Reversible Error (21 page)

The two men sat on the bench and Karp fiddled with the Nagra, rolling the tape back and forth until he had the section he wanted. "Listen to this carefully," he said.

The voice of Tecumseh Booth was thready but the words were clear enough: "…an then we went down to that club, you know? Club Mecca. An Manning, he tol' me to wait outside, in the club while him and Amalfi went inna back. So then he come out an he have a big envelope, an he peel off my end from a roll of cash, thick as shit. Motherfucker got paid, you know? So then, I say, who back there? An he say, you don't got to know that, you just got to drive.

"So later, I'm out in the car, drivin, an I go by the club, an there's Choo Willis standin with some of his homes outside, an I figure that was him, cause Choo bout the biggest dealer we ain't killed, an he hang there all the time. We doin it for him, dig? So then…"

Karp clicked off the tape. Fulton shrugged and said, "So? That's what I said-it's Willis."

"Yeah, they're doing it for Willis. He's the immediate beneficiary. But Willis didn't organize this. No way. And I doubt he was the only one in the back room with the cash."

"How do you know that?"

"Look at it! This whole thing stinks of heavy cover. Would cops work for a Harlem dope pusher? They might help him, but they're not going to take orders from a mutt like that. Would Willis have the clout to roll Nolan? I told you, Nolan isn't a fat-envelope guy. No, there's somebody else, somebody big."

Karp pondered for a moment. "Tell me something: what's your take on Fane?"

"The congressman? Shit, Butch, what do I know about those kind of people? He comes on like a regular politician. You think he's involved?"

"No, just wondering," Karp said. "It could be, though. He's supposed to be smart enough. And everybody likes money, especially pols. But it's somebody like that. Somebody who knows how to move money and move the system. Just you do your end and I'll look into it."

Karp walked slowly back to the ballfield. The post-game party had thinned out and the beer was almost gone. Karp put his hand on the shoulder of a small wiry man and said, "V.T., we need to talk for a minute."

Vernon Talcott Newbury looked around and smiled when he saw Karp. His smile was perfect, white and even, and his face was perfect too-classical features and dark blue eyes with long lashes. He wore his blond hair long and swept back.

Karp picked up a Coke from the cooler and V.T. grabbed a beer and they walked over to sit near first base. "I need some advice, V.T."

"Sure, Butch. Is it that sexual-dysfunction thing again?"

"Fuck you," said Karp with a laugh. "No, it has to do with the drug-dealer killings. I need to run some financial traces."

"Aha. And you thought to yourself, think money, think V.T. Newbury. Why go through the messy business of subpoenaing records and causing a fuss when you knew that V.T., with his elaborate connections in the financial community, could gather much the same information, et cetera?"

"Something like that. And your vast personal wealth, so that if you got caught and got fired, you wouldn't suffer."

"My vast personal wealth is so tied up in trusts that I have to struggle to make ends meet. My wine merchant is now asking for cash, if you can believe it. Who's the malefactor?"

"Marcus Fane, and maybe some other people," said Karp.

V.T.'s eyes widened. "Representative Fane… so he's been killing the pushers. I admire that. More congressmen should cut through the red tape and bureaucracy to rid our streets of these villains, et cetera. Of course, it's not the kind of thing you can use in a campaign speech…"

"Be serious, V.T. I don't mean he's doing the killings. I'm not even sure he's involved. I'm just covering bases."

"Literally, for once," observed V.T. Karp was sitting on the first-base sack. "So what sort of dirt do you want? Just the basic model, or with air conditioning and whitewalls?"

"I don't know, V.T., you're the expert. Is he richer than he should be? Is his wife? Has he got Krugerrands salted away in Bimini? Also, I'd like whatever you can find on the ownership of a Harlem nightclub called the Club Mecca, and, let's see…" He thought for a moment more. "Oh, yeah-Judge Terence Nolan. See if you can find out whether anybody's done him any financial favors lately."

"Right. Fane. Mecca. Nolan," said V.T. "That shouldn't be hard. Matter of public record, most of it. I won't hardly have to use any illegal sources, except maybe for about the judge."

Karp placed his hands flat over his ears. "I don't need to hear about how you do what you do, V.T. Just do it," he said, "and soon." On Monday, Marlene caught Guma outside the grand-jury room on the sixth floor of the Criminal Courts Building.

