Infamy Read online

  Karp’s father left them there to go get her a glass of water. She leaned against her son’s shoulder, then looked up at him as a tear slid down her cheek.

  “I’m sorry, Mom,” he’d said softly, choking on the words but not knowing what else there was to say.

  She’d wiped away the tear and patted his knee before pointing across to the wolf. “I like seeing the animals, but I think about them living their lives in cages, and it makes me sad,” she said. “I think they’re in pain, not because they’re being mistreated but because they don’t belong in captivity. A lot of them go crazy, especially the smart ones, or the ones who know what it was like to live in the wild. For them, only death can set them free from the suffering.” As she’d paused, the wolf stopped his pacing and looked at her. “It’s the only thing that will free me, too.”

  “Don’t say that,” he’d responded, though they both knew it was true.

  She’d reached up to touch his cheek and sighed. “It’s okay, Butch. I look forward to the day when I’m no longer in this pain. It’s destroying more than my body; it’s taking my mind, especially when I need morphine. I feel like I’m losing myself, and that’s no life . . .” She stopped what she was saying and shuddered as if in sudden agony.

  Karp had put his arm around her. “We shouldn’t have come,” he said bitterly. “This was too much.”

  “You’re wrong,” she’d replied. “I’m so glad we had this time. When I’m gone, I want you to have a million memories of me. I’m still alive if I’m remembered by those who I love and who love me.”

  Karp’s father arrived with the glass of water. This time she didn’t resist when he insisted that they take a taxi all the way back to Brooklyn. In fact, she’d slept most of the way and gone straight to bed when they arrived.

  There were no more fun trips into the city, and she never made it to any more of his basketball games. Butch had to learn how to give her the pain- and mind-numbing shots of morphine by practicing on an orange, and he watched her deteriorate until at last she was freed by death.

  Looking back, Karp could trace his desire to be a prosecuting attorney to his mother’s battle against cancer. He’d come to see cancer as a type of evil, and he’d been powerless to stop it or protect his innocent mother. Crimes that people committed against other innocent people were another type of evil, but one he could do something about, and by putting evil people behind bars, he could protect the innocent.

  The Central Park Zoo, which was officially opened in 1934 when a haphazard menagerie on the grounds was designated, had changed a lot since the days when Karp visited with his family. By the 1960s, the buildings and pens had fallen into sad disrepair; neighbors of Central Park complained of the smells and visitors of the deplorable conditions the animals were kept in. Eventually, activists forced its closing and renovation, with the gates opening again in 1988 on a modern facility with habitats designed to recreate the natural environment the animals came from.

  That was the zoo his own children had known, the one whose empty pathways beneath the tall trees he was walking on now to where a killer held hostages. But when he pictured the zoo in his mind, it was always the old grounds, the wolf pen, and that last visit with his mother.

  Approaching the Bird House and grizzly bear habitat, Karp made his way to the SWAT team command center behind two armored trucks that had been parked as a barrier between those assembled and the gunman. A television camera crew was on the scene, and he recognized the young woman reporter from the shooting scene now smiling triumphantly in between “live” takes. Meanwhile, heavily armed Special Ops police officers were taking position on the sides of the building. He spotted Fulton, who’d been watching for him. The big detective waved him over to where he was listening to a police negotiator speaking to someone—he presumed the suspect—on a cell phone.

  “What do we have, Clay?” Karp asked.

  “I might have already said this, but the suspect’s name is Dean Mueller,” Fulton answered. “He’s a former Army Ranger assigned to the unit he just shot up. He apparently received an Other Than Honorable discharge from the Army about three months ago, but we don’t know any details about it. Two uniformed officers spotted him heading for the park exit at Sixty-sixth Street and he ran into the zoo. Now he’s got about a dozen people, including some kids, at gunpoint inside the Bird House.”

  “Mueller say anything about why he did it?”

