A RINGING PHONE brought Butch Karp out of a love-sodden sleep, after which he hung a right and plunged back into dreamland again. It wasn’t his phone anyway. He rolled over and pressed a pillow over his head, a pillow that smelled of Marlene, a cocktail of patchouli oil and sex. Karp wriggled at the returning memory. Marlene had outdone herself last night, as was her occasional and unpredictable wont, concluding with a marathon steeplechase athwart Karp’s exhausted yet potent body. His crotch was still tender.
Which reminded him of another requirement of nature involving the same zone. Flinging off the quilt and sheets, he heaved out of bed. He had forgotten, however, that he was sleeping not on his own bed on the floor, but on Marlene’s high four-poster, with the result that he stumbled and banged his shin painfully on the bureau close by. He cursed and looked around the sleeping platform, rubbing sleep from his eyes. Below, Marlene was visible only as a tousled mass of black hair above the back of an armchair. She was chattering to someone on a pink Princess phone. It went with her sleeping loft, which she had furnished as a little girl’s bedroom in an Italian neighborhood in Queens, circa 1950. She had a white four-poster single bed with pink dust ruffles—an authentic relic of her girlhood—a white bureau, and a white vanity table, with a pink crinoline skirt and a matching bench. All bore patterns of cherubs and roses. There was also the armchair, a brocaded monstrosity that might have been French Provincial, had France been occupied in the seventeenth century by Italo-American sanitation workers.
He stood and rubbed his bumped shin against the back of his calf. Climbing down the stairs to the main floor, he padded, naked and huge, across to the tiny toilet closet.
“Yahoo!”
When Karp emerged, his girlfriend was jumping up and down on her bed, yelling and flapping her arms by intention and her breasts by default. It made a pretty sight, piquing both his curiosity and lust.
“What happened, Marlene?”
She bounded off the bed and ran over to the rail that surrounded the sleeping platform. “I was right, dammit! I knew it. That was Marino on the phone. He just heard from his lab and from the post-explosion guys at the Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms unit. It was a grenade! And they had never seen that type of timer before, but it looked to them like military hardware, and—”
“Marlene, hold your horses. So it’s a grenade. Big deal. I told you, they could have stolen it from a National Guard armory—”
“Yeah, they could have, if they stole it in Omsk. For your information, Mr. Smarty-pants, Terry Doyle was blown up by a disassembled Soviet RDG-5 hand grenade. The fuse fragments are derived from the standard UZRG and the charge was RPX, about one hundred grams. It all checks. Warsaw Pact, all the way.”
“Oy vey,” Karp said.
“No kidding. Stay there, I’m coming down. There’s more.” Marlene neatly vaulted over the rail into Karp’s arms. She hugged him and stretched to kiss his ear.
“What else?” he asked, hugging her back.
“First say, ‘Marlene smart, Butch dumb.’”
He did so, with reasonably good grace, and she continued.
“They’re checking out the timer. But the big news is, when Marino got back to Rodman this morning, somebody had ransacked the room where they were keeping the evidence. Luckily, Frank had loaded the crucial stuff into a carton and taken it home. How about them apples?”
“How about them,” Karp said wonderingly. “And the only people with access to Rodman at night would be—oh, shit.”
“Cops,” Marlene finished with grim satisfaction.
“Christ, I got to call Denton. I should have called him last night, but I was seduced from my duty …” He squeezed the small cantaloupe-firm buttock convenient to his right hand.
She skipped away from him and began to climb the ladder to the sleeping loft. She said over her shoulder, “Well, it’s Sunday, and far too early to be thinking of business. I’m going back to bed.”
Karp went over to the downstairs wall phone and dialed Denton’s number. As he did, he glanced up: Marlene was in a yoga headstand at the foot of the high bed, her legs spread wide apart, her ankles rotating in small circles. Thus distracted, Karp dialed. An irate woman answered in Spanish. Dial again: a dog hospital. Karp turned his back on Marlene’s gyrations and concentrated on the number.
“Karp! Where’ve you been? I’ve been trying to get you all night.” Denton sounded angry and harassed, not at all inclined to make allowances for a Sunday morning.
“I was out. What’s up?”
“Our hijackers surrendered, that’s what’s up. At six-fifty Paris time, yesterday evening. They’re coming back aboard military transport. They’re scheduled into Kennedy at two-ten this afternoon.”
