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  “Everything’s fine,” Fitzsimmons assured her. “He’s just ­really upset about that accidental victim he shot, and I had to talk some sense into him. I hope the department will get him some counseling, he’s pretty despondent.”

  “I know,” the old woman said. “I worry about him so. He’s such a good boy.”

  “Yeah,” Fitzsimmons said as he walked to the front door. “A real champ. You have a nice day, Mrs. Moore, and say goodbye to Mr. Moore for me.”

  Fitzsimmons had walked a block to his car when he heard the shot. He paused for a moment, then heard the woman’s scream, and he smiled. One less loose end, he thought, and got in the car.

  9

  THE YOUNG ASSISTANT U.S. ATTORNEY in Manhattan’s Southern District glanced down at his lap, where his cell phone was open to his Facebook page. He frowned at a message from his fiancée: “Can’t wait to see u 2nite, pookums. Remember we have dinner date w/parents @ 6.” It was already 4:00 p.m. and the arraignment hadn’t even started yet. And now the judge was taking his time reading through some documents on another case.

  Looking up briefly to make sure the judge didn’t see him, he texted back: “Hung up in court. But should still be there on time, snookie.” He winced when the response was a frowny-face emoji and the words “u better.”

  The thought that “snookie” would be angry if he was so much as a minute late for this meeting with her mom and dad, and withhold her sexual favors for God knew how long, threw him into a near panic. He turned toward the defense table, where the defendant—a strikingly beautiful middle-aged woman in a gray prisoner jumpsuit—sat with her attorney, Irving Mendlebaum, a well-known and highly respected criminal defense lawyer in Gotham. She didn’t look dangerous; in fact, she had a body and a face that even snookie would have envied. He wondered what she had done to be facing federal terrorism charges. He hadn’t been told much, just to get the arraignment done as quietly as possible on the down-low and that someone higher up would take over the case later. Probably another lonely housewife who helped some towel-head buy a gun, he thought. What’s taking this idiot judge so long?

  The defendant, one Nadya Malovo, felt his gaze and turned her head toward him. The thought came to him that now he knew what a bird must feel when transfixed by a snake’s eyes—a lovely snake with alluring green eyes—shortly before it struck. She smiled as if she knew what he’d been thinking when he checked out her body, and damn if he was unable to resist smiling back. He covered his discomfiture by looking toward the back of the courtroom.

  Two men in dark suits and dark glasses had been sitting in the last row when Malovo had entered the courtroom through a side door leading from the holding area. He figured they must be federal agents; their square-jawed, unsmiling faces sent a chill through him. But as he looked at them, they stood up and left the courtroom.

  “All right, counsel, I’m ready to proceed,” Judge John Keegan announced. “I understand the matter before the court is the arraignment of the defendant Nadya Malovo on terrorism charges.”

  The assistant U.S. attorney stood and nodded. “That’s right, Your Honor, we . . .”

  The federal prosecutor stopped talking, and all heads turned when the doors at the back of the courtroom suddenly opened and two other men walked in. Both were middle-aged, one white, with a lean, athletic frame; the other a large, powerful-looking black man with a menacing scowl on his face.

  Defense Attorney Mendlebaum seemed to have been expecting them, as he now rose and addressed the judge. “Your Honor, may we approach the bench with these two gentlemen?”

  The judge’s eyes scanned the two men entering the courtroom and then glanced at both the prosecutor and defense counsel, as well as the defendant, who sat with an amused smile on her face. “Please come forward, gentlemen,” Judge Keegan said warmly.

  Malovo sat calmly as the four men gathered at the judge’s sidebar, the assistant U.S. attorney looking perplexed and wondering how this was going to affect his evening plans. The judge smiled and greeted the newcomers. “Gentlemen, I’m certain that you are about to let me know why your presence is necessary for this routine arraignment.”

