However, it might have been Kipman's third role that Karp liked best. Harry was a sort of moral compass for the district attorney's office. He'd come to work for the legendary former DA Francis Garrahy about the same time Karp did and, like Karp, had adopted the old man's policy that the purpose of the district attorney's office was to seek justice, "not win at any cost."
If, in his running battle with evil, Karp was ever tempted to cut corners-and it wasn't often-Kipman was there to remind him, sometimes with nothing more than a look, that there was only one way to do things. The right way.
Kipman's black-and-white take on justice didn't make him a Goody Two-shoes, as some of the younger prosecutors sometimes thought of him. He could let loose a stream of profanity that would have made Dirty Warren blush, and there wasn't a defense or appellate attorney practicing in New York who went up against Hotspur Kipman without trepidation. They knew they had better come prepared and loaded for bear, or Kipman would tear them apart in front of a judge like an angry grizzly. But there was no one Karp trusted more.
"Got a call from the new mayor who said you'd be here, too, and that he wanted to talk to us both," Kipman said. He yawned nonchalantly. "There was nothing worth watching on the tube, sportswise anyway." Along with being a musical genius and legal god, Kipman was a sports fanatic. He collected sports memorabilia of all sorts and became a noted authenticator of baseball cards for devotees.
The pair was met at the elevator by a pretty, if officiously sincere and conservatively dressed, young woman who introduced herself as Mayor Denton's assistant press secretary, Alisa Mokler-Shreddre, and apparently took her duties and herself very seriously. "This way please," she said, and immediately turned on her heel and walked away with her well-formed butt twitching beneath a gray wool skirt.
Karp fastened on the retreating derriere for a moment before realizing he'd been caught. He scowled at Kipman, who was particularly adept at raising an eyebrow to imply guilt.
"Up yours, I got a daughter her age," Karp muttered under his breath. "And a wife who'd cut my nuts off if I ever so much as thought what you're thinking."
Kipman didn't reply. He just stared straight ahead with a half-smile on his lips and the eyebrow stuck at its zenith as Ms. Mokler-Shreddre escorted them to a door on which were the words Mayor's Office, where a clean-cut and equally serious young man was scraping the current officeholder's name off with a razor blade.
Michael Denton had won the election handily in November but wouldn't officially take office until January 1. However, the current mayor, who'd declined to run for a second term when he thought his opponent was going to be Andrew Kane, was in a hurry to vacate the premises and had invited his replacement to begin the transition process immediately after the election. He'd even allowed Denton to move into the main offices while he vacated to a smaller suite.
Therefore, Mayor-elect Michael Denton was sitting behind the big mahogany desk with the seal of New York City on the front when Karp and Kipman were shown in. Not for the first time, Karp noted that the man was the spitting image of one of his oldest friends in the city, NYPD Homicide Bureau Chief Bill Denton, the mayor-elect's brother. Bill had ten years on his sibling, but both men had large, square heads that looked as if they'd been chipped from blocks of stone, and wide, friendly Irish faces.
Like his brother, Michael had originally followed the family tradition of joining the thin blue line of the NYPD. But his career had been cut short by a shotgun blast from a robber-whom he'd killed in the gunfight-that forced the doctors to amputate what remained of his left leg. After he recovered, he didn't mope around feeling sorry for himself or climb inside a bottle but went back to school and earned his business degree, which in turn he'd used to buy, refurbish, and turn profitable a number of pubs in Irish neighborhoods throughout the five boroughs. Then he'd thrown himself into the other traditionally Irish business in New York: politics. First as a block organizer, then party leader, followed by several terms as a city councilman, and then-mostly because no one else wanted the job-as the soon-to-be mayor of Gotham.
Michael Denton was as surprised as anyone to now be sitting in the high-backed leather chair behind a desk festooned with the emblem of the City of New York, while his wife of thirty-plus years happily waited for the day the current first lady-who was somewhat more reluctant to give up the trappings of power than her husband-got the hell out of Gracie Mansion. He'd essentially been regarded as cannon fodder by his own party when Kane announced his candidacy and the incumbent decided against running. But then along came Butch Karp, and suddenly Denton stood alone in the field. The demoralized opposition party had hardly put up a fight, which Karp figured was the only way an essentially honest man was now in office.
Michael Denton's eyes were not quite as blue or intense as Kipman's, but they indicated a shrewdness that told Karp that very little escaped the man's attention. He'd liked Denton's businesslike campaign, which had been devoid of flashy slogans and meaningless promises that couldn't have been kept.
Instead, the man had spoken with pride about how the people of New York had reacted following the devastating attacks of 9/11 and said he now wanted to harness that spirit to show the world that New York was "devastated by our losses but not defeated by hatred, nor daunted by cowards." It was as close to a slogan as he'd come, and he spent most of his time working the meeting halls and churches and going door to door, talking to people about the practical things he wanted to accomplish: more cops walking the streets, and schools that were safe for their children to attend.
Karp didn't mind that some of Michael Denton's speeches seemed to have been lifted directly from his own modest initial efforts at campaigning for the next year's district attorney's race. The message is a good one, he thought, and the more people who buy into it, the better off we'll all be.
Michael Denton rose from his chair and came from around the desk to shake their hands and point to chairs, inviting them to have a seat. When they were all sitting, he asked Karp how his campaign was going-"great, I guess"-and Denton said that he hoped that Karp would win "so that we get a chance to work together. In the meantime, whatever this office can do to help make the city safer, just ask."
Karp thanked him.
"Hate to be too cliche," Denton said, "but I suppose you're wondering why I asked you here today."
Harry chuckled but remained mute and stared at the fingernails on one hand as if he'd suddenly discovered a hangnail. Butch spread his hands and said, "I'm sure it wasn't to ask me about how my campaign was going, but I figured you'd get to it in good time."
Denton laughed, then leaned forward and pushed a button on the intercom. "Alisa, would you show our other visitor in, please." Mokler-Shreddre must have been waiting with her hand on the doorknob because Denton hadn't even settled back into his chair when the door opened.
Karp looked at the man who entered and this time it was his turn to raise an eyebrow and leave it there. It wasn't that he was displeased to see Richard Torrisi, another former cop he'd known since they were all wet-behind-the-ears crime fighters. But Torrisi had quit the force, gone to law school, and was now the attorney for the Police Benevolent Association, one of the most powerful unions in the city. And over the years, Karp had had his run-ins with the union, which tended to react like any organism when poked-by curling up in a defensive posture-such as on the few occasions he'd prosecuted dirty cops. But he had his union supporters, too, and had always liked Torrisi, even when circumstances put them at loggerheads.