Infamy (12 page)

“How could I forget,” Marlene said.

She turned to Jaxon, who had no idea who Iaian Weber was. “He's the same age as our twins, but with an IQ so far off the charts he makes even Giancarlo, who's a bona fide Mensa, look like a slacker. The kid was doing calculus by third grade, and I believe he won the National Science Fair in the sixth grade, up against high school geniuses with his project with which he duplicated from scratch how the U.S. Navy broke the Japanese code during World War II that won the Battle of Midway.”

“Exactly,” Karp said with a grin. “I think he was the youngest ever admitted for Ph.D. work in computer sciences at the Massachusetts Institute of Technology. Isn't that what his parents said the last time we had dinner with them?”

“I thought they said he was specializing in drone aerial surveillance technology,” Marlene said. “Has several top secret government contracts and all that.”

“That's right,” Karp agreed. “But his dad and I got to talking about how Iaian's hobby is still code breaking and he was working on duplicating the Enigma computer used to break the Nazi code in World War II. What do you think about me contacting Iaian and seeing if we could enlist his help?” he asked Jaxon. “I know he has the highest security clearances.”

“I'm all for it,” Jaxon replied. “Especially if it keeps what we're doing off the grid. If Constantine or you-know-who in that photograph Malovo gave us gets wind of this, it's going to get hot . . . really hot.”

Karp smiled. “I wouldn't want it any other way.”

13

S
HAUN
F
ITZSIMMONS STOOD IN THE
shadows under the large oak watching the figure seated on the bench near the Alice in Wonderland statue in Central Park. The area around the bench was bathed in a golden light from a nearby streetlamp and it didn't appear that there was anyone else around.

“Okay, Johnny and Dana, go check him out,” he said. “Be thorough, wand him and scan everything within twenty feet.”

“Right, boss,” one of the designated pair responded as they took off at a brisk walk toward the man on the bench.

As he watched them go, Fitzsimmons was worried, an unusual feeling for him. But Toby's death had unnerved him more than he cared to admit. “We must have set off a silent alarm,” he later
explained to Constantine, “because whoever that bitch was, she was waiting for us with Swindells's daughter when I came out. Toby took her on and stabbed the young one, but took one in the head after that.”

Constantine had been none too happy, not because Toby died but because the MIRAGE file couldn't be located. He blamed Fitzsimmons.

“We tossed the place, even broke into the safe,” Fitzsimmons said. “Hopefully it stays lost. But if it doesn't, no one's going to crack that code. The Russians said even their best guys hadn't been able to do it, and they were given months to try.”

Fortunately for Fitzsimmons, Constantine took out his anger on his wife. He'd looked at the photographs Fitzsimmons had taken of the pair kissing and tossed them back at him.

“No one fucks around on me,” Constantine had snarled. “I'm tired of the bitch anyway. I want her gone by the time I get back from Camp David, but make it look like an accident or suicide. When it's done, put a call in to Ray Chelton at the Suffolk County medical examiner's office. Make sure he does the autopsy himself and certifies cause and manner of death, and that nothing comes back to haunt us. He owes me for getting him out of hot water with that bimbo who was after him for sexual harassment.”

Killing Clare Dune had been fun. Fitzsimmons had come on to her a few times after he started working for Constantine, and she'd shut him down without so much as a smile. As he took her clothes off that night, he'd considered raping her, but Chelton might have said something.

They weren't surprised when Richie Bryers called. But they thought it would be to offer condolences or maybe tearfully confess, not an attempt at blackmail. “I know all about MIRAGE,” he had said. “And about Mueller and the colonel and the Russian bitch.”

“What do you want, Bryers?” Constantine said, switching over to speakerphone so Fitzsimmons could hear.

“Your goon listening in now, too? Good,” Bryers said. “I know who you had do the dirty work. But let's be adults about this. Clare was just a nice piece of ass. And this is just a business proposition.”

“What makes you think I'm going to do business with some little prick who was fucking my wife?” Constantine said.

“Well, I'm going to send you something right now that ought to persuade you.”

That “something” turned out to be a photograph of a page from Constantine's journal. Constantine turned to Fitzsimmons with daggers in his eyes but said, “Okay, I see it. Now what?”

“I'm not saying anything over the phone,” Bryers replied. “But I've got plenty more where that came from. Let's work out the details where neither of us has to worry about being recorded. Send your ape there to the Alice in Wonderland statue in Central Park tonight at nine. He's there on time or I'm gone and the district attorney gets some really interesting information to go with his case against Mueller. Otherwise, we come to an accommodation and go our merry ways.”

