apparent that Stupenagel had talked her boyfriend into bringing her a laptop. The proof was on the front page:
One of the victims of the terrorist bombing at the Black Sea Cafe last week was killed just before identifying the murderous mastermind behind the St. Patrick's Cathedral hostage crisis and other vicious crimes.
Reputed Russian gangster Gregory Karamazov was about to reveal to this reporter a photograph purported to be of a shadowy figure named Jamys Kellagh meeting last summer with Andrew Kane and Russian agent Nadya Malovo in a bar in Aspen, Colorado when the bomb exploded. Eleven people died in the blast, including Karamazov.
A well-placed source told this reporter that the bombing appears to have been a desperate move to hide the identity of Kellagh, and confirmation of Malovo's quiet involvement. According to the source, Malovo was arrested inside St. Patrick's Cathedral but was handed over to the Russian government.
A spokesman for the Russian embassy in Manhattan denied that any of its government's agents were involved in the St. Patrick's debacle. He would not comment on the existence of Malovo.
"Damn straight, they're worried," the source says. "Imagine the implications."
Officials with the U.S. government and law enforcement agencies have also refused to comment…
Karp read the story as he was enjoying peach pancakes at Kitchenette. The Sons of Liberty were carrying on at another table, but he'd politely declined their offer to join the frivolity so that he could work.
He looked down at his much-traveled legal pad, which had a new column headed by thick, dark letters spelling out Black Sea Cafe. There were three names beneath it-Stupenagel, Murrow, Ivgeny Karchovski-the fewest in any of the columns, and he had to concede that there was a very good chance that whoever knew Stupenagel was meeting Karamazov at the cafe wasn't on the list and might not have been on any of the other lists either.
Someone, or someones, with the resources and know-how to listen in on telephone conversations, and brazen enough-or powerful enough-to feel safe bombing a restaurant owned by a powerful Russian gangster, he thought. Jamys Kellagh, or whoever he works for-or she; I don't know for sure if Jamys is male or female.
The conclusions did not sit well with him. Nothing made sense. It was as if God had taken a giant swizzle stick to the solar system. The planets were speeding every which way, careening off course, sometimes on collision paths with other planets, or narrowly missing, but with no discernible pattern to the whole. And every day seemed to bring new worries.
Karp would have liked to talk to Espey Jaxon about his thoughts. But the former agent had disappeared after dropping Lucy off at the loft and didn't answer his telephone messages.
He had recently learned that at least one other person wasn't thrilled about Jaxon's career change. Jon Ellis, the assistant director of special operations for the Department of Homeland Security, wasn't happy about it either.
Ellis had called to apologize for "being an ass" after the St. Patrick's Cathedral hostage crisis by trying to assert federal jurisdiction over the case. Then he asked if Karp could meet him for coffee. Curious as to what he would say, and wanting to get past his aversion to the man that on its face seemed unfair, Karp had agreed.
Five minutes into the conversation, Ellis made his opinion known about Jaxon. "Nice time to quit your country and go for the money," he said, but then he saw the look on Karp's face and quickly backpedaled. "Hey, sorry. Geez, I'm good at sticking my foot in my mouth, or maybe it's my head up my ass. I know he's a longtime friend and that was out of line. God knows he was taking down bad guys when I was still sucking my thumb. And I know the old government pension ain't going to pay for much of a retirement. It's just tough when the good ones leave; we can use all the help we can get. What I get left with are the snot-nosed kids and lazy good-for-nothings who nobody else wants."