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  Not knowing what else might qualify him for manhood in his leader's eyes, Packer pulled up the woman's shirt and then bit her on the breast hard enough to draw blood. The woman screamed, which made Sykes and Davis laugh; Wilson tried to smile as he wiped the blood from his mouth but he then stood back and did not participate in the rest of the event.

  Sykes next ordered Kevin Little to assault the woman, but he turned and threw up in the sand. "Ah shit, the little faggot got sick. Kwasama, you get you some now." But Kwasama shook his head. He'd continued holding her arms down, but he was crying.

  Sykes was wondering what to do now with the woman when he noticed the ugly pockmarked Puerto Rican man standing twenty feet away. The greasy fucker looked like a hungry rat and was licking his lips and rubbing his crotch. "Hey, ratface, you want some of this bitch?" he asked.

  Villalobos had jumped at the invitation. "Show you boys how to treat these bitches," he said. "If you want to teach them a real lesson, you got to fuck them dirty." He'd then kicked the woman so hard in the side that it knocked her over and onto her stomach. Laughing at the look on the others' faces, he'd then sodomized her, and when he finished, stood and wiped himself on her sweatshirt.

  They all stood looking down at the woman. She was bleeding from both of her ears as well as the ragged wounds on the side of her head from the rebar. There were no more moans, just a sort of fluttery breathing. Sykes kicked her in the head but there was no response. Then he became aware of a high-pitched wailing, in the distance but growing louder.

  "Jayshon!" Davis had yelled. "It's 5-0! We got to get the hell out of here."

  "What about her?" Kwasama asked.

  Jayshon shrugged. "She's dead," he said and took off running.

  Sykes had no idea what had become of the rat man after that, except that he wasn't caught. But the others were not so lucky. The cops had picked up Kevin Little and Packer Wilson as they were walking home to Bedford-Stuyvesant; when Kwasama Jones heard about his friends, he'd gone down to the precinct station with his mother. Based on what they said, the cops had showed up the next day and arrested Sykes and Davis.

  Little had testified against them, but Wilson and Jones got the hint and clammed up, and Davis he'd never had to worry about. He'd made his own mistakes, like bragging to that ho, Hannah Little, that he'd enjoyed raping the white bitch.

  Next time, no bragging, 'cept to the homies, he thought. But that stupid muthafucka Villalobos had to brag to Kaminsky, and maybe fuck up the whole plan. Well, when this is over, I'll have some of the homies pay him a visit and cut his fuckin' heart out and stuff it down his mouth while it's still beating. He was also pissed off that Lynd had messed up a simple knife job.

  The fat lawyer had gotten on his case about shoving the wrong Kaminsky brother beneath the train but it wasn't his fault. How was I to know he had a twin? Louis didn't tell him until later that he knew where to find Kaminsky because he'd received a call from Olav Radinskaya, the Brooklyn borough president, who employed Ivan Kaminsky. Ivan Kaminsky had asked for the afternoon off to go meet his brother at Grand Central Station on the number 4 train platform.

  Louis should have told me there were two brothers, Sykes thought, frowning at the lawyer. Now he was going to have to wait for the remaining Kaminsky to surface again. He tuned back in to the conversation between Louis and Breman when he heard the name Kaminsky.

  "I just hope that if he does surface, you'll contact me first," Louis was saying. "I want to ask him a few questions before the police nab him and get a chance to feed him a story to protect their colleagues."

  "Well, again, that's a rather unusual request," Breman said. She realized, though it was a jolt to her conscience, that at the same time she was pleased because it gave her power over Louis that he was afraid of what Kaminsky had to say. However, the pleasure and illusion of power were short-lived.

  "Forgive them, but my clients here were the ones who wanted to meet you and have me ask that if you hear from Kaminsky, you call me first," he said. "They wanted me to express how very unhappy they will be if this lying sack of shit Kaminsky is allowed to ruin our hard work."