Goon? Ape? I'm going to beat the prick to death with my bare hands.
Fitzsimmons seethed as he watched his men frisk Bryers and pass a wand capable of picking up any transmitting devices over him. They then used the wand to check the area, including the nearby statue.

When Johnny and Dana finished, they waved to Fitzsimmons, who strolled over. “Hello, Richie,” Fitzsimmons said. “Boys, go keep an eye out. Let me know if we get company.”

“Sure, boss,” one of them said. “Here's his phone.”

“Hey, asshole,” Bryers said. “Yeah, boys, keep a good eye out, because if something happens to me, your boss and his boss are going down.”

“So what do you want, Bryers?”

“Four million in this bank account in the Caymans.”

“And what do I get?”

“You mean what does Wellington get. He gets my silence and all of my photographs of his journal. Pretty interesting all that about MIRAGE and Iraq. Calling the White House for private discussions.”

“All your photographs, huh?” Fitzsimmons said. “Let me see.” He looked at Bryers's phone. “Funny, I only see one photograph from Clare. And a text about someone being in the house.”

“That would have been you. I downloaded the others already and have them in a safe place.” Bryers sounded nervous, and Fitzsimmons knew what he needed to know.

“You're lying, Richie. You don't have jack, otherwise you would have shown them to me. You see, I looked at Clare's phone. She deleted this photograph and the text, but she didn't have a chance to empty the trash. There's nothing in it except a few photographs of the two of you. Cute little selfies but nothing more from the boss's journal.”

“She didn't have a chance because you killed her, you bastard.”

“Yeah, but I want you to know that I fucked her real good before I stuck her head underwater,” Fitzsimmons replied. “And you know what, she liked it. I think she even liked it when she was dying. Kind of hard to tell, she was pretty fucked up on OxyContin and cabernet.”

Suddenly, Bryers launched himself at Fitzsimmons, who easily sidestepped his charge and sent him to the ground with a hard punch to the kidney. The big man then kicked him in the ribs. “You're such a fucking loser, Richie, you can't even blackmail right.”

Gasping, Bryers raised himself up on his elbows. “No. But I set you up pretty good.”

Fitzsimmons's eyes narrowed. “And what do you mean by that, you little prick?”

“He means you're under arrest.”

Fitzsimmons whirled around just as a large black man flanked on either side by two other large men emerged from the shadows. The black man had a gun in his hand and flashed a badge. “I'm detective Clay Fulton of the NYPD and work for the New York District Attorney's Office. Put your hands on top of your head, and don't make me nervous; this gun has a very squirrelly trigger around assholes.”

“You ain't got shit,” Fitzsimmons sneered as he put his hands on top of his head while the other two detectives stepped forward and relieved him of his gun and then cuffed his hands behind his back.

“Only a record of you admitting the murder of Clare Dune,” Fulton said.

“Bullshit. I know for a fact the area was clear,” Fitzsimmons swore.

“Maybe when your boys—who by the way aren't very good lookouts and are now on their way downtown, too—first checked.” Fulton pulled a small radio transmitter from his pocket. “Iaian, would you mind bringing that little bird a bit closer so our friend here can see it.”

A small black hovercraft drone not much larger than a shoe box dropped out of the darkness above their heads and hovered at twelve feet. “Don't know much about them myself,” Fulton said. “But apparently the damn thing can see like an owl at night and records conversations at up to thirty feet. Long story short, your ass is ours. Let's get him downtown, men, the DA's waiting.”

An hour later,
Fitzsimmons was sitting in an interview room at The Tombs when Karp, Fulton, and a stenographer walked in. “Good evening, Mr. Fitzsimmons,” Karp said. He looked at the stenographer, who nodded. “I'm District Attorney Roger Karp. With me this evening are Detective Clay Fulton of the NYPD DAO detective squad, and Jack Simmons, a court-certified stenographer. Also present is Shaun Fitzsimmons.”

“Fuck off.”

Karp ignored the remark. “I'd like to ask you a few questions,” he said.

“Free country, asshole.”

“First, you have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can be used against you,” Karp recited. “You also have the right to have an attorney present. If you can't afford one now, one will be provided for you. Do you understand what I just told you?”

“I understand English. Do you understand ‘fuck off'?”

“I'd like to ask you about the death of Clare Dune.”

“Terrible, that,” Fitzsimmons said. “Shouldn't go swimming when you've been swallowing mother's little helpers and drinking wine.”

“What about your statements you made to Mr. Bryers in the park?”

“He's trying to blackmail my employer, Mr. Wellington Constantine,” Fitzsimmons said. “I was bullshitting him to see what he wanted.”