“That’s great! Where are they supposed to go then?”
“Federal custody, so I guess they’ll take them down to FBI headquarters.”
“Ummm. Not so good there. I can interview them at the FBI, no problem, but afterward … Look, Bill, we’ve got to end up with physical custody of those people. I’ll call Bloom and get him to pull his famous strings. I want them in Riker’s under our control.”
“What’s the matter, don’t you trust the Feds?”
“Yeah, to take care of the Statue of Liberty. And speaking of trust, I think we got a little problem closer to home.” Karp related to Denton what he had learned from Marlene, and got several short, sharp expletives in return.
“I find those guys, they’re dead. And I’ll find them if—”
“Bill. Stop. I mean, my advice is, find out what you can, but no witch hunts while this case is going on, now that we actually have a case. You don’t want to drive whoever’s screwing up deeper under cover before you find what the source of the pressure is. What could make cops want to screw up the prosecution of a cop killer?”
“Nothing.”
“It’s something, bet on it. So we’ve got to make sure that everything about this case is absolutely by the book—collection and custody of evidence, arrest and custody of suspects, procedure, documentation, the works. That means everything gets double-checked by you and me or people we personally trust.”
“Right. You got it. Meanwhile—”
“Meanwhile, I need the flight crew and passengers taken to Centre Street. Park them in a courtroom and I’ll get a gang together to do interviews. Then I’ll roust a judge and get warrants for the homes and business premises of the suspects. You need to get in there fast, toss the joints, pick up any evidence relating to bomb manufacture, conspiracy, and so on. And I want all evidence in my immediate custody as soon as possible. That’s critical. What else? Oh, yeah, the bomb on the plane. Where’s that now?”
“The bomb? Oh, right, you don’t know. It was a dud.”
“A dud?”
“Yeah? Funny, right? There was nothing in that pot but air. And a brick.”
Karp arrived at FBI headquarters, trailed by a small, grayish man named Murray Rothman. A court stenographer, he was well-known for his perpetual availability and his tomblike discretion. Karp was going to tackle the hijackers himself; he’d given Marlene the more onerous responsibility of rousting a couple of assistant DAs out of their Sunday torpor to interview the flight crew and passengers.
The entrance to the building was cordoned off by the familiar gray sawhorse barriers, lined with photographers and TV crews, and several television vans were parked nearby. Farther back, several hundred other people were milling noisily in the late summer sunshine. Some of these were passersby or New York gawkers, but the majority was an organized group carrying homemade signs: “Free the Freedom Fighters,” “Free Croatia.” They were respectably dressed middle-aged and elderly people, not the kind usually found in demonstrations in Manhattan. There was a priest with them, which was not surprising, since most New York demonstrations are so equipped. What was a bit odd was that this one was haranguing the throng.
Karp introduced himself to the uniformed lieutenant on duty. Denton’s name worked its usual magic, and he and Rothman were allowed into the lobby. There he waited with cops and plainclothesmen of various organizations, all conversing cryptically or speaking strange-sounding CB talk into hand radios. Nobody spoke to Karp. He didn’t have a radio.
After ten minutes they heard sirens and a convoy comprised of two NYPD blue-and-whites, a white U.S. Marshal’s Service car, an unmarked car with a red flasher, and a dark van pulled up into the cleared space out front. As men piled out of the vehicles, Karp spotted Pillman getting out of the unmarked car. Several men in plainclothes, who Karp supposed were U.S. marshals, opened the sliding doors of the van. The five hijackers clambered down, first the four men and then the woman, blinking in the sunlight.
Three marshals led them to the building entrance. The cameras popped and whirred; reporters shouted questions. The crowd caught sight of them, and the contingent with signs exploded in cheers. The male hijackers lifted their handcuffed hands above their heads and waved to the crowd, smiling broadly. Karp noticed that they did not clench their fists, a gesture he had always regarded as a sort of international symbol of one’s willingness to deal radically with all problems.
In the lobby Karp got his first close look at the hijackers. The men seemed in good spirits, smiling and talking loudly to one another in a Slavic-sounding language. By contrast, the woman seemed tight-lipped and worn, her blond hair unwashed and pulled tightly back, her eyes hidden behind dark glasses. As their guards took them into an elevator, Karp wondered why they were so laid back. Did they know something he didn’t?