  The reference to the gangsters made Breman want to go to the bathroom. How did it ever get this far? she wondered as she squirmed a little trying to get comfortable. She hazarded a glance at Sykes. He was grinning like the Cheshire cat and had a hand on his crotch. "Maybe you'd like a taste of this now?" he offered.

  The men were still laughing when she hopped up and fled through the office and reception area and out the door of the building, stumbling down the steps. Teddy Chalk ran across the sidewalk and caught her by her arm or she might have fallen.

  "Did they harm you, ma'am?" he asked, his face a mask of concern and anger.

  "Oh, quit with the fucking chivalry, you idiot, and drive," she snarled as she jumped into the backseat of the limo. As they made their way south and east through Harlem into East Harlem, she broke down and cried. She cried so hard she hardly noticed the two Arab-looking men standing outside the small mosque, one of them staring down an alley with his hand in his coat.

  10

  Monday, December 13

  "Good morning, Mr. Karp," Mrs. Darla Milquetost, his new receptionist, said in what was her perpetual monotone when he walked into his office on the eighth floor of the Criminal Courts building. He'd hoped that she'd be away from her desk getting coffee or something, as he'd had all the disapproving stares he wanted that morning.

  Mrs. Milquetost had informed him on her first day on the job that she, too, found the name unfortunate but it was the only one her husband had, and as a good Catholic it had been her duty to assume her husband's family name. "I'd appreciate it if you would avoid sniggering when you say my name."

  "Sniggering?"

  "Yes," she replied. "Sniggering. Everyone always does unless I put my foot down at the beginning."

  "Well then, I assure you I will not snigger nor tolerate sniggering in this office, Mrs. Milquetost," he'd said without sniggering…at least until he was in his office.

  At first he'd wondered if Mrs. Milquetost, a temp from the steno pool, might not be quite the right fit for the office. But she'd proved to be an efficient, hardworking, and, importantly, closemouthed receptionist, even if she did dress like June Cleaver on the old television series Leave It to Beaver.

  "Would you like me to have those boxes in your office removed, Mr. Karp," said Mrs. Milquetost, who refused to call him Butch and didn't like random piles of boxes showing up. "Do you need me to call someone to move them to filing?"

  "No, Mrs. Milquetost, they're fine right where they are for now," he said, continuing through the door leading to his inner sanctum, where he hoped for a few contemplative minutes before the morning meetings began.

  The day had not started off on a good note. Marlene was still ticked at him for the "stray dog" comment and refused to accept his apology. He even tried kissing her as she lay in bed, but she'd kept her lips as tight as possible and simply glared at him until he gave up.

  Out in the kitchen, he'd cheered up some to find the twins, who, surprisingly, were already up and dressed in sweats, hoping they'd get a chance to play basketball with the big boys on the courts at Sixth and Fourth. Their lively banter had taken a little of the chill out of the air, until Zak was reminded that he and his brother had bar mitzvah class that night.

  "Ah gee, during vacation?" Zak complained.

  Zak's demeanor got worse when his brother then exclaimed, "Great! I can't wait." Zak then punched Giancarlo in the arm and called him a "butt kisser." A loud wrestling match ensued, which was broken up by Marlene, who'd stomped from the bedroom, separated the boys, then glared at Karp as if he'd put them up to it, before stomping back to the bedroom. The ice age had returned, so he dressed and left for work.

  "Mr. Kipman is waiting for you," Mrs. Milquetost said just as he opened the door. He sighed; there went his few minutes alone, but at least Harry tended to calm his nerves, not rake them across the fiery coals
of hell.

  Kipman was sitting on the couch reading a book. Karp turned his head to look at the title: The Dust-Covered Man: The Story of Ulysses S. Grant.

  "Good book?" Karp asked.

  "Interesting," Kipman replied. "Funny how some of the famous people in history sort of come into the roles that will define their greatness by accident. Grant for instance. He was a West Point grad and a hero of the Mexican-American War for his actions during the storming of Mexico City. But he was out of the army, working as a clerk for his father-in-law's harness business when the Civil War broke out. He went in as a captain. He ends up as the top general in the Union Army, and pretty much ends up winning the war for them. I doubt he gave greatness a second thought when he joined…in fact, he already had something of a drinking problem."