  A legendary prosecutor and brilliant trial lawyer before he received his lifetime appointment to the federal bench, Keegan had prosecuted several cases where Mendlebaum had represented the accused. The two trial lawyers epitomized the professionalism, integrity, and expertise admired by the New York Bar and beyond. Keegan, of course, was familiar with S. P. Jaxon when he was an ADA in the Manhattan DAO and also admired the work of Detective Clay Fulton.

  “Good afternoon, Your Honor. As you know, I’m now with a counterterrorism federal security agency, the name of which appears on this card,” Jaxon said as he handed it to Judge Keegan. “Due to the sensitive nature of this particular agency, I ask that it not be repeated for the record but kept in the court’s confidential file. For the record, with me is New York Police Department Detective Clay Fulton, who leads the NYPD detective unit assigned to the New York District Attorney’s Office.”

  “Actually, I know Mr. Fulton from my years with the DA’s Office,” Keegan said. “How are you, Clay?”

  “I’m well, thank you, Your Honor,” Fulton replied. “I’d heard you were appointed as one of the eleven FISA judges handling sensitive national terrorism issues.”

  “Yes, it’s been quite an eye-opener,” Keegan said.

  “Your Honor,” Jaxon said, pulling a document from the inside of his suit coat, which he handed to the confused assistant U.S. attorney, “the United States Justice Department is suspending and holding in suspense the federal indictment against the defendant, Nadya Malovo, at this time. It’s relinquishing custody to Mr. Fulton and the New York District Attorney’s Office.”

  Fulton pulled out his own documents and handed them to Keegan. “The prisoner has been indicted on six counts of murder in New York County. At this time, I will be escorting her across the street to the offices of the District Attorney.”

  The judge looked over the indictments and then at the assistant U.S. attorney. “I take it you didn’t know about this?”

  The young man, suddenly hopeful that his evening might turn out well after all, shrugged. “No, but that doesn’t mean anything. I was mostly just a warm body assigned to handle the arraignment and wouldn’t have been the prosecutor at her trial. If the papers are in order, I’m good with it. Sounds like she’ll have enough to worry about over at the DAO.”

  The judge turned his attention to the defense attorney. “Mr. Mendlebaum, you seemed to be aware that these two gentlemen might be making an appearance. Care to elaborate?”

  “We have been in discussions with both Mr. Jaxon and New York District Attorney Roger Karp, and we’ve agreed not to contest this jurisdictional change,” Mendlebaum said.

  The judge looked at the four men and then over them at the defendant, who held his gaze without expression. He shook his head. “Something’s in the air, but who am I to question why,” he said, and banged his gavel. “This case is hereby placed on the suspense calendar and may be recalled at the pleasure of the U.S. attorney for good cause. Detective Fulton, the pri­soner is now yours.”

  The young assistant U.S. attorney hurriedly shoved his papers into a briefcase and hustled out of the courtroom, smiling and texting on his phone as he walked.

  “Ms. Malovo, shall I accompany you across the street with these gentlemen?” Mendlebaum asked.

  “That won’t be necessary, Irving,” she said coyly. “I’ll call you if I have further need of your assistance. Thank you for all you’ve done for me, and perhaps we might renew our acquaintance someday under more congenial circumstances.”

  “I’d be delighted.” Mendlebaum beamed like a schoolboy. “Until then, if you’re sure—”

  “Yes, quite,” Malovo said, cutting him off, “I’m sure that I will be in good hands with Monsieurs Fulton and Jaxon. Au revo
ir.”

  Mendlebaum did a little bow. “I bid you adieu, then.”

  As the attorney walked away, Fulton rolled his eyes. “Oh, brother,” he said as he looked at Malovo. “Okay, let’s go.”

  “Are these necessary?” Malovo held up her handcuffed wrists.

  Fulton scowled. “I still have a scar in one of my legs where you shot me,” he said. “And the memory of a lot of good men, and a busload of children, dying because of you. The cuffs stay on until we get into the DAO, though I wouldn’t mind at all if you tried to escape.”

  Malovo smiled and batted her eyes at him. “It’s not good to hold grudges, Detective,” she said in her husky, heavily accented voice. “It’s unhealthy and might prevent you from making new friends. People change over time; maybe I am not the same person you remember.”

