True Justice

Book : A Butch Karp-Marlene Ciampi Thriller

by Robert K. Tanenbaum

Genres: General Fiction; Thrillers

Synopsis

For Butch Karp, chief assistant district attorney for New York County, the nightmare begins when a shocking act of negligence results in homicide. Goaded by the media's sensational publicity, the public is screaming for blood, and the DA is listening. It is Butch Karp's unpleasant job to give the public what it wants -- a thorough administration of hard-line justice -- by prosecuting a poor, Hispanic, fifteen-year-old mother for murder.

Complicating matters further is Butch's wife, private investigator Marlene Ciampi, who has decided to return to law. On her first assignment, a case involving an equally unspeakable tragedy, Marlene has the unenviable task of taking on a politically ambitious local prosecutor who is pressing to charge a suburban teenager with capital murder.

With Butch and Marlene squaring off on opposite sides of a national debate, things couldn't get worse, until an astonishing turn of events puts their daughter at the center of a horrifying crime. Suddenly, everything they believe in is challenged, as they are drawn into a maelstrom of big city politics and small town values, where justice is sacrificed to the twin gods of public perception and expediency -- and Karp must struggle to salvage his self-respect, his career, and his very life.

Release date: April 13, 2015

Publisher: Pocket Star

Print pages: 464

Sample

Chapter One

A Salvadorean Chinese man wearing a red Hebrew National apron with a black-checked kefiya around his neck and a Yankees hat on his head -- in short, a typical New Yorker -- jaywalked across Tenth Avenue at Fifty-second Street, contemplating, like so many of his fellow citizens, a minor offense. He was a food vendor, the January dusk was closing in, and he wanted to dispose of the considerable trash that had collected on his cart after twelve hours of dispensing edible garbage. He was supposed to carry it back to the cart depot, but he was now about to deposit a fat plastic bag in one of the row of trash cans he knew was kept behind the pizza joint across the street. The commercial trash collectors of the city were still recovering from a week of snow and ice, though, and he discovered that the five cans in the alleyway off Fifty-second were full, with bulging black bags stacked around them. The man looked over his shoulder to see whether anyone was watching and lifted up one of the bags. His plan was to secrete his own modest contribution behind one of these stinking blimps. Instead, he froze, goggling, and stumbled backward, knocking over one of the trash cans. Someone else had obviously had the same idea, because a dead baby was lying on top of the trash bag he had uncovered. It was slaty-blue, faceup, the little face shriveled like an old vegetable. It was a boy, with the exaggerated genitals of the neonate, and its long, ropy umbilical cord dragged down into the shadows beneath the trash.

"What's happening?" said a voice in Spanish behind him. A kitchen worker in whites and a cheap black parka stood behind him. The vendor was speechless. The kitchen man said, "Hey, man, what're you doing, kicking over my...," and then he saw the baby, too.

"Oh, shit!" said the kitchen man.

"Oh, shit, is right," said the vendor. He spoke both Spanish and Cantonese and was thus able to converse with nearly every low-level food-service worker in the city.

The kitchen man looked at him narrowly. "You didn't put that baby there, did you?"

"What're you, crazy? I just come here to stash my garbage from the wagon. That baby's been here awhile. Look, it's all blue and stiff."

"Poor little bastard! It's a boy, too," said the kitchen man. "Hey, man, where're you going?"

The vendor had turned away and was starting back toward Fifty-second. He paused and said, "I got to get back to my wagon, man."

"Hey, but we got to call the cops."

"You got a green card, man?" asked the vendor.

"Yeah, I got a green card."

"Well, you call the cops, then," said the vendor, and walked off.

What followed had happened well over a thousand times in the previous year, and already twenty in the current one, the digestion of a dead human by the bureaucracy established for that purpose. The police arrived, two patrolmen, who secured the crime scene and took an initial report from the kitchen man. Then the crime scene unit arrived in its van and examined the dead baby and its surround for clues. The baby was lying on some paper toweling, and they bagged that. Then the patrol sergeant arrived, and an ambulance from Bellevue, and shortly after that two detectives from the unit assigned to Midtown South. These looked at the baby and the scene and asked questions and found the Chinese Salvadorean vendor and yelled at him a little. Then the ambo took the dead baby away to the morgue. The next morning, an assistant medical examiner autopsied Baby Boy Doe Number One and discovered that it had died of exposure. Since exposing a baby to January weather in New York falls under the section of the homicide statute having to do with death resulting from a depraved indifference to human life, the death was ruled a homicide. The District Attorney's Office for the County of New York -- that is, the isle of Manhattan -- was duly notified, and thus it came, but only modestly, into the cognizance of the district attorney's chief assistant by means of a pair of lines on a computer printout. This printout was generated by the complaint bureau, an organization that was to the district attorney's office as the little ovoid plastic tube on the top is to the Cuisinart. The lines for Baby Boy Doe Number One indicated that this was a fresh case, that no arrests had been made on it. The chief assistant's name was Roger Karp, called Butch by everyone except his aged aunt Sophie.

