Counterplay

“What does that have to do with Kane?” he asked Grale.

“Evil men are getting bolder and their numbers are growing,” Grale said. “They’re drawn to the city like rats to cheese. Those of the others we’ve managed to catch jabber on and on about ‘something big’ brewing.”

Karp was not a big believer in Grale’s theories about the gathering forces of darkness and an upcoming Armageddon-like battle with New York City at its center. His daughter gave them credence, but Lucy was something of a spiritual eccentric herself. It all sounded like something either out of the Bible or a comic book, whereas professionally he preferred to rely on the State of New York Revised Criminal Statutes such as they applied to crimes committed in the County of New York.

“I can’t do much with that, David,” Karp said. “I need to be able to charge people with crimes so that, if convicted, they can be put behind walls and razor wire.”

Grale looked at him, his dark eyes burned with either madness or fever. Karp couldn’t tell which, but they also seemed to be judging him. Grale appeared to be about ready to say something else but was interrupted by a coughing fit. When it stopped, he wiped at his mouth with his hand, and glanced at the dark stain on the sleeve of his sweatshirt.

Karp saw it, too. “You want to come in and warm up?” he said, looking up at the light shining out of the windows of the fifth-floor loft where his wife and twin boys waited. Faint laughter and happy shouts could be heard through the century-old brick walls.

Grale gazed up at the windows with obvious longing. He’d been in the loft before, back when he was still just a handsome young social worker dedicated to helping the poor and the object of Lucy’s schoolgirl crush. He smiled, perhaps at the memory, or perhaps the gesture, but then shook his head. “No…but thank you for the kindness of the offer,” he said. “I think that may cross the line of this ‘professional’ relationship between the two of us, Mr. Karp, and we will both need all the friends we can get in the coming months. Anyway, I need to be returning to my flock.”

Grale suddenly stepped back into a doorway where Karp could not see him though he was only a few feet away. A spotlight stabbed into the alley, catching Karp in its beam.

“You okay, Mr. Karp?” the voice of one of his police bodyguards called from the Lincoln, which had silently rolled to a stop in front of the alley.

“Yeah, sure,” he answered. “I was just looking at the stars for a moment.”

“No problem,” the voice said. The car pulled a U-turn to take up a position across the street.

Karp glanced back over his shoulder. “David?” He peered into the darkness, but there was no answer, just the whispering of shadows.

5

On his way up to the Monday morning meeting, Guma decided to stop at the small cafe inside the Criminal Courts building to grab a cup of coffee. He wanted to be bright and alert when he presented the Stavros case to the other assistant district attorneys. Not that he wasn’t ready-on the contrary, he felt in fighting trim, having done his roadwork and gone numerous rounds with his sparring partner, Karp.

Feeling saucy, he gave the young Hispanic woman behind the counter an extra dollar on top of his usual tip and got what he was sure was a “come back and see me when I get off” smile. But as he turned, he nearly had the coffee knocked from his hand by a young pasty-looking man with long, stringy brown hair and the straggly beginnings of a beard. The man appeared to be trying to escape from a very angry, very thin middle-aged woman who wore her Clairol blond hair tightly piled on top of her head, which accentuated a thin, elegant neck that led his gaze to a black dress cut to reveal the wonders of modern plastic surgery and a string of white pearls that accented her cleavage. She looked like she was dressed for dinner at the Waldorf rather than the courtroom… unless the purpose is to soften up the judge, Guma thought.

“Albert, you come back here this minute,” the woman hissed, trying not to be gauche and yell. “Albert, you’re not going to fail to appear again, or your stepfather will not bail you out again.”

Albert stopped and turned so that Guma was pretty much in between the two. “Which one?” Albert asked with a sneer. “Stepfather Three or Stepfather Four?”

“Albert! That was unkind,” the woman said with prep school enunciation.

“It’s Rasheed, Mom,” the young man complained. “My name is Rasheed, not Albert.”

“Oh nonsense,” the woman replied, waving the name change away with a perfectly manicured hand. “You’re not even black.”

“What’s that got to do with it? I’m Muslim. I don’t recognize the authority of secular governments; I answer only to the imam and Allah.”

“Pshaw, once a Lutheran always a Lutheran,” the woman said. “And you answer to me. Now, you get your little fanny back in that courtroom or no more money for rent. You’ll just have to move back home.”

Having fixated on the woman’s breasts, which looked even larger on her emaciated frame than they probably were, Guma decided to attempt the gallant tact, just in case Stepfather Four wasn’t performing up to standards. “Excuse me, I’m Assistant District Attorney Ray Guma, may I be of some help?” he offered her with a slight tilt of his head and his sexiest half smile.

“You can mind your own business, grandpa,” the woman replied, giving him a look he figured she probably used on the maids when they spoke without being spoken to first.

“Yeah, mind your own business, grandpa,” the youth echoed.

Normally, such an affront would have called for a witty comeback. I wasn’t so picky, why are you? But “grandpa” had thrown him for a loop. Guma sipped his coffee and slunk off for the elevator.

A few minutes later, he sat in the reception area waiting for Karp to arrive. He’d tried to walk right into the inner office, but Mrs. Milquetost had primly informed him that the office was locked until its owner arrived. He was still too crushed by the incident with the blonde and her son to battle with the receptionist, so he decided he’d spend the time reviewing his case while sitting on the couch.

After Zachary Stavros left Karp’s office the week before, Guma had asked, So what do you think?

Karp sat back in his chair and looked up at the ceiling, deep in thought. I don’t mean to throw water on this, Goom, he said. But without a body, you’re going to have a tough time getting a conviction based on Zachary’s memory…if you can get it into evidence in the first place. Any defense lawyer worth his salt is going to fight it tooth and nail. And if it gets in, he’ll go after the kid without mercy.

I know, Guma said. I’d sure like to get a backhoe and dig up Emil’s yard.

You’ll never get a search warrant, Karp said, without something the judge can hang his hat on. Without a body, you’re not only going to have to prove that Emil Stavros killed his wife, you’re going to have to prove beyond a reasonable doubt that she’s even dead. That’s twice the normal burden for any prosecutor, even you. What else you got?

Guma gave him a rundown of what the early police investigation and a subsequent investigation a few years after Teresa’s disappearance had turned up. Unfortunately, the investigation seemed to have ended rather abruptly. I’m still trying to locate the detective who worked on the case.

You suspect Emil Stavros might have pulled a few strings?

Who knows? Guma replied. But I’d sure like to find out.

As he waited now for Karp, his balloon deflated by the bitchy blonde, Guma wondered if he was just spinning his wheels. It just galled him that a wealthy man could get away with murder and go on with his life…his mistress, his parties, and fast cars and expensive vacations…while his wife laid buried in some unmarked grave. But then, he’d gotten into the prosecution business to stick up for people who had no voice of their own.

A baseball player in college, good enough for a shot at the pros even if it didn’t turn out, Guma had a