"You've been avoiding me," she said flatly.

"Marlene!" said Guma brightly. "How could I be avoiding you? Everybody seeks you out to bask in your charming personality."

"Cut the crap, Goom! What went down this weekend? Did the cops check out the Omega Club?"

Guma seemed nervous, darting glances down the hallway in both directions. "Well, yeah, they did, and, uh…"

"And what? What are you looking around like that for? Somebody's husband chasing you?"

Guma laughed insincerely. "I only wish. Yeah, look, Marlene, it's a shutout on that. They got zip."

"Zip? How could they get zip?"

"Easy. The place is dark as a well-digger's ass, for starters. They got strobe lights there, everybody's blinking and faces look like a fucking fun house. Also they run two thousand people through there on a good weekend. How the hell do you expect a bartender to remember one chick talking to one guy, much less what the guy looked like?"

"Fuck!" said Marlene, loud enough to draw stares from the passersby. "OK, so what now? Where do we take it from here?"

Guma shifted nervously. "Well, really, nowhere, kid. The regular dicks have washed their hands on it. I mean, they might do a couple of sweeps, talk to some people, but… Oh, crap!"

Guma was staring in horror down the hallway. "Marlene, listen," he said in a low, urgent voice, clutching her arm, "just play along with this. I'm in serious deep shit here."

Marlene was about to ask what was going on, when a tall handsome woman in a tailored suit, with a face that Marlene vaguely recognized, walked up to them, smiling.

"John," she said to Guma, "what a nice surprise!"

Guma smiled in return. Marlene could see small trickles of sweat running down from his thick sideburns. "Hi, Sylvia," said Guma. "I guess you know my sister, Marlene. Not socially, of course."

The two women nodded politely to one another and smiled at this pleasantry. Guma said, "Gee, Sylvia, you know, I been meaning to call you, but I've been swamped. It's all these immigrants-Chinese, Cambodian, from Central America. The first thing they do they get a little money, they're making it in the USA, bang!-the kid's got to have straight teeth. I'm thinking of taking on another man, in fact."

"Well, at least you're coining money. How you get away with charging what you do, I don't know," said Sylvia Kamas.

"Yeah, Judge," said Marlene, "maybe we have a grand-larceny case here."

They all laughed, none louder than Guma. "That's good, Marlene," he chortled. "Well, at least I have a friend in court." He squeezed Judge Kamas' arm. Then he made a show of looking at his watch and striking his forehead. "Oh, my! It's almost two. I'd love to hang out with you ladies, but I got to fit a… a… a retainer at two-fifteen." He kissed Marlene on the cheek, patted Sylvia's arm again, and tore off down the hallway.

They watched him go. Judge Kamas turned to Marlene and said, "Your brother-what a sweet man! And a cutup! I've never met anyone who made me laugh more. He must have been a real handful at your house."

"Not really," said Marlene pleasantly. "We didn't even know he was there."

Marlene finished her business with the grand jury in short order and headed directly for Guma's office, at the trot. The door was locked and the light was off, but Marlene, pressing her ear against the frosted glass, heard the telltale rustle of paper and the creak of a chair in use by a portly body. She rapped sharply on the glass. "Guma! Open up! It's your own sis!"

Silence. Then, cautious steps, the snap of the lock, and Guma peering out through a narrow slit like a Maquisard on the lookout for the Gestapo. "For Chrissake, Marlene, keep it down!"

Marlene shouldered her way past him into the office and sat down. "OK, Mad Dog, let's have it. The whole story."

Guma gave her the whole story. "Honest, Marlene, it just happened. I didn't plan it," he concluded. "It was just one of those things."

"Yeah, a trip to the moon on gossamer wings. Does Butch know?"

"Yeah, I had to tell him. To get off Petrossi."

"Ah, I wondered about that. So, what are you going to do about it? You can't spend all day with your head in a bag. Maybe the witness-protection program can help-give you a whole new life in El Paso?"

"Come on, Marlene, it's not funny. If this gets out, I'm fucked forever."

Marlene thought for a long minute. Then she said, "OK, Goom, here's the deal. I'll cover for you, if…"

"Anything!" Guma exclaimed, his face lighting up.

"I want Wagner," she said.

Guma looked puzzled. "Wagner? Sure, but what good's that gonna do you? You're out of here in a week is what I hear."