Karp's eye moved on to the seventeen other people who had been killed in Manhattan since the beginning of the year. In ten of these, an arrest had been made, and these were naturally of greater interest to him. Karp had been doing this work for over twenty years. He had been a famous homicide prosecutor, and then the chief of the homicide bureau, and now he was the chief assistant district attorney, the operational head of the entire organization. He had not, he hoped, become callous, but he had a lot to do. The murder rate had risen rocketlike in recent years in pace with the citywide crack epidemic, and one more dead baby did not appear just then as pressing a matter as the legions of teenagers then roaming New York with heavy semiautomatic weapons. But he did not forget it, not entirely. Not forgetting the slain of Manhattan was one of his major talents.

That was the first dead baby. The second dead baby was found two days later, on January 12, by a track worker on the Broadway line, just south of the Ninety-sixth Street station. It was wrapped in newspapers and stuffed in a supermarket shopping bag. The complexion of the first dead baby suggested it was Hispanic, and this one was a girl and black. The track worker had called the cops immediately. A different team of detectives arrived, and another crime scene unit arrived, who collected and tagged the newspaper wrapping and the grocery bag. Service on the Broadway line was delayed for several hours, as a result of which the second dead baby created somewhat more of a media stir than the first one had. On autopsy, the second dead baby proved to have been smothered, and thus after the usual grinding, Baby Girl Doe Number One also appeared as a homicide line on Karp's daily computer printout, along with the four other people who had been killed (all drug-related shootings) since the last time he had looked. Baby Girl Doe Number One attracted rather more of his attention than her predecessor. Karp was not a political creature -- far from it. Still, Karp understood that the New York DA's office existed in a corrosive bath of media attention, and two murdered babies in a week was perhaps unusual even for the Big Apple. He paused and made a note to give his boss, DA Jack Keegan, a heads-up, so that he would be prepared for any questions should one of the city's many journalists choose to do a bleeding-heart piece.

That note proved, in the event, somewhat de trop, because on January 17, the third dead baby appeared. The third dead baby was different, and different for reasons peculiar to New York. On the late afternoon of that day, a young man named Raul Jimenez, a communications student at the Tisch School of New York University, was walking along 112th Street near Lexington Avenue. He was working on a school assignment, which was to make a three-minute video on "animals in the city." Jimenez had grown up in this neighborhood, had avoided, more or less, the drugs, gangs, and cops, and was now rising, but rising, he felt, with an edge. The other kids were going to do pigeons, puppies, and squirrels, he figured, while he was going to do bad dogs. It had lately become fashionable among the guapos on the street to keep large, nasty dogs, pit bulls or ridgebacks or rotties. Given the average life span of this class of person, and their average level of responsibility, many of their pets were abandoned, scavenging in garbage for food, menacing people, and usually ending up gassed in the pound or shot by the police. These feral dogs of Spanish Harlem were Jimenez's subject, and the location he now gingerly approached was a burnt-out building and an adjoining vacant rubble-field, where he knew the beasts congregated.

He heard a scrabbling sound and a growling from the rubble. Slipping through a gap in the ragged chain-link fence, he advanced cautiously, holding his Panasonic VHS camcorder up to his eye. Movement. Louder growling, a real dogfight, now. He came closer, correcting the focus. A white pit bull and an emaciated, mangy young Doberman were fighting over some garbage. The Dobe retreated, snarling. Perfect, thought Jimenez, good action, the contrast between the colors of the dogs, perfect. He used the zoom to close in on the pit bull, at what the dog was eating. Bile rose in his throat, but he kept the camera going. Suddenly the Doberman lunged and grabbed a piece. That was the beauty shot. The pit bull heaved harder and trotted away with its prize, leaving just a small piece for its rival, and vanished down into the weed-grown cellar of the former tenement. Jimenez sat down on the bricks and threw up his lunch. Later that day he brought the tape to his professor, who helped him negotiate the sale to NBC and the Post. The network used a doctored version of the tape that evening, with blur zones to water down the awfulness and also on advice from legal, but the Post gave it a full front page that evening: under the headline horror! a picture of two dogs, one black, one white, tearing apart a baby in the city of New York in the last decade of the twentieth century.

