She paused and pursed her lips in concentration as she looked out the window. "Svetlov may have just been retaliating-after all, in the jungle you can't just let the other guys go running around sticking shivs in your guys. You have to answer. But I get a feeling that there's more to it than that. We need to find Kaminsky."
Only then did she look back and catch the look on her husband's face. "What's wrong?"
"Kaminsky's dead," he said.
Butch explained that he'd asked Guma to nose around and see what he could find out about Kaminsky. His old friend had connections in the criminal underworld that would have done any wiseguy proud. Butch occasionally wondered about the extent of those connections, but it had always been a sort of unspoken rule, like the army's "Don't ask, don't tell."
This time it wasn't Guma's mob sources that tipped him off, it was the Kings County Medical Examiner. Karp was just getting ready to leave his office that afternoon when Guma walked in and announced that he'd located "one I. Kaminsky. Or, what's left of him. He's down at the Brooklyn morgue. Apparently, some guy shoved him in front of a subway train. My friend at the ME's says it ain't pretty, but I'm headed over there to see if there's anything interesting in his personal effects."
"Well, that sucks-to use one of the twins' favorite expressions," Marlene said to her husband. "Whatever Kaminsky had to say about Villalobos-if anything-is now in the hands of Judge Marci Klinger. But for some reason, she's chosen not to say anything about it, although judging by the note in the file, she's had several months to consider it."
"So what's your next move?" Karp asked.
"Guess I need to visit Marci Klinger."
"Just going to walk up and ask her for the letter, eh?"
"Yep."
"Sounds like a plan," he said. "Maybe it will shake her honor up a bit if nothing else."
On Christmas Eve day, Marlene showed up at the federal courthouse on Centre Street intending to do just that. The building was only a block from the Streets of Calcutta where Butch worked, but a world apart in demeanor. The swirling, smelly mass of arguing, shouting, crying humanity was replaced by lawyers in thousand-dollar suits who quietly went about their business, sometimes conversing under their breath with equally well-dressed clients as if they were in a library.
When she reached the judge's office on the fourth floor, Marlene tried to breeze past the pretty, young black woman sitting at the reception desk. Nothing doing.
"May I help you?" the young woman asked as she stood to block the door to the judge's chambers.
"I hope so," Marlene said. "I'm here to see Judge Klinger."
"Your name?" The young woman glanced at the calendar on her desk.
"Marlene Ciampi, but you won't find me on the calendar."
The young woman frowned. "I'm sorry, but if you don't have an appointment-"
"I think the judge ought to hear me out anyway," Marlene said loudly, having decided on the bold frontal attack. Law clerks for U.S. District Court judges were used to the imperious nature of their bosses and tended to respond only when they believed that they were outranked. But this girl wasn't budging.
"A lot of people would like to speak with Judge Klinger," she said, her face still friendly but also indicating she was not going to take any grief. "Perhaps you'd like to make an appointment."
Marlene continued speaking as if she thought the clerk might be nearly deaf. "My name's Marlene Ciampi. I'm a private investigator working for Brooklyn assistant district attorneys Robin Repass and Pam Russell regarding the so-called Coney Island Four case. I believe the judge would like to hear what I have to say before I tell it to the press."
It was all a bluff-a course of action she'd decided on after she got the bad news about Kaminsky from Butch. He'd suggested that she might shake up the judge but so far she wasn't even shaking up a young law clerk. "Look, Ms…"
"Verene Fischer," the young woman said, holding out her hand. "I know who you are, Ms. Ciampi. I'd like to prosecute sex crimes someday myself, and I have great admiration for the program you set up with the New York District Attorney's Office. And, of course, everybody knows your husband. But I'm just a law clerk…the judge's receptionist is gone and I've been left with instructions that she's not to be disturbed. I hope you understand my dilemma."
Well, guess I just got taught a lesson in diplomacy by a child, Marlene thought. She liked this girl. "Yeah, I do Verene…sorry, guess I was pushing a little hard," she said.
Verene grinned. "I would have been disappointed with anything less from Marlene Ciampi."
The law clerk was interrupted when the door to the judge's chambers opened. Marci Klinger stood framed in the doorway. "May I help you?" she said in a way that indicated that she was in no mood to be helpful.
Marlene's practiced eye did a quick assessment of the black-robed jurist. Klinger was in her late fifties and looked every day of it, although she was making attempts to stave off the inevitable. Her face had that stretched, brittle look of a woman who'd tried both face-lifts and acid peels. She'd tried to disguise the rest with too much blue eye shadow for a woman her age and a lipstick color that seemed to indicate she was color-blind. Klinger still wore her hair in a bouffant that had been popular in the early sixties and went to some lengths to keep it the same color it had been back then-a sort of wheat blond-and it was held in place with at least a can of hairspray.
Verene handled the introductions. "Judge Klinger, this is Marlene Ciampi. She dropped by and was asking if she could have a moment of your time," she said, hastily adding, "I told her you asked not to be disturbed."
"That's all right, Verene," Klinger said coolly. "Ms. Ciampi and I met many years ago, although most of what I know about her is her reputation…something of a mixed bag, that reputation, eh Marlene?"
Marlene felt like punching Klinger. "I guess that depends on who you ask…the people I've worked for…or the people I've put in prison, or…killed."
"Yes, yes, all sorts of allegedly bad men have met an untimely end at your hands," Klinger said. "But to be honest, vigilantes don't impress me. In fact, I think they're just as deserving of a prison sentence as the people they go after."
"You may be right," Marlene responded. "Then again, I've known a few jurists who deserve a little time in the big house as well."
Klinger glared at Marlene, then made a face as if she'd tasted something sour. "Might I ask what was so pressing that you didn't feel it necessary to call like any other person and ask for an appointment?"
Although she was seething, Marlene kept a half-smile on her face because she could tell it was irritating Klinger. "Well, I do apologize for just showing up, your honor. But I've been retained as a private investigator by two of the named defendants in the Coney Island Four case that your honor is presiding over. As you know, there's only a month before trial starts, and I needed to ask you a question."
"Then ask," the judge answered. "I have about thirty seconds."
"Thank you," Marlene said. "It's come to our attention that a letter from a former cellmate of the alleged sole perpetrator of the sexual assault on Liz Tyler, a disgusting individual named Enrique Villalobos, was sent to Brooklyn District Attorney Kristine Breman. We have reason to believe that this letter was then forwarded on to you. Of course, Corporation Counsel, for whom I work at least officially, would consider any such correspondence to be discoverable and withholding that letter a violation of our clients' right to due process. I'd like a certified copy of that letter, your honor. I can wait here or in your chambers."