Trap (9781476793177) (19 page)

With the detective leading the way, Karp followed him outside of the office. “What's up? Guma okay?”

“Yeah, he's fine,” Fulton said. “But apparently two patrons at The Storm Trooper bar aren't. We got two dead and a third being transported to the hospital with gunshot wounds. Sounds like Guma missed the fireworks by a few minutes. He thinks he spotted the suspect driving away in a white van with some sort of sign on the side.”

“He identify the suspect?”

Fulton shook his head. “Said he didn't get a good look, but he was able to get a few words out of the surviving victim . . .”

“And?”

“Apparently our favorite neo-Nazi may have taken that leap from vandal to killer.”

“I don't get it,” Karp said. “I didn't see that in him.”

“Maybe he just snapped,” Fulton replied. “The guy was obviously paranoid. His mom died, so he goes off the deep end and starts blaming you and me.”

“But why kill these guys?”

“Who knows? A falling-out. Maybe to get rid of witnesses. Or somebody said something wrong. But one thing is sure, if he's our guy, he's a cold-blooded killer. Marlene said she was going to Il Buon Pane?”

“Yeah, she was going to pick up the boys.”

“I think I'll scramble a couple of squad cars to go over, just in case the Sobelmans and anyone else there is on his revenge list.” Fulton nodded at the conference room door. “What about them? What this Gallo guy is saying sounds pretty legit.”

“I think it's legit, too. I think we're dealing with two different, unrelated murder cases. I can handle the rest of the interview after I reach Marlene and give her a head's-up. Then I want to get back in there and finish up before anyone gets cold feet.”

Karp returned to the conference room and his interrogation of Gallo. He was questioning the young man about meeting Monroe at the Jay Street Bar before the explosion when Mrs. Milquetost knocked on the door. “Marlene is trying to reach you,” she said. “It's another emergency.”

Excusing himself, Karp called his wife. He'd barely said hello before she interrupted him.

“Butch, I think something's wrong with the boys,” she said, the worry in her voice palpable. “I just arrived at the bakery, but the boys are gone and so is Goldie.”

“Any idea where they went? What about Moishe?”

“He was upstairs taking a nap,” Marlene replied. “He thought Goldie was downstairs. The strangest thing is I think I saw them leaving; Zak was driving.”

“Zak was driving?” Karp repeated. “That's crazy—he doesn't even have a license.”

“I know,” she said. “I didn't get a good look until someone honked at me like maybe he was trying to get my attention. When I looked up, I was sure it was Zak, and maybe Giancarlo in the passenger seat.”

Karp felt his stomach tighten. This was another one of those moments before the storm. “What kind of vehicle?”

“A van . . . a white van.”

F
OR A MOMENT
, K
ARP FELT
as if someone had knocked the wind out of him.
A white van.
He knew who his sons were with and that they were in mortal danger. Forsling had stepped over that moral line most humans come by naturally that prevents them from taking another's life. The next time it would be easier for him.

A feeling of helplessness washed over him. Once again the necessity of doing his job was affecting the lives of his family. But then the internal focus that he always relied on in times of duress, whether in court or dealing with this sort of threat, took over, and his mind grew clear and voice remained calm. “Where are you now?” he asked his wife.

“Driving north on Third with Moishe. I saw them turn this direction,” Marlene said. “Butch, what's going on? Moishe found Goldie's wedding ring on the cash register, and he says she hasn't taken it off in seventy years. He thinks she was letting him know they're in trouble. Does this have something to do with Forsling?”

“I'm afraid so,” Karp replied. “Stay after him. I'm going to get Clay to send squad cars to the area; a couple were already en route to Il Buon Pane and should be close. Did this van have writing on the side?”

“Yeah, it was some sort of father-and-sons company van, but the sign was faded so it might not be anymore,” Marlene replied. She was quiet for a moment. “How bad is it?”

