Badge of Evil

by Bill Stanton

She raised Ayad and Mary on her own. To supplement her teaching salary, she occasionally worked weekends at a local travel agency that catered to Arabs. Most of the trips were visits home to the Middle East or pilgrimages to Mecca. The agency ran several annual hajj specials that kept them very busy in the months leading up to Ramadan.

  “Sometimes I worked a lot of hours,” she said, her voice starting to crack. “But Ayad was a good boy. He looked out for his sister and did whatever I asked him to do. He only got in trouble once. And it wasn’t his fault. Six years ago—”

  “Mom, mom, don’t,” her daughter suddenly said, trying to stop her from telling the story.

  “It’s okay,” she said patiently to Mary, “they’ll find out anyway. When Ayad was seventeen, a senior in high school, he was arrested for drugs. It was a big mistake. He was at a party and someone offered him a ride home. They got pulled over and there was a lot of marijuana in the car. Maybe some other things, too, I’m not really sure. It took a few days, but once the police realized he was telling the truth, that he knew nothing about the drugs, the charges were dropped and they let him go.”

  “That’s it?” Bishop asked. “No other problems? Nothing else we should know about?”

  “No,” she said, suddenly weeping softly. “Nothing else. He was a good student and he worked part-time so he’d have spending money.”

  “Are you okay, Andrea?” Victoria asked, and handed her a tissue. “Do you want to take a break?”

  Bishop snuck a glance at his watch. They’d been talking for nearly an hour.

  “No,” she responded. “I’m all right. I’d just like to finish and go be with Ayad.”

  “We’re almost done,” Bishop said. “You’re doing great. How’d he meet the other suspects? The guys he was in the apartment with?”

  “As I just mentioned, he worked part-time. In his second year at NYU, he took a class in Islamic studies. He’d always asked questions about his father; he was curious, as any child would be about a parent they never really knew. But he never expressed any interest in Islam or Arab culture. He was a typical teenager, focused on the usual things. But once he got to college and he began to pay a little more attention to what was going on in the world, he became interested in his heritage, his roots. So when he took that class, he also took a job at an Islamic bookstore in Bay Ridge. It’s just down the street from the mosque and the apartment where he was . . . where he was shot. He met two of the men at the bookstore. And I think they introduced him to the other two.”

  “Did he ever talk about politics?” Bishop asked. “Was he angry or upset about the situation in the Middle East?”

  “If you’re asking me, Mr. Bishop, if he was a radical, or if he had extreme views, the answer is no. He was very passionate about politics, but what he wanted was peace and coexistence, not hate and war. At school he started an informal student group to promote campus coexistence. He has very close Christian, Jewish, and Muslim friends.”

  “But, Mrs. Jafaari, surely he must’ve—”

  “Must’ve what, Mr. Bishop? Hated America? Wanted to commit jihad? Not Ayad. He loved rock and roll, football, and fast cars. He loved being able to think what he wanted and do what he wanted. Ayad loved being American. He was reading the Koran for the first time. He bought his first kufi. He was going to the mosque on Fridays. And you know what? He was beginning to understand and appreciate his heritage, but it actually sharpened his appreciation for this country. Helped him realize how lucky he was. He was curious, he was learning about who he was for the first time. But he was not a—”

  “I’m sorry,” Bishop interrupted. “It’s just that it’s a little hard to believe he was an innocent bystander in an apartment full of terrorists that got raided by the police.”

  “I don’t know what Ayad was doing in that apartment. But the idea that he would do anything to hurt anyone, that he would do anything that involved bombs, or . . .” Her voice broke and she suddenly couldn’t continue. She was weeping now. After nearly an hour and a half, she’d finally lost her composure.

  “I think that’s probably enough for now, Frank,” Victoria said. “We need to get ready for the press conference anyway.”

  “Sure, I’ve got plenty to get started. When’s the press conference, Vic?”

  “In about fifteen minutes,” she said.

  “Good, then I’m gonna go powder my nose. See you in a few.”

  • • •

  The two men embraced, exchanged pleasantries, and caught each other up on recent events. Then they got down to business. Something would have to be done about the kid, Ayad Jafaari.