Karp was, as it happened, working late that day. His wife and daughter were out at his daughter's school for some event, and his seven-year-old twin boys were being taken out for pizzas by their nursemaid and her boyfriend. Karp was, in fact, a workaholic, but he thought he had it under control. Yes, he got to work at seven and worked weekends, but he dined with his family nearly every evening and saw his wife and children at least once each day. The job he had -- managing a system that ate three hundred thousand serious crimes each year including three murders a day, with over four hundred assistant district attorneys -- was frankly impossible to do; it would have consumed any three people. Nor was it one he particularly liked, although he had become fairly good at it. What Karp liked to do was try murder cases, and he was very good at that. With the recent increase in workload, Karp had acquired his own secretary, an Irish girl named Flynn, and a special assistant, a willing infant named Gilbert Murrow, and a nice many-windowed office in the DA's suite on the eighth floor of 100 Centre Street, the New York County courthouse.

Karp had never imagined himself as the sort of person who had special assistants, but he had swiftly become used to the pleasures thereof. Murrow was quiet, efficient, good-humored, and relatively free of the mental diseases to which special assistants were susceptible, such as megalomania and paranoia. He was fresh out of law school but had not taken the bar and was wondering whether, in fact, lawyering was really his thing after all, so this job suited both him and his boss. Murrow lived in a tiny cubicle outside Karp's office, summonable by a bellow.

Karp bellowed now. No answer. He punched the intercom button: "Flynn, where's Murrow?" No answer. He looked at his watch: five past six. They wouldn't have simply gone home without telling him, hence a mystery. Karp rose, stretched; a remarkable sight, this, for he was over six feet five inches tall, still reasonably lanky in his mid-forties. He walked out of his office, observed without surprise that Flynn was not at her desk, and proceeded to the DA's outer office, where he found that Mary Margaret O'Malley, the DA's secretary, was not at her desk either, which was rather more surprising. He recalled that the DA himself was busy upstate at some political do. There were sounds emanating from behind the paneled doors of the DA's office proper. Karp went in.

Murrow, Flynn, O'Malley, and a few other late-staying eighth-floor workers were grouped around the DA's huge TV. Karp noted with astonishment that O'Malley, a hefty woman with jaw and hair of iron, was dabbing at her eyes, although the rumor had it that O'Malley had shed her last tear on the occasion of JFK's assassination. A couple of anchors were on the screen, looking grave. Somebody's been shot, was Karp's immediate thought: the president, the DA...

"What's going on, O'Malley?" Karp asked.

"It's horrible, Butch," she said. "Unbelievable, in this day and age. I beeped him already, he should be calling any minute now."

Karp was about to ask again what was going on when the screen changed and flashed the startling Post front page: HORROR! Then, a talking head began talking about the decline of morality among the young and conflating the recent years of teenaged gunplay with the murder of babies: now the girls were getting into it, too, was the conclusion. Somebody flicked the remote at the screen, the channel changed to NBC, and Karp got to see the Jimenez tape, slowed down to provide more news, the Doberman tearing away a white blur that was clearly a baby's arm. Then the news moved on to other things, and the group stood around the noble office, gasping and murmuring.

Murrow said, to no one in particular, "This is a going to be a firestorm. Unbelievable!" Karp felt the eyes of the room on him. He looked at Murrow and frowned unconsciously, both because of the remark and because of Murrow's dress, which was a hairy tweed sports jacket worn over a navy sleeveless sweater, a foulard bow tie, tan whipcord trousers, and shiny Weejuns loafers. This was not how Karp thought junior staff members should dress. (Murrow had shown up for work one day in a red brocade waistcoat with shiny buttons. Karp did not say anything to him about it, but had stared at him throughout that day as if observing a particularly gruesome traffic accident, and the item had not reappeared.) Karp himself was not interested in clothes and always wore the same outfit: a dark, pin-striped, single-breasted suit, of appropriate weight for the season, a white shirt, a tie with some infinitesimal dark pattern, and highly shined black shoes. Despite this civilized apparel, Karp often looked as though he should be unshaven and wearing crossed bandoliers. He had the roundheaded, flat-faced, high-cheekboned, quasi-oriental look of his maternal ancestors, a rapacious band of Odessa Jews, horse traders, petty criminals, and head-breakers. His eyes were gray, with peculiar yellow flecks, and were used to good effect in his famous laser stare. Around the office, Karp was considered cold, and something of a stiff, since he failed to find incompetence amusing. It made him grind his teeth and look fierce and stare unforgivingly. Among his few close friends and with his family, however, Karp was a different man, humorous, a dead-on mimic, boyish, occasionally goofy, a peaceable man actually, and quite even-tempered. It was not his fault that he looked like Ivan the Terrible's first cousin. (His wife, on the other hand, looked like a Bernini angel, but she had a short fuse and occasionally shot people with a pistol in disagreements. Yet another thing that was not fair.) Meanwhile, Murrow, who did not understand this, writhed under the stare.