  “I’d believe that a snake could change before you would,” Fulton replied. “No matter how many times you shed your skin, no amount of ‘change’ atones for murdered children. Now get your butt up. The boss wants to see you.”

  An expression that might have passed for pain flitted across Malovo’s face before it disappeared and was replaced by a smirk as she stood. “So grumpy, Detective, but maybe you’re not getting enough exercise,” she scoffed. “From the looks of you, I don’t think you could catch a cold, much less me.”

  “You’re in jail, facing murder charges,” Fulton noted. “Apparently you’re not as fast as you think.”

  “Maybe I wanted to get caught. Did you ever think of that?”

  “Yeah, and maybe you’re getting old, a little long in the tooth.”

  Malovo laughed, a surprisingly girlish sound. “Touché, Detective! Well played. Attacking a woman’s vanity as she approaches her . . . um . . . young middle age. But you couldn’t keep up with me if I hopped on one leg.”

  “I wouldn’t have to,” Fulton replied. Now the tight smile he’d plastered to his big brown face disappeared. “Even you can’t outrun a bullet. Now move!”

  The two men escorted their prisoner through a side door. “That was easier than I thought it might be,” Fulton said to Jaxon. “When we saw those two spooks go into the courtroom earlier, I thought we might have a problem. Glad to see them leave.”

  Jaxon smiled as they stepped onto an elevator taking them to the basement. “As if you wouldn’t welcome throwing a punch or two at federal agents, present company excluded, I hope.”

  “Yeah, you get a pass.” Fulton grinned. “Anybody you recognized?”

  “Nope. But I don’t know every spook passing through town.”

  “They’re here to kill me,” Malovo said as they stepped off the elevator.

  The men exchanged looks. “What makes you think that?” Jaxon said.

  “Same reason Butch went through all of this trouble to get me out of their hands,” Malovo said. “If you hadn’t been there today, there would have been a small story in the New York Times about a female prisoner hanging herself in her cell. Or who was a notorious terrorist who somehow managed to secrete a cyanide capsule in a hollow tooth. Or was shot while trying to escape.”

  In the basement of the building, Jaxon quickly escorted Malovo to a small room, where he picked up a long coat that he placed around her, buttoning it up over her handcuffed wrists. He pointed to a pair of winter boots. “Hop into those.”

  “They’re not very attractive,” Malovo complained.

  “You want to still be here when those two goons come looking for you?” Jaxon asked. “I don’t think we have much time before they realize the ‘arraignment’ should have been over by now.”

  “If you’re going to put it that way.” Malovo slipped her feet into the boots. “Let’s go.”

  The two men escorted their prisoner through a door and out into the parking garage beneath the federal center. Jaxon flashed his badge at the security guards at the entrance.

  Reaching the street, Fulton nodded to a uniformed police sergeant standing at the curb. The sergeant blew a whistle and other uniformed officers stepped out in traffic, blowing whistles and holding up their hands to stop the vehicles, creating an opening.

  Fulton and Jaxon hurried Malovo through to the other side and then hustled her to the Leonard Street side of the Criminal Courts Building. Just as they were about to turn the corner, they heard a shout. Looking behind, they saw the two federal agents who’d been in the courtroom trying to make their way through the now flowing traffic.

  “Can’t I just this once?” Fulton said, looking at Jaxon.

  The agent laughed. “As much as I’d like to see that, I think we better get her upstairs to your boss.”

  “Yes,” Malovo added. “My hands are cuffed, so I’d rather avoid any unpleasantness, though on some other occasion, I’d be happy to help.”

  “Don’t need your damn help,” Fulton growled as they went to the Leonard Street side entrance that had a secured private elevator reserved for judges and the district attorney.

  A minute later, the elevator door opened into the offices of the district attorney. Karp stood there waiting in the anteroom. “Was looking out the window and saw the parting of the yellow taxi sea, and apparently a couple of Egyptians who weren’t so happy about your exodus,” he said. “Let’s go into the conference room.”