  “We can’t risk leaving any loose ends,” one said while sipping a cup of tea. “He’s the only thing that can connect us to the apartment. We should move quickly.”

  “Perhaps it will take care of itself,” the other one said optimistically. “If we let it be, if we just give it a little time, he may simply die from his injuries. We should know within a few days whether or not he’ll survive. If he doesn’t, then it’s our good fortune, we don’t have to do anything.”

  “I’m not willing to leave it to chance. There’s too much at stake. It’s simpler to just clean it up and then we can move forward.”

  The other man nodded and they sat in silence for a few moments.

  Finally he said, “It will be very difficult, you know. Not impossible but certainly difficult. His hospital room is heavily guarded. There are police outside the door and police by the elevator to prevent access to the corridor. Lots of obstacles, very risky.”

  “I understand, but it’s critical that we cover our tracks. I’m confident you’ll think of something. You always do.”

  5

  LUCY WAS ON the number 6 train, heading uptown along Manhattan’s East Side. She’d gotten on the train in SoHo, about a block and a half from her small one-bedroom apartment. It was noon on a bright, cool Saturday, the kind of day she’d once imagined she’d spend jogging in Central Park, prowling exotic boutiques for fabulous clothes, lunching at some chic spot with her girlfriends, and maybe hitting the Met or the galleries downtown in the late afternoon. At least that’s what she’d thought her Saturdays would be like before moving to New York.

  The reality on this Saturday and many others, however, was a little different. She was working. After the Domenico-Brock press conference yesterday, she and A. J. had gone back to the office to map out their strategy. A. J. said he would work on getting access to Brock. He was confident that once he spoke to the police commissioner on the phone, he could at least convince him to have dinner—A. J. had his cell number and knew his favorite restaurant—to discuss the possibility of a profile.

  “Okay,” Lucy said, “then I’ll work on this kid Jafaari and the backstory of the raid.”

  “That’s exactly what I was going to tell you,” A. J. said. “But there’s something else I want you to do as well. Do you know the name Supreme? He’s apparently some kind of music producer.”

  “Seriously?” Lucy said, tossing her hair back with a sexy little flick of her head. “You’ve never heard of Supreme? He’s the founder of Black Ice Records. He’s an entrepreneur like Russell Simmons or Jay Z, only he’s not quite as well-known because he spends a lot less time hanging out with rich white people and mainstream celebrities. He’s a lot more street.”

  “I’m impressed. Way to bring it . . .”

  “You know I love you, A. J., but, really, don’t do that. Even as a joke. You’re like the preppiest guy I’ve ever seen outside of high school.”

  “Sorry. But you don’t have to get all up in my grill about—”

  “A. J. C’mon.”

  “Okay. I’m done now,” he said, laughing. “Anyway, Supreme has left me several voice mails. Serious voice mails.”

  “He has? About what?”

  “Did you see the story about ten days ago on that cop that was found dead in the Hamptons? The NYPD lieutenant? They found him in the bedroom of his house with a hooker who’d been beat
en to death.”

  “Yeah, I remember. The Times buried it in the Metro section and the tabloids only played it for, like, one day. He was a decorated NYPD veteran who’d been suspended because of some kind of investigation by Internal Affairs. His name was Anderson, right?”

  “That’s the one.” A. J. nodded. “Kevin Anderson.”

  “The papers said it looked like a murder-suicide. Like maybe he beat the hooker and then OD’d on drugs. Bizarre.”

  “It was beyond bizarre. And then the story just went away. Which was even more bizarre, given how much pop the tabloids could’ve gotten out of it. It was like the department shut it down or something. Anyway, Supreme claims to know something about it. Something big. Says it’s all very sensitive and explosive. No idea if it’s legit, but it’s worth finding out. Call him and set up a meeting. If nothing else, it’ll be a good exercise for you.”

  “Sure, okay.”

  “Anything else? No? Okay, then we’re done here. Lemme know what happens.”

  • • •

  Lucy had called Supreme as soon as they were finished. She said she was calling on behalf of A. J. Ross, almost like she was his secretary, which worked to get Supreme on the phone.

