Resolved (23 page)

“What, your place?”

“Yes, immediately.”

“What's up?”

“Immediately,” said Rashid in a harsher voice and then hung up.

Felix slammed the phone down and karate-kicked it a couple of times, leaving it askew on the wall. He went out into the street and walked aimlessly north, keeping up a rapid pace, pounding the anger out of his system. It was really important to remain perfectly calm just now, plan it out. Being a nigger's nigger was something Felix simply could not bear for another minute. He thought he could, but no; it made him too crazy, and he could not afford to be crazy anymore, not hanging out like this, with no resources, carrying explosives around. All it would take was one cop…no, it had to stop.

He got to Sixth and walked uptown. Before long, he passed the window of a kitchenware shop, stopped short, examined the display, and went in. There he purchased an eight-inch carving knife, which fit neatly into the long, narrow tool pocket that ran along the leg of his overalls. If he saw an opportunity, if only one of the fake Spaniards was around, he could take him out silently and get the drop on Rashid. Once he had him tied up there shouldn't be any trouble about the money, or anything else. A good plan, and simple. If he could keep calm.

He turned east on Eighth Street, feeling a lot better as the pills kicked in, more confident that the plan would work. This was a lot better than what he had thought back after the council of war, blackmailing Rashid by threatening to go to the police with the plan to blow the tunnels. And also no fun involved. And supposing there was an organization behind Rashid, he could maybe get to them and still pull some money out of them for not telling. And then, of course, rat the fuckers out.

From Eighth Street and Broadway he took the R train to Steinway Street in Astoria. He played a little eye game with a cute Latina woman on the subway, and thought briefly of pursuing it, but no, this was more important, and he didn't want to lose the peak of the high, the uppers making him confident, giving energy, the downers making it mellow and suppressing the jaw-grinding twitches. He nearly floated down the few streets to the house and was almost to the door when he stopped. Something was wrong. The windows were closed, for one thing, and the blinds were drawn. It was a broiling day, they should have been open. Another thing: Rashid's green car wasn't parked where it usually was, and neither was the truck that Carlos and Felípe drove. He climbed the stoop and pressed his cheek against the little window at the side of the door. No sound, no movement.

If there was no one home, why had Rashid told him to come, why had he been so insistent that he come? He put his hand on the doorknob and turned it. Unlocked? He pushed a little and then froze as the explanation hit him. He spun on his heel and took the four steps of the stoop in a single leap. He was running full tilt down the walk when the house exploded behind him.

“H
OW DID IT GO
?” M
ARLENE ASKS AVIDLY WHEN THEY REACH
their seats. Raney has met her in a Bayard Street luncheonette not too far from police headquarters. He carries his suit jacket; his shirt collar gapes open, unusual for Raney, who had a rep in the department as a snappy dresser. “Gentleman Jim” was one of his nicknames. It's the heat, she thinks. It's over ninety, and his face is flushed and beaded with sweat. She, on the other hand, loves the heat, and is lettuce crisp in a white linen pants suit.

“Okay, I guess,” he answers, dabbing at his brow, grateful for the way the air conditioning is drying his face and back. He would like a beer, but he's on duty, and he's strict with himself about that: the good lieutenant. “At least they didn't kick my butt out and bust me down to patrol. But, obviously, the situation has changed.”

“Changed? Oh, right, you mean the explosion in Astoria. They think that's it?”

“They sure as hell want it to be. The evil Manbomber gets his just deserts and they avoid the expense of a trial. Of course, it'd also show how incredibly dumb-ass these guys were and make the department and the bureau look even stupider than they do now for not nailing them months ago, but they're not thinking that way yet. So, we got a couple of dead guys in the ruins, and there's your culprits. It's neat enough, at any rate. The explosives check out, exactly the same as the ones used in the Manbomber bombs, plus you got bits and pieces of a bomb lab, they all check out, too—the same technology. There's no question in their minds that this is where those bombs got built.” He looks around and signals a waitress. After she's taken their order and hustles away, Marlene says, “But you're not convinced.”

“Hey, Marlene, I mean what the fuck—who am I to be convinced or not? I buy that it's the right place—the forensics are rock solid. But there's a couple of things. One is that at least half a dozen witnesses described a guy with a ball cap and dark shades around the blast sites, the parking lots, the buses, the theater that got bombed, and we even got a useless sketch out of it. They disagreed on the details, but two things they all agreed on: the guy was a moose—not that big but strong, a bull neck, shoulders—and that he was white. Now the guys in Astoria: okay, they had to put together the pieces a little, but neither of them added up to that guy. Not built-up, not Caucasian. These were average-sized, light-brown types of people. So what happened to that guy, Ball Cap, and who the fuck is he?”

“But you like him for Felix?”