  When they were all seated, Karp looked across his desk at Malovo. “It’s been a while.”

  “Too long, darling,” Malovo replied.

  Karp smiled as he shook his head. “Clay, please take off Nadya’s coat and cuffs,” he said, hoping that his face and voice weren’t exhibiting the usual male reaction to the femme fatale’s presence. He reminded himself that she was a cold-blooded killer, as heartless and murderous as any serial killer he’d ever put away. And she’s drop-dead gorgeous.

  “Let’s get down to business,” Karp said. “I believe you’ve been informed that you’re under indictment on six counts of murder in New York County.”

  “Is that all?”

  Karp hesitated. “If you’d like to confess to more, I’d be happy to add to the number.”

  “That will do for now.”

  “The offer stands if you reconsider,” Karp said. “In the meantime, you’ve agreed to talk to me today, and you understand I will not be offering you any deals or dropping any charges.”

  “I understand,” Malovo said. “I made only one request. Is that still on the table?”

  Karp looked at the others, then nodded. He stood up. “Follow me, please.”

  Karp led Malovo out of his inner sanctum into the reception area. No one else was present. He’d told his receptionist, Darla Milquetost, to take the rest of the day off so that this could all be handled privately.

  Karp opened the door to another inner office in the DA suite. A man was seated at the table. “You good with this, Ivgeny?” he asked.

  “Yes, Butch, I’ll see what she wants.”

  Standing back from the door, he let Malovo walk past him. “As agreed, Nadya, you have your requested meeting with Iv­geny, but try to keep it reasonably short, please.”

  “Okay, but that’s hardly enough time to say hello to a former lover,” Malovo said with a smile, “but a girl has to take what she can under these circumstances.”

  “We’ll be in the conference room,” Karp said, and closed the door.

  About twenty minutes passed and Karp stood up about to knock on the door when it opened and Malovo appeared, followed by his cousin. For once she seemed somewhat subdued, and Karp wondered what had transpired between the two Russians. But he doubted they’d tell him and decided not to ask. “Can you let yourself out, Ivgeny?” he asked.

  “Yes, Butch,” Karchovski said. “I have a car waiting for me outside.” The former Red Army colonel–turned–American gangster reached out and touched Malovo on the shoulder. “Do the right thing, dorogoy, and perhaps we will meet again.”

&n
bsp; “It is enough to hear you call me ‘darling’ again,” Malovo replied. She turned to Karp. “I’m ready to talk to you, Butch.”

  10

  AS THE TWO WOMEN WALKED across the tree-shrouded lawn of the West Point Cemetery, the taller one reached over to touch her friend’s arm. “Thanks for driving, Marlene,” Ariadne Stupenagel said. “I didn’t want to take a taxi. And to be honest, I wanted your company.”

  “You bet. That’s what besties are for,” Marlene Ciampi replied. “I’m sorry for your loss. It seems like we were just burying Sam Allen, and now your friend Mick.”

  The friends continued on in silence in the heat of the late afternoon toward the knot of people gathering around a fresh grave. “I guess this is what happens when you get older,” Stupenagel said. “You start losing the people you created the memories of your youth with; it makes me feel old. I have so many recollections of the three of us, and more and more keep flooding into my mind. I think those were the best years of my life.” She squeezed Marlene’s hand. “Except maybe the years we were roomies in college.”

  “Hold on to those memories,” Marlene said. “As my hubby’s mom said, so long as the people we loved remember us, we will live forever.”

  Stupenagel nodded and again fell silent, looking around at the white marble headstones. Some of them marked the final resting places of soldiers dating back to the Revolutionary War—even before there was a United States Military Academy at West Point. “I wonder why he chose to be buried here instead of Arlington,” she said. “It was the same with Sam.”

  Marlene pointed over toward the Hudson River. “Maybe that’s the reason. Arlington’s beautiful, but it doesn’t have that million-dollar view. Somehow it seems more peaceful here, too, maybe because there are fewer visitors. I think only graduates, their immediate families, and staff can be buried here.”