  "Why the dust-covered man?" Karp asked.

  "An allusion to the fact that he wasn't the sort of leader who hung back and expected his troops to do all the dangerous stuff," Kipman said. "Even at the end of a long day on horseback, he'd push ahead to get the lay of the land and scout the enemy's position. His troops would see him covered with dust and if they didn't love him the way Robert E. Lee's men loved him, they respected him and fought for him like they'd fought for none of the other Union generals. They came up with the nickname the Dust-Covered Man." The conversation was interrupted by a knock on the door, which only briefly preceded the appearance of V.T. Newbury, Ray Guma, and Gilbert Murrow.

  Blond-haired and still boyish-looking, V.T. was the aristocrat of the bunch, a genuine descendant of the Pilgrims who landed at Plymouth Rock. His great grandfather-or maybe great-great, Karp couldn't remember-had started what was now one of the largest and most prestigious law firms in Manhattan. V.T. had shocked his father and set his illustrious ancestors rolling in their graves when, after graduating from Harvard Law School at the top of his class, he'd eschewed the family business and applied for a job at the New York District Attorney's Office, where he and another recent graduate, Butch Karp, became close friends.

  Disenchanted when Francis Garrahy died in office and was replaced by a crook, Sanford Bloom, V.T. had gone to work for the U.S. Attorney General's Office. However, when Karp was appointed to complete the term of Bloom's successor, Jack X. Keegan, V.T. had been lured back to run the office's Special Investigations Unit, which was charged with rooting out and prosecuting corruption and malfeasance in city government, including its police department.

  Bushy-browed and thick-featured, Ray Guma came from the other end of the social strata. Born and raised in an Italian neighborhood, he'd spent the first part of high school trying to decide whether to pursue a career in the mob or with the New York Yankees as the next great shortstop. Then "something snapped," he liked to say; he went to college on a baseball scholarship, even got scouted by the big leagues, but decided to go to law school. He surprised himself as well as his pals from the old neighborhood, several of whom were "made" men, by joining the New York District Attorney's Office, where he'd earned a reputation as a tough, no-holds-barred prosecutor not afraid to take on the mob, even his friends, if they messed up and got caught for something. He also had a reputation for cheap cigars, cheaper whiskey, and women cheap or not.

  However, in recent years, a bout with colon cancer had forced him into retirement. The once-muscular, apelike body had aged almost overnight and his thick Sicilian hair had turned as white as bedsheets. But inside he was still the same old Guma-"minus a yard or so of my guts that the quacks hacked out of me"-and Karp had been only too happy to hire him to work part-time on special cases.

  The last of the three new arrivals was also the youngest by twenty years. Gilbert Murrow was a short, slightly pudgy fellow who favored bow ties, plaid vests, and horn-rim glasses. He was a good lawyer-nothing flashy, just thorough-but had proved more valuable as Karp's aide-de-camp and office manager who kept the calendar and the staff in order.

  Since that past spring, he'd also served as the de facto campaign manager for Karp's election bid. The party had recently made him accept a "professional" campaign manager in order to receive party funding, which had sent Murrow into a sulk for days. Only when Karp brought the new campaign manager into his office and told him that everything political needed to be run through "my chief political adviser, Gilbert Murrow" did the little man perk up. Ever since he'd happily filled his time by overseeing press releases and the efforts to reach out to the media and community.

  Upon entering the office, V.T. gravitated over to Kipman. The two came from different backgrounds, but they shared a love for classical music and books, as well as the fine points and subtleties of the law. Guma plopped himself down in a big easy chair by the window and pulled out a cigar to chew on while grousing about the doctors who forbade him to smoke.

  Murrow spotted the boxes that Karp had stacked in a corner of the office and wandered over to spin one around and read the filing label: "People vs. Sykes, Davis, Wilson, and Jones," before turning to Karp with a question mark stamped on his face. But Karp held up his hand and waved him to a chair next to Guma; his questions were going to have to wait.

