"A little," Guma said, nodding. "According to witnesses, the dead man, Ivan Kaminsky, was shoved off the platform by a young black man, who, with several other young black men, then chased another man who was the spitting image of the victim."
"Ooooh, so maybe what we got here is a case of mistaken identity," Stupenagel said, her mind already working on the story. "The killers-and I'd bet any amount of money it's Sykes and his gang-decided that Igor knew too much, but somehow they went after the wrong brother first."
"But that would mean that someone told them that Kaminsky represented a danger to them," Marlene said. "But Villalobos wouldn't have told them he'd been stupid."
"The letter," Karp said. "The letter Kaminsky wrote to Breman, who passed it on to Klinger."
The room was silent as the implications of what he'd just said hung in front of them. "Breman or Klinger or both told Louis," Kipman finished the thought. "Which makes them accessories to murder and attempted murder."
Guma whistled. "That's real big-game hunting…a U.S. District Court judge and the Brooklyn District Attorney."
"So what's the next step?" Fulton asked Karp. "You want me to round up Sykes and his cronies and see if the witnesses in the subway station can pick them out of a lineup? It would put a pretty good damper on their lawsuit if they were in prison."
Karp thought about it for a moment, then shook his head. "Let's see if we can get recent photographs of Sykes amp; Co. and let the witnesses pick them out of a photo lineup and, if they do, put them in front of a grand jury," he said. "But I want this kept quiet. This isn't just about the murder of Ivan Kaminsky. Right now, we can't prove that Breman or Klinger or Louis had anything to do with it." He looked pointedly at Stupenagel. "I am assuming that this was all off the record."
Stupenagel protested. "Why is it that you naturally jump to the conclusion that I'm the only one in the room who can't be trusted? Never mind, don't answer that. But you don't have to worry. In fact, you might remember that I'm the one who talked Marlene into looking into this because Robin and Pam are friends of mine. But the old deal still stands. When it's time, I get first crack."
Karp nodded. "Fair enough. The problem now is that we need Kaminsky and…if we can figure out a way to get it, the letter." That reminded him of another missing link in the case. He turned to Fulton. "What about Hannah Little?"
Fulton shook his head. "She disappeared from her neighborhood after the trial. She and her family put up with a lot of crap from the 'solid citizens,' who apparently thought it was worse to be a snitch than a rapist. They even burned her mother's car one night. Then her brother got shot out in California and that was it. Hannah and her mother packed up in the middle of the night and left Bed-Stuy. I tracked her to Ohio from a letter she wrote back to a friend, but that was the last anybody heard from her."
The group was silent, contemplating the extraordinary turn of events. Murrow cleared his throat. "Well, I hate to be outdone when it comes to handing out Christmas presents, but Ariadne and I have another. Okay with you, my love?"
"Say that last part again, you silver-tongued devil, and you can pretty much say anything else you want and I won't care."
"My love," he said again.
"Would someone throw cold water on them?" Karp said. "Okay, Murrow, it's going to be pretty tough to top Guma, but you can try."
Trading narration duties, Murrow and Stupenagel recounted their adventure at the Sagamore Hotel. When they finished, Karp groaned.
"I knew it was too much to hope that everybody was doing this by the book," he growled, wondering if the sudden indigestion was from too much rich food and wine or the story he'd just heard. "You do realize that not a word of what you overheard would ever make it into a court of law, right? Not to mention-which you also seemed to have been aware of when you made your escape-that you could probably be prosecuted for assault on a police officer and trespass."
Karp looked at Murrow and frowned. "Don't you think that maybe I should have heard about this a little sooner?"
Murrow looked hurt, but Stupenagel came to his defense. "To hell with that, Karp. The only reason that story's not splashed across the cover of the New York Times under my byline is because Murry talked me into waiting… Now, you want to shut up and apologize to a man who is absolutely loyal to you, or do you need me to kick your ass?"
"All right, enough," Karp said. "You don't have to convince me about Mr. Murrow's loyalty, which I return, by the way, in full measure. But you and I, and by the nature of his job, Gil, have different obligations. Yours is to inform the public. Mine is to protect the public by prosecuting criminals, but I also have to follow the rules…and that's protecting the public, too."
"Oh, bring out the fife and drum," Stupenagel said. "I thought we'd heard enough speeches this past fall from the two losers we had running for president. Jeez, Marlene, I thought you liked the strong, silent type."
Marlene shrugged. "No comment. I have to sleep with him and if he's cranky, I won't get any…know what I mean?"
"I give," Karp exclaimed. "Why does everybody pick on me? Okay, Stupe, as Paul Harvey would say…now, the rest of the story."
"I should make you squirm, Karp, but because my other good friends here are waiting, I'll tell you," Stupenagel said. "I went back up to Bolton Landing the Monday after Honey Buns and I were up there playing secret agents…and doctor, but I won't go into that. I stopped in a local real estate office and asked what a place like that cute little fishing lodge costs where Ewen keeps the beautiful but dim mistress. Well, when the place got bought two years ago, it went for 2.4 million smackers, which is pretty stiff on a union boss's salary…but even tougher if you're twenty-four years old and working at the local Quickie Oil amp; Lube."
"What's that mean?" Karp asked.
"I was about to tell you. Sheesh, Karp, you have no sense of story pacing," Stupenagel said. "Let me remind you that I am one of the finest nonfiction writers of the twenty-first century. I was trying to build in a little suspense."
"As you can see, we're all already on the edge of our seats," Marlene said, getting a little impatient herself.
"Good, just where I like my audiences at this point," Stupenagel said. "What it means is that the house was purchased not by Ed Ewen but by his sister's son, Michael Mason, a good-looking kid in his midtwenties who makes his living in oil…changing oil in other people's cars, that is. He couldn't have bought that house if he'd saved every penny since childhood. Besides, he doesn't live there; he's got a live-in girlfriend and they're shacked up in a one-bedroom in the woods."
Stupenagel looked around, pleased that she had everybody's undivided attention. "Anyway, I dropped by the house after first calling union headquarters and finding out that Ewen was in but unavailable. Anyway, the door gets answered by this blond bombshell who could be the separated-at-birth twin of our own Miss Crystal Vase."
"Oh, please, God," Guma prayed earnestly. "Let me be the one who reunites them."
"Oh, please, Guma, try not to make me ill," Stupenagel said. "That poor girl is going to wake up tomorrow, take one look at you, and swear off drinking for the rest of her life… So anyway, before I was so rudely interrupted by the Italian Scallion-"
"That's Italian Stallion."
"I asked the blond bombshell if 'Mr. Ewen' was at home. At first she was a little suspicious-I'll tell you why in a moment-but I gave her the business card of the real estate woman I'd talked to, a LeAnne Dalton, which seemed to reassure her. Anyway, I told her that I was just in the neighborhood because I had a buyer who was interested in the property and was willing to pay top dollar. I asked her if she was Mrs. Ewen, which made her all giggly. She said, 'Not yet,' so either Mr. Ewen is stringing her along, or the current Mrs. Ewen is about to be turned out to pasture. The bastard. Anyway, the next part of the story I'll turn over to my sweetie."