Reckless Endangerment by Robert K. Tanenbaum

complaints of the relatives of murder victims, and this was nothing in comparison with that. But something was tugging at his mind, something Haddad had said. When the man had run down somewhat, Karp asked, “You said there were three men involved. But there’re only two defendants. Who was the third man? Or do you mean the Daoud boy?”
    “No, my information is that there were four boys involved, Daoud, the two defendants, and one named Ali al-Qabbani, who served as a lookout. That’s another thing, Mr. Karp. Ali al-Qabbani hasn’t been seen since the morning of the alleged crime.”
    “Aren’t the police looking for him?” asked Karp, carefully avoiding the question of how Haddad knew so much about the conspirators.
    “No. They don’t believe he exists. They think the other two are making him up so they can put off the blame on him. Ali planned it, we didn’t know what we were getting into, and so on. And Ali was an illegal. No records, few possessions—he lived in a corner of the room where they met, he did odd jobs, spoke hardly any English. Where could he run to? But he’s vanished.”
    “Maybe he’s back in Palestine. Maybe the terrorist network got him out.”
    “Oh, please! I told you, there is no network. This organization—Against the House of War—it doesn’t exist. It’s a fantasy that’s shared by those idiot boys and Lowenstein. I certainly hope that the D.A.’s office doesn’t buy into it.”
    “Well, personally, I have no opinion either way, and I doubt Mr. Keegan does either. As I say, it’ll only touch on the prosecution as it affects the conspiracy case. What do you think happened to this Ali?”
    “Isn’t it obvious? The Jews got him. Lowenstein and his gang of thugs. But you know very well that the police will never follow up on that angle.”
    “I wouldn’t be too sure of that, Mr. Haddad. Unlike our mayor, the district attorney doesn’t run his own foreign policy. We have a deal with the secretary of state—we don’t negotiate with foreign nations and he doesn’t prosecute murders. I promise I’ll look into it and get back to you. As a matter of fact, I’m meeting with Rabbi Lowenstein later this evening. I’ll ask him about it.”
    Haddad snorted. “What do you expect him to do, admit it?”
    “No, but his denial will be informative. Thanks for coming by, sir. We’ll stay in touch.”
    At Battery Park, the Statue of Liberty ferry was pulling out for its last run of the day. Aboard were a group of seventh-graders from Hyattsville, Maryland, on their class trip. A cluster of boys were at the stern, laughing under a teacher’s watchful eye as they tossed bits of snack food into the air for the miraculously hovering gulls.
    “Hey, look,” shouted one, above the wind and the engines, “there’s a guy swimming!” They all clustered at the rail and looked.
    “Jeez!” said another, “he’s buck naked! You can see his ass!”
    More laughter, shoving to look. The teacher frowned and moved toward them. Then the bow wave of the ferry tossed the man and he rolled slowly over, and they saw that he was not swimming at all.

THREE
    K arp had not been to Williamsburg in a long time. As a child he had been taken there at long intervals to visit an aunt of his mother’s, Aunt Reva, an elderly widow who lived alone in a small apartment crowded with massive dark furniture and dense with crocheted doilies and old-people smells—Vick’s, frying chicken fat, scorched feathers. Aunt Reva had pinched his cheeks painfully and given him macaroons and tea rich in lemon and sugar in a thick-sided tumbler. He had played on the floor with a menagerie of glass animals while his mother and her aunt had gabbled in Yiddish. The last time in Williamsburg had been when he was twelve. The glass animals had lost their charm. Karp resented the time spent away from basketball. His older brothers no longer had to endure the visits, but Karp, the last baby, still had to go. On this occasion the