  Fulton nodded toward the police negotiator. “Not much. Something about he was set up. Don’t know what that means. Otherwise, it’s mostly been threats to kill the hostages if anybody tries to get at him. The guy’s well trained and it’s tough to come at him in that building. Good chance of casualties even if he doesn’t start killing hostages.”

  Karp and Fulton walked over to the negotiator just as the shooter demanded, “I want to talk to the DA!”

  “Okay, Dean, what do you need the DA for?” the negotiator asked, glancing at Karp. “He’s a busy man.”

  “Quit dicking around and get me the fucking DA, or this conversation is over. Get him on the phone.”

  Karp stepped forward and held out his hand for the negotiator’s cell phone. “This is District Attorney Roger Karp,” he said.

  “Yeah, right, you suddenly appeared when I asked? How do I know this isn’t some other cop?”

  “You know what I look like?”

  “I’ve seen photos.”

  “Then I’m going to step out in front of these trucks and come to the door,” Karp said. “You want to talk, we’ll talk.”

  “Okay, but I’ll shoot one of these people if anything goes wrong.”

  Karp started to move, but Fulton grabbed his arm. “I don’t like it. This guy’s already killed today. Maybe he’s just looking for more publicity by shooting the district attorney.”

  Gently removing his arm from his friend’s grip, Karp shook his head. “Something tells me he wants to get out of where he is, not kill me. I’m going to see what he wants.”

  Karp moved out from behind the trucks and began walking toward the front doors of the Bird House with his hands up in the air. The door opened a crack, and a young black woman’s frightened face appeared. He could see that a gun was at her head and just make out a man’s face in the shadows behind her. She pleaded when she saw him, “Help me, please help me.”

  Karp smiled at her. “We’re going to get you out of this,” he said, as calming as he could.

  The woman whimpered. Her terrified eyes darted to the side where the gun was pressed behind one ear. She looked like she was about to faint.

  “Mueller, point the gun at me,” Karp said. “You’re scaring Miss . . . ?”

  The woman’s voice quavered, “Franklin. Ann Franklin.”

  “You’re scaring Miss Franklin, and we wouldn’t want her to do anything to interrupt our conversation.”

  Mueller’s gun turned to point at Karp. “Suit yourself,” he said. “I know who you are. So are we going to talk about a deal so Miss Franklin and the others don’t have to die?”

  “What sort of deal?”

  “I let all of these people go, give myself up, and I’ll tell you what this was all about—” Mueller said.

  “What is this all about?” Karp interrupted.

  “Uh-uh, Karp. All I’m saying is this is big, a lot of money and a lot of movers and shakers . . . on a national level,” Mueller said. “They’re behind what happened this afternoon. Why I did what I did. I’ll even testify against the bastards; they tried to set me up. But I get a deal before I say anything else.”

  “And what do you want?”

  “No charges against me. A safe house until after the trial is over and I’ve testified. Then ten million bucks and a private jet to take me wherever I want to go.”

  Karp rolled his eyes. “Why not ask for a private yacht to Cuba, too. I can’t do it. You killed someone
, and you’re going to prison for that. And where would I get ten million dollars even if I thought your information about this conspiracy was legit enough to let you get away with murder?”

  “It’s legit, and it’s worth it, all of it—the free pass, the money, the jet . . . even the colonel’s life,” Mueller said. “I’m small potatoes compared to these people.”

  “Small potatoes, maybe,” Karp said. “But you still killed someone.”

  “I was told to do it. We had a plan, but they fucked me over.”

  “Who is we?”

  “That’s what you get if I get what I want,” Mueller demanded. “I can help you get them. You ever hear of MIRAGE?”

  “You mean like a mirage in the desert?” Karp asked.

  “No,” Mueller said. “It’s something to do with a black ops raid in Syria last winter. There’s a file called MIRAGE. That’s what this is all about.” He stopped talking for a moment, and when he resumed, he sounded scared. “They already tried to kill me.”