  “Yo, when’s he wanna sit down?” Supreme asked.

  “Actually, he wants me to come and talk to you first so—”

  “No deal,” he snapped. “You tryin’ to play me? I don’t get to talk to the man himself, I ain’t talkin’. Simple as that, know what I’m sayin’? You want the four-one-one, get me Ross. This shit’s too important. Hey, I ain’t frontin’ here, people could end up dead over this. I could end up dead. And I ain’t about to let that happen, know what I’m sayin’?”

  Lucy remained calm, striking just the right balance of deference and resolve as she patiently explained to Supreme that this was standard operating procedure. “Please,” she assured him, “there’s no disrespect intended here. At any other time, given how important you are, I know A. J. would come see you himself. But surely you can understand that he can’t always personally check out every tip that comes in—especially with everything going on in the city right now. Just as I’m sure you can’t always personally go and listen to every new artist someone gives you a tip about. I’m sure there are times when you have no choice but to send a trusted associate to catch the performance first. Right?”

  Lucy’s gambit with Supreme worked perfectly. His attitude softened and he gave in. “I hope you as fine to look at as you are to listen to,” he said. “C’mon up to my place tomorrow around lunchtime. You know, like one o’clock.”

  So, on a beautiful Saturday, Lucy was on her way to see Supreme. She got off the subway at Fifty-Ninth Street and Lexington Avenue. The street was crowded with shoppers, and Lucy had to maneuver to find a spot where she could pause for a moment and collect herself. She closed her eyes and took a few long, slow, deep breaths. She steadied her breathing, and her mind, which had been racing, gradually began to slow down.

  As she started to walk uptown, she glanced in the windows of Bloomingdale’s and stared at her own reflection. She paused, intending to smooth her clothes and maybe fix her hair a little. Instead, she just stood there, admiring the way she looked—the snug, but not too snug, fit of her dark low-rise pants and the irresistible silhouette her long legs created. Her short dark jacket with its little flared bottom and her man-tailored white shirt were perfect. She had a talent for creating a style that looked unstudied, like she’d grabbed the first things she saw in her closet and put them on. But the effect was irresistible, a casual look admired by both men and women. She got so completely absorbed in her reflection she didn’t notice several harried people bump into her as they rushed by.

  When the moment passed, Lucy was embarrassed and quickly looked around to see if anyone was watching. She felt a little silly, and a little mischievous, at having lost herself that way on a busy street. She took one more deep breath, shook her head side to side a couple of times as if literally trying to shake off the distractions, and started walking again.

  Lucy realized she hadn’t gone shopping in a long time. Though money was tight on her puny salary at the magazine, she tried to treat herself to something nice every once in a while—especially after completing a difficult assignment—and she made a mental note that it was time. She still had some money stashed away from her modeling days that she only touched occasionally, to reward herself with something she really wanted.

  Supreme’s elegant five-story town house was on East Sixty-Eighth Street between Madison and Park Avenues. Lucy had a pretty good sense of the Manhattan real estate market, mostly from the magazine’s frequent coverage, and she was sure the town house was an eight-figure property. Given the location, the size, and the condition, it had to have cost Supreme at least $30 million. A small video camera was perched over the front door and another was focused on the garage. Amazing, Lucy thought. How many people in Manhattan have their own garage? At that moment, she noticed a huge, hulking figure about to get into a bright yellow, $300,000 Maybach.

  “Afternoon,” said the big man. “You Lucy?” She nodded. “The boss is expecting you. Ring the bell and someone will come right down.”

  Less than five minutes later, Lucy was sitting in a beyond-opulent living room with a ten-foot coffered ceiling. The furniture was classic, old-white-money stuffy and uncomfortable, with a few stunning antiques mixed in—the kind of pieces they sold at the auction houses. Who was this guy? she thought. She’d done some background work on him and knew he’d made some real money in the record business, but she didn’t think it was this kind of money. And what was with the furnishings? The place looked like the Astors or the Vanderbilts were living in it. In fact, it probably had been owned by one of New York’s old-line families at one time. You didn’t have to watch BET to recognize this was not the way people who made hip-hop music decorated their houses. Where was all the contemporary stuff? The glass and stainless steel and leopard skin and the huge leather couches as big as minivans? Where were all the giant flat-screen TVs and the grown men wearing thick gold jewelry and brand-new, unlaced $300 sneakers, and sitting around playing Xbox?