Spotting Pillman entering an elevator, he gave Rothman Pillman’s office number, dashed forward, and got a shoulder in between the closing bronze doors. They stuttered back open and he stepped into the car. “Hello, Elmer,” he said cheerfully. “Looks like our idea worked.”
Pillman exhibited one of his large collection of scowls. “What’re you doing here, Karp?”
“Fine, thanks, how’re you? Well, why I’m here, Elmer, is to interview our suspects in this apparent case of first-degree murder, inform them of their constitutional rights, and take custody of them on behalf of the people.”
Pillman gave a noncommittal grunt. The elevator was crowded largely with FBI personnel, and he did not want to get into a public argument he was not sure of winning. The doors opened and Karp followed Pillman down the hall to his office.
A number of agents were waiting there for instructions from their boss. Like Pillman, they were all wearing casual clothes, this being Sunday. He talked to the men briefly, after which all of them left save one, a good-looking, freckled blond with a little mustache. Pillman turned to him and gestured in Karp’s direction. “Joe, this is Mr. Karp from the New York DA. He wants to interview our prisoners. Karp, Joe Stepanovic. Joe is something of an expert on Croatian affairs, aren’t you, Joe?”
“Good to meet you,” Karp said. “I assume you speak the language, yes? Well, if Mr. Pillman doesn’t mind, we can use you as a translator. OK, here’s my stenographer, let’s get going.”
Pillman looked askance at Rothman, who had just shuffled in to the office. “Wait a minute, Karp, I can’t just let you take this whole thing over. I have to get clearance. Right now you can take yourself and your stenographer the hell out of here. I’ll let you know when you can start.”
“And when would that be?”
“How should I know? I told you, I have to make some calls.”
“Fine. Make your calls. Mr. Rothman and I will wait right here. By the way, to save you some time, should one of your calls be to the U.S. Attorney for the Southern District, I happened to talk on the phone with Mr. Aleman this very morning just before he teed off at Easthampton with Mr. Bloom. He and Mr. Bloom agreed it was essential for me to depose the suspects at the first opportunity.”
Pillman stared at him pop-eyed, his normally pasty complexion enlivened by growing blotches of scarlet on either jowl. Without a word he went into his inner office. As the minutes passed, Karp idly spun the Rolodex on the secretary’s desk. Stepanovic studied the benign face of the president on the wall. Rothman sat in a chair, his stenographic machine held primly on his lap.
When Pillman emerged, he was a new man. A thin-lipped smile split his face, but stopped short of his eyes. “Well, well, Karp, looks like you get to order anything in the store. You seem to be a well-connected and popular young man. Heh-heh.” He wasn’t chuckling, he was just saying “heh-heh.”
Karp smiled his best false smile and tried to look well-connected and popular, two qualities he knew had always eluded him. “Thanks, Elmer. Glad to get any misunderstandings cleared up. So let’s get to work. I think we should start with Karavitch. Lead on.”
The FBI kept a more civilized interrogation room than the ones in the Tombs or the typical precinct: a real oak table and oak chairs, no bare bulbs, and an American flag in the corner, so you could tell you weren’t in communist Russia.
Rothman unlimbered his steno machine. Pillman and Karp sat at the table, and after a few minutes Stepanovic came back with Djordje Karavitch. The two men sat across from Karp and Pillman.
Karavitch looked tired. His cheeks were covered with gray stubble and his white shirt was grimy. Despite this, he carried himself well; his shoulders were squared and his eyes bright. He looked like a general— defeated perhaps, but still a general.
Karp took him in. Not nervous, even a little arrogant: a tough cookie. He began the formal ritual. He introduced himself and the others in the room. He explained Karavitch’s rights under the law, including the right to remain silent and the right to have a lawyer present during questioning. He asked whether Karavitch understood, or whether he needed a translator.
At this the old man allowed himself a slight smile. “I speak English, Mr. Karp. I am a citizen of this country since 1955.” This was said genially, almost patronizingly. In Karp’s experience, arrested suspects who began interviews this way were hard to nail, believing some personal quality or connection rendered them above the reach of the law. They usually cracked when they found out they weren’t. Of course, Karp had to admit to himself, occasionally they really were.
“Fine,” he said. “Now, will you agree to waive your right to a lawyer and answer some questions at this time?”
“That would depend on the questions, would it not?” Karavitch asked. Once again a slight smile crossed his face, making the scar on his lip bounce.