  “Who tried to kill you?”

  “Them . . . or more specifically, they had a guy at the picnic. He tried to shoot me. Ask yourself, what’s he doing carrying a gun at a picnic in Central Park?”

  “He was an off-duty police detective.”

  “He wasn’t a cop,” Mueller said. “Or if he is, he’s dirty. He’s part of this. I met him before. But that’s it, no more talking. What can you do for me?”

  “It’s not what I can do for you, Dean. It’s what you can do for yourself,” Karp said. “This can go two ways. Put down the gun and let everybody go. If you want a lawyer, one will be provided for you. You also have the right to remain silent. Do you understand that?”

  “Yeah, I understand what you’re saying, but I won’t last a day in jail,” Mueller retorted.

  “I’ll personally see to it that you’re safe,” Karp replied. “And if you want to talk to me, and provide me with verifiable information about anyone else who may have been involved in this, I give you my word, you’ll be safe and protected. The other way, well, eventually the SWAT guys are going to come in after you. You might survive, you might not. But if you hurt anybody else, I’ll make damn sure you never step a foot out of prison. Now, are you going to surrender?”

  In answer, Mueller shoved Franklin ahead and walked out behind her with his gun still pointed at Karp. Then Mueller leaned over and put the gun on the ground. “Don’t shoot,” he called out as he put his hands up in the air and kicked the gun toward Karp.

  “Miss Franklin, come to me, please,” Karp said, and held out his hand as he walked forward and stood over the gun as the SWAT team came rushing around the corner.

  As Mueller was hustled off, Fulton walked up to Karp. “You okay, boss?”

  “Yeah, I’m fine,” Karp said, then frowned. “What was the name of the detective who got shot?”

  “Ted Moore. Why?”

  “I don’t know,” Karp replied. “Mueller says he was part of a setup.”

  “So Mueller’s paranoid.”

  Karp smiled. “You’re sounding like a defense attorney now. But do me a favor and check Moore out. And Clay . . .”

  “Yeah?”

  “Make sure Mueller is put in administrative segregation at The Tombs. I don’t want him around any of the other inmates.”

  Fulton raised an eyebrow. “What’s bugging you?”

  Karp thought about it for a moment. “I don’t know. Maybe it’s nothing . . . or maybe it’s a hunch. Let’s just play it safe, okay?”

  6

  RICHIE BRYERS SWAM UP TO the edge of the pool closest to where Clare lounged in the sun. He allowed himself a moment to admire the swimmer’s body that had not diminished upon reaching her forties. “What are you reading?”

  Clare put her book down on her stomach and looked out from under her big-brimmed black sunhat. “A mindless romance,” she said with a laugh. “Full of heaving bosoms and beautiful bare-chested Scots Highlanders in kilts waving their swords and other things around.”

  Glancing behind him, Bryers noted Wellington and his man, Fitzsimmons, talking before Clare’s husband went into the house. Fitzsimmons looked over at them; he nodded at something his boss said before following him inside.

  Bryers turned back to Clare. “Do you think he knows?”

  The smile disappeared from her face. “I hope not.”

  “I don’t see why he should care,” he muttered. “He can always find another woman to hit and yell at.”

  “He cares,” she replied. “He cares about anything he thinks he owns, which includes me.”

  “Is that a new bruise on your arm?” His voice hardened with anger.

  Clare’s right hand went up to the purple-blue mark on her upper left arm. “It wasn’t much. He grabbed me a little roughly.”

  “Grabbed you a little roughly . . .” His voice trailed off. “Like the time he kicked you ‘a little roughly’ so that you had a bruise the size of a football on your leg. Or when he left his fingerprints on your chest from squeezing ‘a little roughly’ until you screamed.”

  Clare was quiet. A tear rolled down her cheek. “Please, I don’t want to cry right now,” she pleaded.