  Suddenly, two toddlers came running into the room, chased by a pretty nanny wearing a gray and white uniform. She apologized to Lucy in a German accent and said Mr. Clarence (Supreme’s real name was Clarence Carter; his mother had named him after her favorite blues singer) was running a little late, but he’d be with her shortly. Just then, a trim white man in his forties walked in, wearing a trendy-looking black suit (Prada, Lucy guessed), and introduced himself as Ira Kleinberg. He was Supreme’s business partner.

  “How’re you, Ms. Chapin?” Kleinberg asked with a smile.

  “Please, call me Lucy. I’m—”

  “Mmm, mmm, mmmmm.” Supreme had come into the room and he was staring at Lucy. “Woman, you are a fine sight. Props to A. J. Ross.”

  Supreme was about five feet nine inches with a small but gym-produced muscular build. He had glistening skin that was so smooth it looked like it had just been buffed, and he was wearing a cream-colored velour tracksuit with a black stripe down the side of the pants. He had a small diamond stud in each ear and two big gold rings on each hand but no visible chains around his neck. He carried himself with the slouchy swagger of someone from the streets.

  “How you doin’, girl?” Supreme said to Lucy.

  “Very well, thanks. And you?”

  “Not bad for somebody with a motherfuckin’ target on his head, know what I’m sayin’?”

  “Actually, no, I—”

  “Well, listen up. This is some serious shit I’m talkin’ ’bout. I ain’t playin’. I gotta cover my back on this ’cause I’m in it up to my motherfuckin’ neck, okay?”

  “Okay,” Lucy responded, though she wasn’t at all sure she knew what he was talking about. “If you’re referring to A. J. and me honoring whatever kind of deal we make, you don’t have to worry about that. I assume you called A. J. because yo
u know his reputation.”

  “Girl, I got to worry ’bout everything. My stomach has more knots than the dreads on a Kingston reggae band. This goes bad, it’s my black ass that’s fucked,” Supreme said, his mood suddenly darkening. “Maybe this is a bad idea, man. Shit, maybe I should just forget talkin’. I don’t need to make this worse.”

  Lucy didn’t really know what to say, so she didn’t say anything. The wrong word, a misread facial expression, and Supreme could pull the plug on the whole thing. She looked at Kleinberg, who had been sitting quietly in a big, green velvet wingback chair. He stood up, walked around behind the chair, leaned forward against it on his forearms, and began talking.

  “We’ve gone over this very carefully several times,” Kleinberg said. “And we decided this was the best way to go, right? In fact, it’s about the only way to go. Your life’s on the line here, and unless we can get someone to pay some attention, the danger’s only going to increase.”

  “No doubt,” Supreme said softly, shaking his head back and forth. “No doubt. All right,” he said with somewhat renewed spirit. “I ain’t no fuckin’ little girl, all scared and shit. Let’s do this, let’s rock somebody’s world.”

  Relieved, Lucy reached into her bag without looking down and slowly, almost surreptitiously, removed her notebook and digital recorder.

  “About four weeks ago, I got a call from Big K, telling me he wants to get together. You know, like old times. So I thought he was lookin’ to get up on me, to shake me down for some money.”

  As Supreme talked, Lucy quietly turned on the recorder and placed it on the side table. “No way,” Supreme said almost immediately, reaching for the recorder. “What the fuck? Take all the motherfuckin’ notes you want, but ain’t nobody gonna hear my voice except when I’m talkin’ right now. No playback shit gonna be goin’ on here, know what I’m sayin’?”

  “Sorry,” Lucy said without getting flustered. “We’ll do this however you’re comfortable. Could you start at the beginning? Like I don’t know anything about this story, which I actually don’t. Big K is Kevin Anderson? How do you know him?”