"Not if I have a continuing case. That's the exception. And I want this guy."

"Yeah, but that won't hold up, Marlene. You can't keep adding cases after you get the severance letter."

"No!" said Marlene forcefully. "It's not an add-on. Wagner is the same case as the serial rapist I've had for months. It's another element in the same case, which means I can stay until it's finished."

Guma looked doubtful. "You can convince Butch of that?"

"Ve haff our vays," said Marlene with confidence. "And, Goom? Let me tell him. Keep this under your hat."

Guma shrugged and held out his hand, palm up, and Marlene slapped it.

"Done deal," he said, "but let me tell you, the cops ain't gonna be so easy. I don't know who you're gonna get to follow up on it."

"Don't worry," said Marlene. "I'll think of something." Back in her office, Marlene dialed a familiar number and was relieved to hear it answered by a familiar voice.

"Detective Raney," said the voice on the other end of the line.

"Jim? It's Marlene."

"The roller queen? How the hell are ya?"

"Fine. Great. But I need your help on a thing. How would you like to be in on a hot collar?"

A pause. "Uh, to tell the truth, Marlene, I'm still sort of on light duty. The last time you got me in on a hot collar I almost got canned. The up side was I also got the shit beat out of me by King Kong."

"This isn't like that, Jim. This is light duty. It's just going to a place, a singles bar, with me and a witness, and picking up a guy."

"And what guy would this be?"

"A serial rapist. He killed his last victim. It was that slashing case in the One-seven."

"Yeah? And what about whoever caught it in Zone Five homicide? They too busy for a hot collar?"

Marlene had anticipated this objection and had decided that her only recourse was the truth. Detectives were notoriously sticky about stepping into the turf of other units. Raney was assigned to Detective Zone Four on the West Side of Manhattan and would hesitate before stepping into a case originating in another zone.

"No," she said, "to be perfectly honest, this is something I figured out for myself. The connection between the rapes and the murder-the D.A. cops and zone homicide don't buy it."

"Intuition again?"

"No, goddammit! I got a pattern. The guy repeats himself. He picks up women in singles bars, finds out where they live, shows up at their places, and rapes them. The last one went sour and he killed her. But it's the same guy and I can prove it. I got evidence, I got a consistent M.O. in all the cases."

A longer pause. "Ah, Marlene, as much as I'd like to help you out…"

"Oh, come on, Raney! It's no big deal. Look, we'll keep it unofficial: just a lonely cop out on a date with a couple of classy Italian ladies."

"A couple? Who's the other one?"

"JoAnne Caputo."

"Does she put out?"

"For Chrissake, Jim, she's my rape victim. I think she can ID the bad guy."

"A rape victim, huh? It sounds like a real fun evening. What's the boyfriend say about this?"

"The boyfriend doesn't know, not that it's any of your business."

"Ah-hah. This is sort of a little fling before the wedding bells chime."

"Oh, shit, Raney! Be serious! I'm trying to catch a real bastard here, and I got nobody to help me. Except you. Now, please, will you do it?" Marlene felt her voice shaking. Raney heard it over the wire and changed his tone.

"OK, sorry," he said. "What about this mutt? He gonna put up a fight?"

"You'll do it?"

"I'll give it a shot, as long as it's, like you say, unofficial. Besides, I'd like to see you. What about the guy?"

"No problem, I'd say. He won't expect it, he won't be armed. He's out to cruise women, not hassle cops."

"OK. Where and when?"

Marlene gave him the address of Tangerines and they arranged to meet at eight-thirty that Friday night. "Any other questions?" she asked.

"Yeah, do I at least get to cop a cheap feel off you on the dance floor?"

"Sure, Raney. Just keep it professional," said Marlene sharply, and hung up.

When Clay Fulton walked into Logan's, people glanced up, as they usually do when a new person comes into a small dark saloon. Then they all looked purposefully away. Nobody offered to buy him a drink. Logan's is a cop bar on Amsterdam near 145th. Everybody in the place when Fulton entered worked for the police, except the bartender, who was a retired cop, and the scattering of women, who were there to meet cops. People from the Twenty-sixth and Twenty-eighth precincts drank there, and also some from the Thirty-second, to the north. Dick Manning drank there, and was drinking there now, which was why Fulton had come.