Tragic by Robert K. Tanenbaum Page A

of the justice system when applied fairly and objectively.
    However, even in the courtroom their differences in demeanors stood out. Karp was the methodical, persuasive tactician whowielded dramatic moments—such as when a touch of righteous indignation was called for—like a fencer with a rapier. Guma, with his hot Mediterranean blood, was more emotional in his delivery, also skillful and smart but more likely to use emotion as a cudgel. They were both formidable in court, striking terror in the hearts of the defense bar because they knew they’d be in for a dogfight and there’d be no plea bargain and after conviction the maximum sentence would be imposed.
    •  •  •
    Sitting on the edge of his bed, Karp knew that Guma could handle anything at the scene and didn’t need “the boss” hovering over his shoulder. So he hung up with Fulton and started to turn off the light when the woman beneath the sheets next to him turned over.
    “Who’s dead?” his wife, Marlene Ciampi, asked.
    Turning to look at her, Karp smiled. He was amazed at how she could look so good awakened from a dead sleep. Even though she had one glass eye—a casualty of a letter bomb intended for him many years before—she was still a beautiful woman with short dark curly hair that framed her olive-hued face. The petite body beneath the sheets was still lithe and desirable, though he noted the pink puckered wound where she’d been shot that past summer, a new reminder that the woman he’d married when they were both young assistant district attorneys was pretty as a rose, but also tough as thorns.
    “What makes you think that anyone’s dead?”
    “Well, even if I hadn’t been able to hear Fulton clearly, which I could—I swear the man’s getting deaf he talks so loud—I could tell by your demeanor and the fact that you were ready to hop out of bed with me and rush off to play with your cop friends. That usually means some sort of murder and mayhem is afoot.”
    Karp laughed. “Excellent detective work, Ms. Ciampi.”
    “Thank you. Now give. Who bought the farm?”
    “Vince Carlotta,” Karp said.
    Marlene’s playful countenance turned instantly to a frown.“That’s horrible,” she said. “He seemed like a good guy, at least from what I’ve read. Remember we met him at that Hell’s Kitchen Boys’ Club fund-raiser? Him and his wife. A good-looking couple, sort of a spring–fall romance; she was lovely and he clearly adored her. I think they recently had a baby.”
    “Yeah, I remember them,” Karp replied. “I’ve actually run into him a few times over the years. Dockworkers’ union guy, tough as nails, but he was also fair and reasonable. The word ‘integrity’ comes to mind when I think about him, unlike his counterpart, Charlie Vitteli, who’s a walking felony if I could just prove it.”
    “Think Vitteli had something to do with it?” Marlene asked.
    Karp considered her comment. His wife did not ask idle questions about murder. She’d once been the head of the DAO’s sex crime bureau, and had quit there to start a VIP Security Firm. Most recently, she’d hung up her shingle as a defense attorney/private investigator, working mostly cases in which she felt the justice system was messing up.
    “I wouldn’t put it past him,” Karp replied. “But apparently Carlotta got caught up in an armed robbery outside of Marlon’s. I’ll know more after Clay fills me in when I get to the office. I’ll be heading in early.”
    “Well then, you better turn off that light and come over here and hold your wife,” Marlene said. “This has given me a chill.”
    “You don’t have to ask me twice,” he replied, and did as told.
    •  •  •
    “Hey, Karp! Did ya . . . whoop nuts tits oh boy . . . hear what I asked or not?” Dirty Warren demanded, squinting up at him.
    “Uh, sorry, Warren, I got sidetracked,” Karp said, pulling himself away from the memory of how the night ended before Marlene let him