"I mean," said he, gulping, "the press is going to be all over this. It's not going to go away."

"And, what? Do you think we should be extrahard on infanticidal mothers because a dead baby got chewed up by dogs on the TV?"

"No, but...," said Murrow, and he concluded weakly, stammering, "but, we have to do, or say, something. Don't we?"

"We do," said Karp. "In about two minutes, Mr. Keegan will be calling here, and he will order me to coordinate the office's response to that garbage. I want you to go down to Bill McHenry's shop and see what they're doing. We'll need a press statement from him tonight, and Mr. Keegan will want to be on one of the morning shows tomorrow, saying something suitably grave and meaningless. Get them to prepare some talking points for that. And, Murrow?" The young man was already preparing to dash. "Stir them up. Public affairs people, you know, they like to sit around in stained bathrobes, chatting to their pals on the phone and eating nougat. Not this time, okay? Let us have zeal."

"Got it. Zeal. No nougat."

Murrow vanished. Karp looked around and made shooing motions. "Go home, people, show's over." The room cleared of everyone but the two secretaries. Karp turned to his and said, "Flynn, why don't you call One PP and find Chief Torricelli for me. Tell him I'd like to discuss the dog problem in the city." Flynn nodded and departed. Karp rolled his eyes at O'Malley and stood like a lawn jockey, his hand out, palm upward. They waited. Almost immediately the phone chirruped. O'Malley picked up the extension on the side table near the TV. She said, "Mr. Keegan's office....Yes, sir, he's right here," and slapped the receiver into Karp's waiting palm like the runner does in the four-forty relays.

"Jack."

"Jesus! What a mess!" said the DA. "I talked to the commissioner already. We've decided to issue a joint statement tonight. Did you...?"

"As we speak. We should have a draft in about an hour. I'm looking for the chief of D, too."

"Good. You're handling it personally, the public affairs?"

"Personally," lied Karp.

"Okay, good. Any thoughts?"

"On the tape? Hell, Jack, right now it's an animal-control matter, not a DA thing at all. If we find it's an actual infanticide, i.e., the kid wasn't born dead or expired of natural causes, then we can start thinking about what to do. I assume you got my note on the other two?"

"Yeah, yeah, I did. Sweet Jesus, what ever happened to the basket left with the nuns?"

"What ever happened to switchblades and brass knuckles? Now they use machine pistols in gang fights. It's a changed world, Jack."

"I know it, and frankly, it stinks. Look, we're going to come under a shitload of pressure to crucify the poor godforsaken ladies responsible for these. That damned tape and that picture! The bleeding hearts and the string-'em-up crowd will be holding hands and yelling in chorus. This one's on you, boyo, by the way. Tight security, no leaks, and tell the cops that, too. I'm going to do some shifty moves until we get the mothers and see what's what."

"It could be the fathers, you know."

"Oh, it's always the mothers, this young. The fathers kill them when they're older. Look, I'm going to be tied up here for a while, and then figure I'll be by there around nine. We'll talk to the press about ten from Centre Street. You're staying to follow up, I presume."

"Yeah, Marlene and Lucy are up at some shindig at Sacred Heart. I was going to stay late anyway. Lucky for me."

"Ha! Sacred Heart, huh? Is she armed?"

"Probably."

"Christ! Better start praying she doesn't shoot a nun. It'd be the end of a perfect day."