“You may refuse to answer at any time, Mr. Karavitch. This is an entirely informal proceeding, although information taken down here may be used in more formal proceedings, such as arraignment or trial.”
“I see,” Karavitch said. “Then perhaps I can ask you a question in clarification, yes? Why is it that you are here, Mr. Karp? Have I broken the laws of New York? What is your charge? I am arrested, true? Our legal system says you must tell me the charge.”
A very tough cookie, Karp thought. “Surely, Mr. Karavitch, you must realize that there are a large number of serious charges that could be brought against you and your associates. Kidnapping, assault with a deadly weapon, theft—”
“But none of these were committed in New York. In New York all we did was get on a plane. We did not take over the plane until many miles away.”
“It doesn’t matter, Mr. Karavitch. In such a case, the crime is assumed by law to have taken place at the point of origin of the journey.”
Again the smile. “If this is true, then still, it is from the borough Queens that the plane takes off. LaGuardia Airport is not in New York County, true?”
Karp felt himself growing angry. He was not supposed to be fencing with this bastard, especially not on the record. Karp glanced over at Pillman, who was struggling to retain an expression of innocence that would have seemed smarmy on an altarboy. Karp considered the possibility that Karavitch had in some way been coached. But no, there hadn’t been time. The suspects had been taken directly to FBI headquarters from the airport. Besides, who would have coached them? And why?
Karp rearranged his face in a flat mask, and let a full minute of silence go by, while he counted the flecks in Karavitch’s irises. There was no way he was going to lose control of this interrogation. “True,” he said. “Could you state your full name?”
With a series of piercingly brilliant questions, Karp got the suspect to admit his name, address, and occupation, and that he was involved politically with movements to liberate Croatia from the yoke of communism. He seemed willing to spout off about the miseries of the great Croatian people under communism until nightfall or until Rothman ran out of steno tape, but Karp cut him off.
“Right. We’ve established you’re a great patriot, Mr. Karavitch. Now let’s talk about the bomb you placed in locker number 139 in Grand Central Station on or before Friday, September 10, of this year.”
Karavitch stopped smiling. “I placed no bomb.”
“One of your associates, then?”
“No bomb. No one placed any bomb. We have hurt no one, no one!”
“Well, that’s interesting to hear you deny that your bomb hurt anyone, Mr. Karavitch, since I don’t recall suggesting it. And you’re sure that none of your associates did, either? How come? Do you watch them every minute?”
“We are an army. We are under strict discipline.”
“Yes, and you’re the general, right? You are responsible for what your, ah, troops do?”
“Yes.”
“Thank you. I’m glad we were able to establish that. Well, Mr. Karavitch, it turns out that there was a bomb in locker 139, and it exploded and killed a New York City policeman. Now, as you probably know, being so familiar with our legal system, the homicide of a police officer in line of duty is murder in the first degree. You and all of your associates are subject to such a charge, the most serious charge in our legal code. Mr. Karavitch, while I do not make any promises or guarantees whatsoever, it often happens that when people assist the law, the law is more inclined to treat their case favorably. Now, would you tell me please how you obtained the explosives and the other components of the bomb you left in locker 139 on or before September 10, 1976?”
The tick of the stenographic machine went on for a few seconds. Then the room was silent, save for the creaking of chairs and the whir of the ventilation system. All eyes were on Karavitch, who remained as still as stone, his face pale and unreadable. Then he turned to Stepanovic and said something in Croatian. Karp noted that his tone when speaking that language was different from the one he used when speaking English: harder, more like the bark of command. To Karp’s horror, the FBI man answered in the same language, and Karavitch began to reply.
“Stop!” Karp shouted. “Damn, Pillman! What is this? You guys are lawyers. You know the damn translator can’t engage in colloquy with a suspect on the record.” Pillman shrugged: “You can’t get good help these days.” Karp turned to Stepanovic. “What did he say? And what did you say?”
“He said that he didn’t want to—” Stepanovic began mildly, but Karp cut him off. “No interpretations, Stepanovic! Give it to me verbatim.”
The younger man flushed, then continued. “He said, ‘I do not want to answer his questions anymore.’ And I said, ‘Do you want to have a lawyer present? Will you answer questions with a lawyer present?’ Then he said, ‘Perhaps later. Right now I am feeling faint. I am an old—’ Then you cut him off.”