  Karp sometimes thought of this crew in basketball terms. Each man was a great player in his own way, and none was afraid to accept a challenge and take the ball to the hoop. But they all also understood that their main role was to support the big man in the center as a team.

  Monday mornings he met with his bureau chiefs. But he liked to bring this particular group of friends and colleagues together an hour earlier to discuss the issues in a setting where they could talk freely, without having to worry about being politically correct, knowing that what was said in the room would stay in the room.

  "V.T., you ready?" Karp asked. The main topic he'd wanted to address this morning was Newbury's continuing probe into allegations of police malfeasance.

  Newbury quit thumbing through Kipman's book and leaned forward in his seat. "As you all know, we've been looking into years of allegations of police misconduct, including acts that rise to the level of felonies, which were reviewed either by Corporation Counsel or one of a handful of large, private law firms hired for the purpose of making recommendations on settling cases and whether this office should pursue criminal charges against the officers involved. We also all know that one of these firms was that of our "friend" Andrew Kane.

  "So far, we've uncovered a pattern in which the Corporation Counsel and a handful of these firms almost automatically recommended that cases be settled with the complaining parties-for more than a hundred million dollars in taxpayer funds, I might add-and then marked the files No Prosecution. The files were then handed over to this office-although I hasten to point out not while our current el jefe was running the show. Anyway, at least two of Butch's predecessors apparently accepted the recommendations at face value and filed them away, never to be seen again, except that the files were subsequently rediscovered by this office.

  "In some cases, we've concurred that the allegations were without merit or would now for reasons of the expiration on the statutes of limitations or other difficulties, such as witnesses who have passed, would be impossible to pursue. In those cases, I believe our recommendation will be to keep a close eye on certain officers who seem to have developed a habit of shooting, beating, coercing, or blackmailing the good citizens of this city. We've, however, devoted our primary attention to those cases in which criminal charges were warranted and can still be pursued. In point of fact, we're ready to file on some of these but have been holding off for now at the command of our fearless leader."

  Newbury paused and looked meaningfully at Karp, who finished the thought for him. "I think there's more to all of this than lazy lawyers not deserving the high fees they charged for recommending that some of these cases be settled and forgotten." Newbury nodded and continued with his explanation. "We've noted that Corporation Counsel Sam Lindahl has, over the course of a dozen years, steered the big enchilada cases to several chosen law firms. Three caught our attention because of t
heir high-profile senior partners and the fact that they all have a history of being anticop, yet here they were recommending that the New York District Attorney's Office turn a blind eye to obvious misconduct. Something didn't wash."

  V.T., who occasionally delved into community theater and could ham up a role with the best of them, enjoyed watching Guma, who wasn't exactly known for his patience, squirm as he built toward the climactic scene. "The three notables are Hugh Louis, who I think we would all be familiar with even if he wasn't the current media darling due to the Coney Island rape case…"

  Without turning his head, Butch knew that Murrow had glanced toward him at the mention of the Coney Island case but he ignored the look.

  "…next is Olav Radinskaya, who also happens to be the borough president for Brooklyn and is said to have close ties to the Russian mob. Perhaps our resident authority on gangsters, Mr. Guma, can shed some light on that."

  All eyes turned to Guma, who studied the chewed end of his cigar and shrugged. "Not my people, do go on Mr. Newbury."

  There was a general chuckle from the audience, and Newbury moved to his last name, "Shakira Zulu." The name elicited a groan from everyone in the room. Born and raised as Sandra Bond, she had changed her name and joined the Black Panther Party in the late 1960s. Karp had personally prosecuted a case in which she was convicted for her role as the getaway driver for bank robbers who killed two off-duty police officers, working as security guards, in cold blood. After the jury came back with the guilty verdict for manslaughter, Zulu had been dragged from the courtroom kicking and screaming that she would someday "kill Karp and all his honky friends and family."

  "I'm sure we all remember how seven years later, Zulu told the parole board that she didn't mean what she'd said about killing anybody," Newbury said. "She intended to 'work for change in this corrupt and racist society' through legal means."