There were no obvious nuns in the ballroom of the Convent of the Sacred Heart this evening. The mesdames had never gone in much for elaborate habits, and now they had settled into dowdy outfits with big plain wooden crosses around their necks. In any case, most of the teachers at Sacred Heart were now laypeople. It was part of the new Church, clearly, and Marlene, of course, approved of all that on an intellectual level, but still, there was something dissatisfying about all that earnest wrestling with celibacy and abortion and homosexuality and liturgy. Marlene had never paid much attention to the specific moral dictates of the Church during her girlhood, but she had respected the magic and welcomed the forgiveness, which she had certainly required in inordinate measure. The first time Marlene had seen this room, she had been fourteen, a brilliant little barbarian from Queens, and it had seemed to her the anteroom to paradise. She sipped her tepid coffee now and looked around at it. It was, famously, one of the most beautiful rooms in the city, high-ceilinged, floored with golden parquet, fitted with great Palladian windows and a noble fireplace, all perfectly proportioned and harmonious, as befitted the Renaissance palazzo from which it was copied. The space was an education in itself. Tonight it was full of alumnae and faculty, and rich people who might support the institution, circulating gently amid civilized conversation and soft music from a student string quartet. Marlene had not been a very good alumna in years past, but had resolved, upon her daughter's entry here, to improve, and she had.

She wandered down to the end of the room and studied her reflection in the great oval mirror above the fireplace. She was wearing her plum-colored Karl Lagerfeld suit, the most elegant outfit she owned. It fit perfectly, with the added benefit that the lush cut and heavy fabric quite concealed the thin nine-millimeter pistol on her left hip. On her lapel hung a sticker that read "Marlene Ciampi -- '64." She'd had her hair done, too; it fell richly to her shoulders, a great faux-casual mass of crow-black curls, artfully designed to cast a heavy shadow over the right side of her face, where the eye was glass. She had already this evening met some of the girls she had gone to school with, and she wondered if she looked as good as the ones who looked good or more like the ones who did not and reflected yet again upon Camus's dictum that people over forty were responsible for their own face. She, with the help of various bad guys, certainly was. As she so mused, a voice behind her said:

Foeda est in coitu et brevis voluptas

Et taedet Veneris statim peractae.

Marlene spun around. Before her stood a plumpish woman of just her own height and age, with an unruly mass of red-gold hair frizzing out of her head, and a broad, big-toothed grin on her freckled face.

"Good God! It's Shanahan!" cried Marlene.

"Champ!" shrieked the woman, and they leaped into each other's arms.

"Wow, let me look at you," said Maureen Shanahan, pulling back and looking Marlene over. "Still gorgeous, curse you. What happened to you? You never come to these things."

"Do you?"

"I always come to these things. I'm very socially responsible, as you'll recall, except when I used to hang out with you. I figured you'd remember the Petronius."

"God, yes! We thought we were so clever finding it and offering it for our free translation, not realizing -- "

"We were only the four thousandth nasty Sacred Heart girl to find that thing since the foundation. My God, I'm glad to see you! You won't believe this, but a week doesn't go by when I don't think of you."

"Maureen, that's crazy. Why didn't you call? I'm in the book. Or send a card? You're the orphan. I had no way to get in touch with you."

"I thought you hated me."

"What! Why would you think that?"

"Oh, you know, the last time we saw each other. Me and Ron..."

Marlene laughed. "Oh, God, that! The Odious Ron." She slapped her hand to her mouth. "Oh, Jesus, I'm sorry..."

"No, it's perfectly all right. The Odious Ron and I have parted ways. And you were absolutely right on about him. I put him through med school, produced two kids, and he dumped me for the usual beauteous intern. Pathetic and banal. The truth is...God, I don't know what the truth is. Ashamed? Embarrassed? Stupid? Ron was pretty good at cutting me off from my past life. Jesus, with you in particular it was hate at first sight."

"Likewise," said Marlene, and they laughed.

"Jeepers," said Shanahan, "I can't believe I'm standing here in the ballroom talking to Marlene Ciampi. What is it, eighteen, twenty years?"

"Or thereabouts, but who's counting? So what're you doing, Shans? You said you had kids?"

"Yeah, David and Shannon. David's a freshman at Georgetown law, Shannon's a senior, she's applying to colleges, if you can believe it. My baby. We live in Sherwood. It's just outside of Wilmington. You want to die of boredom? I have a walletful of pictures."

Marlene looked around the room, mock-furtive. "Do you think we could sneak out for a drink?"

Shanahan giggled. "I don't see why not. It never bothered us when we were juniors, and I doubt we'll get carded, although if we did, it would make my year."

"Great! We'll go to Hoyle's on Lex."

"Hoyle's is still there?"