Karp took a deep breath and continued in what he hoped was a level voice. “Thank you, Mr. Karavitch. You may go now. Please bring in Pavle Macek.” Pillman nodded at Stepanovic, who stood and went to the door. Following him, Karavitch looked about as faint as the Chrysler Building.
When they had left, Karp turned to Pillman and said, “What kind of stunt was that, Elmer? No, don’t tell me. But if your boy tries that again, I’m out of here, with the prisoners. I’ll get my own goddamn translator, you understand me?”
Pillman looked away, his eyes heavy-lidded. “You could get boring, Karp, you know that?”
Karp thought of a number of replies to this, but held his tongue as Stepanovic entered the room with Macek. The hijacker seemed excited. His lanky, thin hair was plastered to his scalp, and he stank of sweat.
The questioning began as before. Macek, it turned out, was also a citizen and needed no translator. He was also a Croatian patriot. He also knew nothing about any bomb. The hijacking was a demonstration, no one had been hurt. He resented the accusation that he had had anything to do with the killing of a policeman. He wanted a lawyer.
Cindy Wilson Karavitch identified herself, hid behind her sunglasses, and asked for a lawyer. End of session.
Vlatko Raditch spoke no English, but smiled a lot. He maintained he had boarded the plane as a lark with his buddy, Milo. He thought the whole thing was a joke. Bombs? What bombs? He didn’t ask for a lawyer, but it was obvious to Karp that he needed a nanny.
The last interview was with Milo Rukovina. Karp regarded him hopefully: he had the look of a weak link. During the initial questions, with Stepanovic translating, he ducked his head and removed his thick spectacles and pinched the bridge of his nose and wiped his forehead with a large, soiled handkerchief.
Karp spoke slowly and carefully, trying to control his frustration. He listened carefully to Rukovina’s answers, hoping inanely that the grammar and vocabulary of Serbo-Croatian would spring miraculously into his head.
Karp read him his rights and then led him through a series of questions about the hijacking. Then he asked, almost casually, “Mr. Rukovina, who was responsible for assembling the bomb that you placed in locker 139 in Grand Central Station?” After this was translated, Rukovina shook his head violently from side to side, and a torrent of words poured from his mouth. “I am not, I was never responsible for the technique, for the technical details. I am the political theory, theoretician.” Stepanovic translated. “I have no knowledge in this area.”
Karp nodded, smiling, fixing Milo with his eyes. Then he said, very slowly, “Mr. Rukovina, who does have such knowledge?” Karp caught the “Gospodine Rukovinu—” and then Stepanovic was off with at least two dozen words, delivered rapid-fire in a low, even voice. Milo squeaked back a phrase, and then Stepanovic said something, and then Milo gasped out two words. Karp’s fist crashed down on the table; Milo jumped like a rabbit.
“That’s it! Mr. Rukovina, thank you. You may go now. Murray, mark the time and put away the machine. We’re through. Let’s have those transcribed first thing tomorrow morning, huh?”
Stepanovic left with Milo, and after packing his machine and tapes, so did Rothman. Pillman stood up, stretched, and yawned. “It’s been fun, Karp. Now buzz off, I want to get home. Maybe I can still catch some of the game.”
“You total shit,” Karp said in an even voice. He stood up and loomed over Pillman. “I can’t believe you would deliberately screw up an investigation. I can’t fucking believe it. A cop got killed, and you’re trying to queer the case.”
“Up your ass, Karp. Don’t blame me if you can’t handle an interrogation.”
“Pillman, in my last question there were five words besides the guy’s name. Your boy comes out with the Gettysburg Address, and Milo looks like he swallowed a peach pit. The fucking translator is coaching the suspect.
“Now, I don’t know what’s going on, who’s jerking your chain, but it’s going to come out, sonny. What is it, Pillman? What’s the dirty secret?”
“I don’t have to take this shit from you, Karp. Get the fuck out of my office.”
Karp’s foot lashed out and kicked a chair across the room, a willful abuse of U.S. government property and a misdemeanor offense. Pillman did not arrest him. Then Karp careened out the door and almost collided with the returning Stepanovic in the corridor. The smaller man tried to get by, but Karp blocked his path. “Stepanovic, tell me, what does ‘knees nahm’ mean?”
“What?”