Karp thought for a moment about how to answer her. He could tell that she was struggling with her fears. But that was how Marlene operated in an emergency—on adrenaline and emotion—and it worked for her. She'd faced plenty of tough, life-threatening situations and had always come out on top. She was not the sort to panic or make a mistake because of stress. Still, this wasn't just dealing with some lunatic with a gun; this lunatic had just killed two people, abducted her sons, and sworn he'd get revenge on Karp. And yet in the final analysis, there would be no fooling her regarding the situation; she'd hear it in his voice.

“Forsling is the chief suspect in a double homicide at a bar in Hell's Kitchen,” he said. “Apparently, he shot three of his associates—wounding one of them—before driving to the bakery in that van.”

There was another moment of silence while Marlene digested the information. “Okay. We know what we're dealing with.”

“Marlene, I'm not going to try to sugarcoat this,” he said. “Find our sons. Do what you have to do.”

“I will.”

“I'm going to let you go so I can reach Fulton and get my guys alerted to find the boys and Goldie.”

“Yeah, that would be good . . . Butch, I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

Karp hung up and poked his head back into the conference room. “I'm sorry but we're going to have to resume this later,” he said. “We have an emergency situation I have to deal with. If you'd like to come back to my office and wait with Alejandro, you're welcome to, or you're free to go.”

Without waiting for Gallo's reply, Karp turned and went back to his office. Alejandro was standing near the bookshelf, looking at some of the titles, and turned toward him as he walked in. But Karp held up his hand. “Sorry, need to make a call,” he said, and pressed a button on the intercom. “Clay, I need you here now.”

“On my way. What's up, boss?”

“Forsling has Zak, Giancarlo, and Goldie Sobelman,” Karp replied. “Marlene saw the white van from the shooting leaving the bakery and heading north on Third Avenue. She thinks Zak was driving and Giancarlo may have been in the front passenger seat. That would mean Forsling's in back telling them what to do. Marlene's in pursuit but she's at least a few minutes behind them and doesn't know where they're going.”

“I might have an idea about that,” Fulton said. “I just got off the phone with Guma. He rode to the hospital with the shooting victim, who told him that Forsling has some sort of job as a night watchman at a tenement renovation project over on the East Side.”

“He have an address?”

“No, but apparently walking distance from where he lived with his mother. The builder ran out of money so it's just fenced off and he throws Forsling some cash to check on it so that nobody steals the wiring. Otherwise it's an abandoned building, and my guess is it's a good place for us to look. I'll get some patrol cars moving in that direction.”

“Okay, thanks, Clay. I'm going to pass that along to Marlene. Get our team ready and I'll see you in my office asap.”

“I'll be there soon as I get off the phone,” Fulton said, then hesitated. “We'll find them, Butch.”

Karp heard the empathy and concern in his friend's voice. Fulton had known the boys since birth and had treated them like sons ever since. “There is no other option,” he said, and hung up just as Micah entered the room. He waved the young man to a seat over where Garcia was standing with a look of concern.

“What's going on?” Garcia asked Karp.

Karp normally wouldn't have involved “civilians” in his business or, for that matter, have had them remain in his office. But he was trying to stay focused, and besides, Alejandro had befriended the boys and protected them in the past. Something prompted him to quickly explain even as he was calling Marlene back.

When she answered, her voice was tense. “There's a chance he's headed for an abandoned tenement building that's undergoing renovation over near where he lived with his mom,” he told her. “He may be looking for a place to hole up or . . .”

“Or shoot our sons,” Marlene finished the sentence for him.

Karp let the comment pass, though he couldn't ignore the lump in his throat. “Apparently this place may have a fence around it,” he said with difficulty.

“There're a lot of old buildings under construction around here.”

“That's all I've got,” he said, but his intercom buzzed insistently before Marlene answered. Mrs. Milquetost sounded in a near panic, “Mr. Karp, there's a man on line two who says he's going to kill your sons!”

Karp then spoke in the phone. “Marlene, Forsling's calling. I'll put you on speakerphone so you can hear.” He then punched the button for Line 2. “This is District Attorney Karp.”