“Oh, shit, I don't know! What we do know was Felix was a bull and that he was white. We know that and so there's
another
coincidence we got to explain away. The second thing is we canvass the neighborhood, talk to people about that house. They all agree, it's a bunch of Latinos there, working stiffs, they figured maybe illegal immigrants, three regulars, and from time to time a bigger group of them. One of the neighbors is an elderly PR lady, she says one of the boys came over and brought her little doggie back when it ran away. Said he wasn't a PR but he spoke good Spanish, guy told her he was a Bolivian. Nice guy, she said. She said there was another guy, a fourth guy, living there, too, not a Hispanic, a white guy, always wore a ball cap pulled low.
S
he says he was a hunk. A guy who works out. Okay, the time of the blast, she sees this guy staggering around just outside the house. So he was there, he survived the blast. Was that Ball Cap? If not, there's coincidence three hundred and fourteen.”

“On the testimony of one old lady?”

“Yeah, I know, and it's not my case, so I can't poke around in it. She could have been wrong. The guy could've just been a bystander. But doesn't it nag the shit out of you? Anyway, we didn't get into that at all. I had my captain there, Stacy, and Deputy Chief Inspector Moellen, from the Manbomber task force, and a couple of his clones and drones. Lechman, the bureau liaison guy. I led off with my double murder, the pattern of the relationship, Felix, and then the bomber so-called coincidences—the targets connected to Felix: Lutz, the witness against him, Balducci, the cop who collared him, the lawyer, Klopper, plus you. Then I added the Latino guy in Elmhurst who speaks Arabic on the phone…”

“It's not Arabic. We don't know what it is.”

“It's close enough for these guys,” says Raney. Their order comes and they are silent for a few minutes, chomping. A little badinage with the waitress here, about the heat, the only subject just now in the city. Worse than the bombs, she jokes, and leaves them and Raney takes up his thread: “Anyway, the problem is there's nothing solid, no linkages. Over and beyond the fact that Felix is officially dead, we got no connection between Felix and any terror group, and he's got no background in bomb construction. Also, from day one we've been more or less denying the idea that Manbomber is an Arab thing, out of al Qaeda or what have you, because the fingerprints are all wrong. There aren't the expected targets—prestige structures, government buildings, Israeli interests, synagogues. Plus, according to Lechman, there isn't a peep on the intelligence network about any operation like this. So they're playing it like a psycho, a Unibomber on steroids, maybe multiple guys with a grudge. So they don't want to hear about your Arab, especially when it looks like it's closing time for the Manbomber.”

“And the Felix angle? If they wanted a psycho, you couldn't ask for a better. What about that?”

A rueful smile, eyes rolling upward. “Oh, that. Well, when they heard I was Peter's partner on the Tighe arrest, it was clear as daylight. Detectives get obsessional about suspects, and here's a clear-cut case. It's unusual that the suspect's dead, but…”

“They shined you on?”

“More or less. The fact that the funeral home seems to be fake was the only thing that saved me from being asked to take a leave of absence and see the department headshrinker. They want me to check out the prison, see if there was maybe an inside guy or a clerical mistake. They'll think about the double murder as maybe being connected to Felix, but they don't buy the connect between Felix and the Manbomber, or that he's alive. Uh-uh, that's a bridge too far.”

“So, we have to go up to Auburn?”

“There's no ‘we' about it, Marlene. I'm taking a puddle jumper up there tomorrow morning. It's all arranged.”

“I can't come? I'll buy my own ticket, if that's the problem?”

“No, that's not the problem.” She notices that Raney looks uncomfortable. Is that a faint blush? He clears his throat, takes a swallow of his club soda. “I thought it was better to leave you out of it, I mean when I presented the thing. Also…”

“Yes?” Dryly.

“Okay, you want the embarrassing truth? Girl, if I went off for an out-of-town overnight trip with you along, Nora would go ballistic. She already thinks I'm halfway up your pants.”

Marlene guffaws in an unladylike fashion.

“It's not funny, Marlene. You don't know her.”

“It's hilarious. You want me to call her? Tell her I wouldn't have you on a plate, even though I did chew illicitly on your face a time or two?”

“Oh, please, that's all I need. But you can tell her whatever when you come over. You're all invited this Saturday.”

 

Roland Hrcany was taking his sweet time with the fatal bullets and his expert witness. It was now the morning of the second full day of this testimony and they had just started on bullet four of the seven that had helped kill Moussa Onabajo. Karp could understand why he was going so slowly. The roaring of the fans placed strategically around the baking courtroom made it difficult for the jury to hear the testimony or the questions. He could see several of the jurors leaning forward, cocking their heads, cupping ears. Those were the ones still interested in the case. Others, stunned by the heat or by the usual boredom, had given up entirely and were frankly dozing. And Roland was going slowly because lies, which were what he was selling now, were always more complex to convey than the truth. This last was one of Karp's deepest beliefs, that the truth was always clear and simple, and one he clung to despite almost daily demonstrations to the contrary.