“That’s what it sounded like, the last thing Rukovina said in there, his last two words.”
“Oh, you mean ‘ne znam.’ It means ‘I don’t know.’”
“Thanks, Joe. You know, I think I’m really picking up the language.”
“Oh?” Stepanovic said with an uncertain smile.
“Yeah. Ne znam, huh? He said it, all right. But you said it, too, didn’t you, Joe? Twice, in fact, during your little chat. How about that?”
Down in the lobby, Karp called Marlene’s office, but got no answer. Then he dialed his own office. While he listened to the phone ring he thought about calling Bill Denton and about what he would say. The interrogation had shaken him. Karp knew more about corruption than most. He was an agent of a system that was corrupt in its every limb. But he was not himself a conspirator and was uneasy in the presence of conspiracies. He liked to be able to tell the good guys from the bad guys.
And Denton was a good guy. He had to be. But cops were being bent in this case, and Denton was brass, the highest. The possibility that Denton was not leveling with him, that his concern for bringing Terry Doyle’s murderers to justice was in some way a fraud, gave Karp the screaming jitters. It meant he was absolutely alone. He decided to wait before calling Denton.
The phone in Karp’s office was answered by Roland Hrcany, a fellow assistant district attorney and a friend.
“DA’s office, we doze, but never close.”
“Who’s that? Roland?”
“Hey, yeah, Butch? What’s happening, man?”
“I’m down at the FBI. I just got through interviewing the hijackers.”
“Great! Did they do it?”
“Yes, hijack; no, locker bomb. Very adamant and they want to see a lawyer.”
“Uh-oh.”
“Yeah, right, and there’s more. Listen, Roland, Marlene got you down to do the interviewing?”
“Yeah, we’re having a great time. Got a case of beer and the little TV. We’re watching the Yanks at KC in between; four-two, Yanks, top of the fourth.”
“Who else is there?”
“Besides Marlene, that kid, Tony Harris, and Ray Guma.”
“She got the Goom down to depose witnesses on a Sunday?”
“It was me. I said I’d fix him up with a piece of ass afterward.”
“Thanks, buddy. Roland, do you think we’re the only district attorney’s office in the country with a full-time pimp on the staff?”
“Far from it. Most have nothing but. Hey, here’s Marlene. You want to talk to her?”
“Yeah, but Roland, do me a favor. Arrange to get custody of the hijackers. I’d like them in Riker’s by tonight. I want those guys buried, so nobody gets to them but us. And Roland, this case has weird shit all over it, so use cops you trust, personally. You know what I mean?”
Hrcany laughed. “Yeah. Married ones who play around. OK, will do. Here’s Champ.”
“Hey, cutie. How’s it going?”
“Cutie, my ass. You ought to see this place, Butch. Beer on the floor, the game blasting out of the TV. Roland is showing Guma Polaroid beaver shots of women, and the great connoisseur is making his selection of the evening. For two cents I’d join the Carmelites and piss on all of you.”
“If you did, could we still fuck?”
“Ah, Butch, that’s the kind of sensitive remark that warms a lady’s heart. I got to go. One more interview and then home and self-immolation.”
“Wait, seriously—how’s it going?”
“No problems. We’ve pretty much established that the plane was hijacked, so kidnap, umpteen counts. Assault? There was a lot of yelling and threats, but the passengers and crew were left alone physically. Except Alice Springer, one of the stews. She said this asshole Macek had his hands up her pants for half the flight.”
“Did she come?”
“No, Sensitivo, she did not. She was scared shitless the whole time. Unfortunately, she seems to have accepted Karavitch as her personal savior.”
“What, Stockholm syndrome?”
“Yeah, downtown Stockholm. Apparently, charismatic isn’t the word. The other stew, West, agrees, except she hates the bastard’s guts. By the way, what’s your make? Did you see him?”
“Yeah, I did. I’m inclined to agree too. A tricky, mean, tough son of a bitch. Straight-faced denies all knowledge of the locker bomb, same with his troops. I kind of doubt we’ll roll any of the others if it means putting the blocks to the old bastard. I don’t think anybody wants to fuck with him, including the Federal Bureau of Investigation.”
“Oh? That sounds interesting.”
“Yeah, but a long story. Anything else?”
“Just one item. West also swears she spotted Macek and Mrs. Karavitch slip into the lavatory together during the flight. And she doubts they were washing their hands.”