“Is that you, Karp, you fucking Jew bastard?”

“I'm here, Lars.”

“I've got your kids.”

“I'm aware of that,” Karp said, trying to sound calmer than he felt. “I'm asking you to let them and the woman go before this escalates.”

“Too late, Karp, it's . . .” Whatever Forsling said after that was obscured by background sound.

“I didn't hear what you said.”

“I said it's too late; it escalated when my mom died. And it's all your . . .” Again, Forsling's sentence was cut off by the sounds. Karp looked up and noted Garcia's furrowed brow but didn't have time to ask about it.

“Did you hear me, Karp?” Forsling asked. A vehicle door slammed and there was the sound of an engine starting.

Stalling for time, Karp asked him to repeat himself.

“I said I'm going to shoot your fucking kids,” Forsling said. “I'm especially going to enjoy killing the smart-assed one.”

“Lars, this isn't going to solve anything or bring your mother back,” Karp said. “Let me send someone there to negotiate with you so that everybody gets out of this safely.”

“Safely?” Forsling laughed harshly. “Yeah, right. Like I can trust a fucking Jew. I can see tomorrow's headlines,
Cops Forced to Shoot Mad Dog Nazi.
I'm not falling for your tricks or your lies, Karp.” The young man's voice broke. “Besides, I don't give a shit anymore, and I'm not going to prison with a bunch of niggers waiting to jump me.”

Wherever Forsling was driving, it wasn't far. The engine stopped and there was the sound of him getting out and closing the door again. “Well, I think we've said everything there is to say,” he told Karp. There was the sound of the metal gate being pushed shut and then of him walking across gravel. “But I'll call you back in a minute so that you can listen when I shoot your little Jew boys and that old bitch.”

“Forsling!” Karp shouted into the phone but the line went dead.

“He's over near the river,” Garcia blurted out.

“What?”

“That's my turf,” Garcia replied. “I've been listening to those sounds all of my life. They're tugboat whistles; a bunch of them and they're close. I'm guessing the garbage transfer station at East 91st Street where they load up the barges and then shove them out to the ocean to dump.”

Karp nodded and picked up his phone. “Marlene, did you get that? Alejandro thinks he's over near the garbage transfer station on the East River at 91st.”

“Already on my way,” Marlene replied. “I'm only a few blocks west of there.”

After a tense minute, she shouted. “I see the van. It's parked on a side street. And that must be the tenement. There's a padlock on the gate. I think I can squeeze through. . . . I got to run. Butch?”

“Yes.”

“When he calls back, stall him as long as you can.”

“I will. And Marlene?”

“Yeah?”

“Be careful.” But there was no reply.

L
ARS
F
ORSLING STOPPED AT THE
bottom of the stairs leading up to the top floor where his unfinished business waited. He looked down at his Doc Martens boots, and tears fell from his eyes as he contemplated the changes twenty-four hours had brought to his life. The only person who ever really cared for him was dead. And he'd murdered two, or three, of the only friends he'd ever had.

Now he was about to climb fourteen flights of stairs and shoot two teenaged boys and an old woman.
Not your fault
, said that little voice in his head.
They made you do it. They have been against you all of your life. The Jews. The niggers. The kids whose dads hadn't walked out on them. The whole fucking world.

He thought back about the last time he'd seen his mother. She'd begged him not to go out. “These friends of yours are trouble,” she'd said. “What do you do with all that time you spend together?”

“Just hang out,” he'd said with a shrug. “Talk.”

“Why don't you stay home and talk to your mother tonight?” she'd whined. “I won't be here much longer, you know. I think the Jew doctors are poisoning me. I can hardly get out of bed to go to the bathroom.”

Forsling had looked at her and tried not to be repulsed by the pasty swollen face or the partly exposed obese body. “Maybe you should get more exercise, Mom.”

That, of course, only set her off. He didn't understand. The medicine the Jew doctors claimed was for her heart actually was killing her, making her too weak to even get out of bed. “I might die tonight, you know, then you'll be sorry you left me home alone.”