Bullet number four was the first really magical bullet, and Karp was, unlike the majority of the jurors, truly interested in how the defense intended to play it. The first two had come from Nixon's gun, shot during the struggle, causing only flesh wounds. The third had been Gerber shooting the struggling Nigerian through the chest to save his partner. Police ballistics and the People's case maintained that bullets number four, five, six, and seven had been fired at the victim after he had fallen to the ground, helpless, hence evidence of intentional homicide. But no: it turned out, according to Hugo Selwyn, that number four had been fired while the victim was still hanging on to Detective Nixon, still allegedly scrabbling for the detective's pistol, still a danger to the officers. That the bullet itself, squashed flat against the asphalt of the parking lot, had been found under Mr. Onabajo's body, was explained by a marvelous set of rebounds within the corpus of Onabajo, enabling the projectile to end up looking “as if” it had been fired into a recumbent man.

Bullet five had done a little dance around Onabajo's pelvis before winding up in the soft asphalt right next to its predecessor slug, in remarkable coincidence. Bullet six had bounced off a spinal process of the Nigerian desperado and was directed in a downward direction, ending up within six inches of numbers four and five. And now for bullet number seven. Karp let a smile slide onto his face, and he made sure that Roland and the jury saw it. He leaned forward in his chair and clasped his hands, as if riveted by a performance.

For bullet number seven was the worst bullet from the point of view of the defense. It had not participated in any of the merry bone dances of its earlier associates. It had been a simple gut shot, entering three inches to the left of the midline, blasting through the soft liver and exiting through muscle, fat, and skin tissue into the pavement, penetrating deeper than the others, and carrying with it (which the police department forensic experts had already established) bits of liver tissue, undershirt, shirt, skin, and beer, this last from a spill on the surface of the parking lot. It was like a scientific core from an ancient glacier or a redwood, recounting history in neat layers.

As Karp had expected, Roland admitted all this, as it gave him a chance to reiterate the position that the other three shots
had
glanced off bones. He asked Selwyn whether the trajectory and rest position of the fourth bullet could be explained in any other way than the way the state had explained it, and Selwyn, naturally, answered in the affirmative. Easel charts were brought out and set up, and, guided by Hrcany, Selwyn began to describe how hydrostatic forces generated by the hollow-point bullet entering soft tissues could have deflected the projectile so as to make it turn nearly ninety degrees and plough into the pavement, as it would have had to do if Gerber had shot Onabajo while Onabajo was on his feet and struggling. There was even a chart of partial differential equations to support the trickology. Karp rose to his feet.

“Objection, Your Honor. No foundation.”

A stunned silence for a beat or so, and then mutters among the courthouse cognoscenti. “No foundation” is an objection associated with exhibits. You object in that way if, for example, the photograph of a crime scene is not a photograph of how the crime scene looked at the time of the crime. Judge Higbee said, “Explain yourself, Mr. Karp.”

“These equations violate the Law of the Conservation of Energy, which law, Your Honor, with all due respect, lies outside the purview of this court. It's like supposing perpetual motion or antigravity—”

Roland raised his voice. “Your Honor, I must protest! Counsel will have plenty of time to cross-examine our expert.”

Oh, don't stop there, Roland, Karp hoped to himself. And Roland did not, adding, “In any case, it's outrageous for counsel to advance himself as an expert in ballistics.”

“It's outrageous for your witness to do so,”
said Karp in a stentorian voice.

Bang of the gavel, amid titters. “Sit down, Mr. Karp,” Judge Higbee snapped, “Objection overruled. Jury will disregard Mr. Karp's remarks. Proceed, Mr. Hrcany.”

Roland did so and Karp sat back, ostentatiously reading through his notes, seeming to ignore the remainder of Selwyn's testimony. He was well satisfied with his move. Whichever members of the jury had been dozing had been awakened by the gavel and by the dueling lawyers, which was what all juries yearned for, having been trained for it by television. He had also recalled for the jury the state's original trashing of Selwyn's reputation, which would make it easier for Karp to impeach him during cross-examination. A neat little tactic. Roland could never resist putting in an extra twist of the knife, and thus the perfect straight line had been set up. And Karp had almost nailed it, the key to impeaching the cops, something about the position of Nixon and Onabajo, that had to do not with Gerber's five bullets, but with Nixon's two. So close, but not quite in hand.

 

Lucy was walking up Crosby Street from Howard, on the shady side, for it was a blazing day, and her mind was full of deep thoughts. She had come from doing a number of necessary errands and was looking forward to shedding her sticky clothes, taking a cool shower, and lying nearly naked on her bed and having a conversation with her boyfriend. It was not exactly phone sex.