“Did you drown Clare Dune?”

“She drowned on her own.”

“What about New York City Council member Jim Hughes?” Karp asked. “Did he throw himself off his balcony, or did you push him?”

Surprised, Fitzsimmons blinked and his face tightened, but
the look didn't last long. He looked at the fingernails on one of his hands and shrugged. “Never met the man. Don't know who you're talking about.”

“Never been to his apartment on Forty-eighth Street in Midtown Manhattan?”

“Doesn't ring a bell. Should it?”

“You tell me, Shaun,” Karp said.

“Never been there,” Fitzsimmons said. Then he smirked. “Oh, wait a second, is that a strip club? Yeah, I think that's the Pink Pussycat. Some nice girls in there, you ought to check it out, Karp, relax a little.”

“Any idea what you were doing on August fifteenth last year?” Karp asked.

Fitzsimmons looked up at the ceiling, as if thinking. “I believe I might have been in Aruba. Can't be sure.”

“What if I told you we have your fingerprints on the railing on Mr. Hughes's balcony? The railing you pushed him over,” Karp said.

“Couldn't be mine,” Fitzsimmons said, though he was starting to show signs of nervousness.

“Funny thing is,” Karp went on, “we didn't get a hit on the national crime computer the first time the NYPD ran those prints. For some reason, nobody had your fingerprints on record, even
though the military does that routinely when you sign up. Guess it helps to have friends in high places. But you might remember you got fingerprinted when Mr. Fulton brought you in an hour ago, and the NYPD ran them through for me really fast. And guess what? They're a match for the prints from the balcony in Hughes's apartment. Now, are you sure you've never been in that apartment?”

Fitzsimmons glared but didn't say anything.

“For the record, Mr. Fitzsimmons has not answered the question,” Karp said. “Maybe you'll remember this. At some point in the struggle before Mr. Hughes was pushed over the railing, he scratched his assailant. We know this because a DNA sample was obtained from skin beneath his fingernails.

“Know anything about that? No. Okay, the suspect has again declined to answer my question. I will tell you that the first time the NYPD tried to get a hit on the DNA, just like the fingerprints, they came up empty. But I bet I can get a judge to sign a warrant giving us permission to obtain a DNA sample from you, and I'd also be willing to bet we'll get a hit with the sample taken from underneath Mr. Hughes's fingernails. And when we do, I'm going to indict you for not just the murder of Clare Dune but also the murder of Councilman Jim Hughes. Now, would you like to answer my questions?”

Instead of answering, Fitzsimmons's face turned red and he started to stand up as if to attack Karp. But then he looked over at Fulton, who had taken a step forward. Fitzsimmons sat back down with his arms crossed.

“That's right, big boy,” Fulton said. “Keep your butt in that seat.”

“Fuck you,” Fitzsimmons snarled. “And fuck you, too, Karp. I want a lawyer.”

Karp smiled. “You need us to call Legal Aid, or maybe your boss will spring for someone a bit more expensive?”

“I've said all I'm saying,” Fitzsimmons replied. “I want my phone call now.”

A few minutes later, Karp and Fulton were talking in the hall. “Let's get that lineup together with Fitzsimmons. But have him make that call so that a lawyer is present.”

“Will do.”

Karp walked to the viewing room, which contained a one-way mirror that allowed law enforcement and witnesses to study those in a lineup. Jaxon and Malovo were waiting for him. “Good evening, Nadya,” he said.

“
Dobryy vecher
, Butch,” Malovo replied. “We have to stop meeting like this. People will talk.”

Karp laughed and shook his head. “I'm sure they would if they
knew. In the meantime, how are your accommodations in the country?”

Malovo rolled her eyes. “To be honest, I'm bored out of my mind. I'm not so sure I want that little house with a white fence anymore. But I am determined to try. What do you need?”

“I'm going to ask you to view a lineup in just a few minutes and tell me if you see anyone you can identify,” Karp said. “I expect there will be a defense attorney present in the viewing room. He won't be able to see you because you'll be standing behind a curtain, and I'll ask you not to speak so that he can't identify your voice. Instead, Detective Fulton will be with you and have you write a number on a pad if you recognize someone.”

“I can do that,” Malovo said. “I hope this whole process isn't going to take forever. I am bored on the farm, Butch. A girl like me needs excitement, and hopefully a man in her bed.”

“I can't help you there,” Karp said. “But you're not planning on going anywhere, are you?”

Malovo looked hurt by the suggestion. “Butch, I gave you my word,” she said, and smiled coyly. “If you can't trust your friends, who can you trust?”