"Oh, they couldn't close Hoyle's. Their French 75 is on the national register of historic treasures. Come with me, I have to go tell my daughter." Marlene clutched her friend's arm and together they left the ballroom and walked through the familiar halls to the Fifth Avenue lobby, where a table had been set up to welcome the alumnae and other supporters of the school. Behind the table were two sixteen-year-old girls, one a round-faced, pink-cheeked Chinese with small wire-frame glasses, a traditional bowl-cut hairdo, and a look of supernatural intelligence in her eyes. The other was a tall, thin, sallow girl with a punkish crew-cut and a hawk nose. Both girls were dressed in black jumpers with white collars showing.

Marlene said, "Girls, this is Maureen Shanahan, my best friend from high school. I haven't seen her in centuries and we're going to go out for a drink. Maureen, my daughter, Lucy Karp, and her friend Mary Ma."

Both girls rose and shook hands correctly. Shanahan looked at Lucy with some interest and was startled by the girl's return look, an unnaturally mature appraising gaze. Her eyes were startling, too: slightly aslant, large, and the color of Virginia tobacco. She looked nothing at all like her mother, except for the broad forehead and the heavy, straight eyebrows. It was not a girl-pretty face, but a memorable one, striking and severe, like that of a young saint rimmed with faded gold leaf on an icon.

Shanahan became aware she was staring and pulled her eyes away and started some chitchat with the two girls. Marlene was rummaging in her bag. "You'll need cab fare."

"We'll take the subway, Mom," said Lucy.

"Are you sure? It'll be late."

"Mom..."

This was said with such a tone of forbearance, as to a dotard, that Marlene shrugged and put her wallet away. She looked around. "Where's Caitlin?"

"She had a rehearsal tonight," said Lucy. "Her folks came, though." Several people arrived to ask for directions, and Lucy turned to help them. The women retrieved their coats (a black leather trench coat for Marlene, a quilted nylon, knee-length thing, lavender with a fur collar, for Shanahan) and took their leave of the girls. The evening was chill and damp; the lamps on Fifth wore misty halos. They walked east on 91st Street.

"She's beautiful, Marlene," said Shanahan.

"Hah! According to her, she's dog food. I've given up trying, and I refuse to accept any blame at all for that haircut. She worships Laurie Anderson. Of course, I explained to her that it's one thing if you have a little round face with tiny gamine features...but does she listen? I wash my hands."

"It's a stage. Who's Caitlin?"

"Caitlin Maxwell, the other side of the triangle. The cabal. She's a ballet dancer, apparently a budding star. An exquisite creature in the bargain. I think the other two have something of a crush. Rich as God, too, the dad is some sort of Wall Street tycoon." Marlene sighed. "You know, they're terrific kids, and all -- by the way, Mary is also a little unusual, she does matrix algebra in her head, according to Lucy, not that I know what that means, but she's on full scholarship and MIT is already interested, but...sometimes I wish she would just hang out with regular kids."

"Kids have cliques. We did, if you recall."

"So I keep telling myself, and I would believe it if she was a normal kid, because as you'll also recall, I was something of a handful at that age, but Lucy is a little off the charts in a number of respects."

"So speaks every mother."

"Yeah, but in my case it happens to be true. It turns out she's a language prodigy."

"A what?"

"A language prodigy. Give her a dictionary and a grammar and seventy-two hours with a native speaker and she's essentially indistinguishable from someone who's spoken the language since birth. There's a whole laboratory over at Columbia P and S devoted to studying her brain."

"Really? But, Champ, that's marvelous! How many does she speak?"

"Oh, a dozen or so," said Marlene carelessly. "I can't keep track. And I suppose if I'd been a real nurturing mom, like, for example, the Mrs. Maxwell who's always being thrown in my face, I could have focused on her gift and got her past the thinking she was some kind of freak. But, given my chosen profession, she's had kind of a rough time of it, and I think she harbors resentment."

"You mean because you're a lawyer?"

Marlene looked sideways at her companion. "I'm not exactly a lawyer, Shans. Oh, right, you're not in the city anymore, so you wouldn't know."

"I wouldn't know? What, you're famous?"

"Infamous, actually. I run a security service for women who're being stalked. You know those vet ads where they say 'practice restricted to large animals'? Well, my practice is restricted to women in serious danger of getting killed. Keep walking, Shanahan, and don't goggle at me. Anyway, as a result of this, the loved ones sometimes get testy and go for me. Or Lucy. To make a long story short, she's been invo