  “Leave him, Clare,” Bryers insisted. “I love you. I’ll take care of you. We don’t need the money.”

  “It’s not the money I care about,” Clare replied, wiping at her eyes. “It’s Tommy. He’ll never just let me go with my son . . . his son.”

  “He hardly gives Tommy the time of day,” Bryers shot back. “Even hiring me has more to do with his ego than his son’s progress on the basketball court. And that’s too bad because Tommy’s a good kid.”

  “Tommy is another one of his possessions,” Clare said, “and nobody gets away with taking something that’s his, especially not his wife and son running off to another man. His pride couldn’t handle that.”

  “Pride goes before a fall, and someday that man is going to fall hard. What’s he going to do? He’s got to worry about his public image—the philanthropist who uses his money only for the good of others. He can’t afford to be exposed for what he really is.”

  Clare looked over his head to see if she could spot her husband or Fitzsimmons watching them. Just in case, she laughed lightly as if Bryers had said something funny. “You have no idea what he’s capable of; maybe I don’t really, either, but I’ve heard him say things when he thought I wasn’t around or not paying attention . . .”

  Bryers scowled. “What sort of things?”

  Clare shrugged. “Nothing specific. Just bits of conversations that sounded like threats. I’ve heard him yelling in his library and seen that big brute, Fitzsimmons, come out of there looking like a whipped dog, and I’d bet there aren’t a lot of people who can do that to that Neanderthal. Speaking of which, Wellington doesn’t keep a bunch of thugs like Fitzsimmons and his crew around to mow the lawn and run errands.” She hesitated and faux-laughed again while saying under her breath, “Do you remember that New York City Council member, Jim Hughes?”

  “Yeah, wasn’t he the guy running for Congress who jumped off of his apartment building in Midtown?”

  “Maybe he jumped, maybe he didn’t,” Clare said. “But two days earlier he was over here and pissed off because Wellington was backing somebody else in the primary. I heard them arguing in the library, and Hughes said he was going to go to the press—something about some oil deal in Syria—if Wellington didn’t change his mind. Next thing you know, he’s taking a twenty-story swan dive onto the sidewalk.”

  “You really think your husband would have a congressional candidate killed?”

  “I don’t have any proof,” Clare said. “But I’ve lived with the man for eighteen years and I know his temper. When he gets angry, really angry, he’s capable of anything.” She was quiet for a moment. “I don’t think he’d do anything to me; there’d be too m
uch publicity, though I suppose he could make it look like an accident. But you . . . I couldn’t live with myself if something happened to you.”

  Bryers frowned. This wasn’t the first time they’d had this discussion since their affair had started several months earlier. He didn’t think it would be their last.

  When Wellington had first asked him to the house to talk about hiring him to coach Tommy, he’d liked the man. Constantine could be extremely charming and treated him like an equal—not like one of the richest men in the world hiring a private school basketball coach. They’d even sat around the pool drinking beer, discussing what Bryers could do for Tommy.

  Constantine had offered him an extraordinary amount of money to coach his son. Several times his normal asking price. At first Bryers requested that he’d just take his standard fee, but the rich man had insisted. “My son’s worth it.”

  Even rationalizing that he needed the money to supplement his teacher’s salary to pay off student loans for his daughters from a previous marriage, Bryers still felt guilty. But that hadn’t stopped him from accepting Constantine’s money or his invitation to use the guesthouse and pool. He’d grown up poor and it didn’t seem like such a big deal.

  Besides, he’d worked a lot with Tommy. Far more than they’d agreed to for the money. And Bryers had enjoyed it; Tommy was a good kid, and the mother, Clare, was easy to talk to and interesting when she discussed her causes. A few times when he saw her around the pool he’d noticed the bruises, but if he commented on them, she’d explained that she was clumsy and “always bumping into something.” But there was something sad about the way she said it, or the way she talked about her husband, and he’d suspected there was more going on than being clumsy.