by Bill Stanton
Brock had come to love telling his personal story. And he was really good at it. He knew exactly when to pause, when to look sad, and when to appear triumphant to get the maximum impact. He could even produce tears. Over the years he’d refined his technique, added a few theatrics, and manipulated the facts to make an already moving tale even more dramatic. He never tired of watching people react, especially people like Lynn Silvers, upper-class white people, who, by being with the rough-edged Brock, seemed to get a little thrill from feeling like they were close, somehow, to the dangerous underbelly of the city. (New York’s police commissioners had always found themselves condescended to by the city’s elite. The prevailing attitude was “We’ll invite you to our dinner parties as long as you have the job, but don’t get too comfortable; we know you’re still the help.”)
In truth, Brock’s life was an amazing, only-in-America tale of success. The story of a kid born with nothing—no money, no connections, and no real home life—who triumphed through hard work, cunning, and determination. How could people not be moved by the story of a lost, parentless kid, a troubled teen who eventually finds himself, straightens out, and somehow years later ends up running the NYPD, the largest, most sophisticated police force in the world, with nearly forty thousand cops and a yearly budget of more than $6 billion?
Brock’s success was made still more remarkable by the fact that he’d only served on the force for thirteen years, and hadn’t come anywhere close to the elite upper ranks of the NYPD before Domenico had named him police commissioner. This meant that unlike past commissioners, he didn’t have to struggle to understand what the average street cop was thinking, because he’d just been a street cop himself.
He cleverly turned this into a management strategy only several weeks after he’d been sworn in. Brock was at home one night when he got a call at two in the morning that every big-city police commissioner dreads. A white cop on routine patrol had shot and killed a sixteen-year-old black kid on the roof of an apartment building in the projects. From the preliminary details it didn’t look good. No weapon was recovered. The kid appeared to be unarmed. After going to the scene and listening to the reports from his command staff, Brock held a press conference barely twelve hours after the shooting. He didn’t hesitate, he didn’t equivocate, and he made no attempt to gloss over what happened. Looking directly into the TV cameras he said it was, based on the information he had, a bad shooting. Everyone was shocked. It was the last thing they’d expected to hear from him. The accepted wisdom, given his reputation, was that he’d back the cops no matter what. His straight talk defused a potentially explosive racial incident that easily could’ve rocked the entire city.
His only problem was the cops. There were rumblings that they felt betrayed, that their guy had sold them out. Again, striking just the right note, he did what he thought he would’ve wanted the police commissioner to do when he was a cop. Rather than try to patch things up by telling his troops he understood the difficulties they faced, he’d show them. The hapless cop who shot the kid had been on a routine vertical patrol. Cops hated doing these. Done at all the public housing projects around the city, vertical patrols required a cop to enter an apartment building and go floor by floor, using the stairs, to look for trouble. The patrol ended with a search of the roof. It was a high-risk, low-reward activity. The buildings had too many dark corners, too much low-level drug activity, and lots of potential for trouble. Many of the cops were actually scared, or at least jittery, when doing these. And while they weren’t supposed to, most of them walked these patrols with their gun drawn and cocked at their side.
So Brock told one of his aides he wanted to do a vertical patrol. Unannounced. Find the most dangerous apartment building in the city, Brock said, and that’s where we’ll do it. Two weeks after the press conference about the Brooklyn shooting, cops around the city heard something over their radios one night that they’d never heard before: Car one is in the three-oh for a 1075-V. Repeat, car one is in the three-oh for a 1075-V. Car one was the commissioner’s car and the three-oh was the Thirtieth Precinct in Harlem. Within minutes, word had spread to cops all over the city. “Holy shit, the PC’s doing a vertical.”
The commander of the Thirtieth Precinct, who’d been notified with barely enough time to get to the building just as the commissioner was about to hit the stairs, was having what one of Brock’s aides called a major sphincter pucker. Somehow he figured if anything happened to the commissioner it’d be his career.
“Jesus, settle down,” the aide told him. “Stop acting like a little girl. The PC’s kicked more ass, been in more gunfights, and shot more bad guys than everyone else on those stairs combined. Nothin’s gonna happen. I’m telling you, the guy’s got eyes in the back of his fuckin’ head or somethin’. Remember Magic Johnson, the basketball player? He could see shit on the court nobody else saw. Saw stuff behind him, on the sides. Made these unbelievable passes. That’s what the PC’s like.”
• • •
Showered and dressed, Brock strode into Lynn’s kitchen to grab a cup of coffee. She was sitting at the table looking at the Sunday papers. “Hey, baby,” he said, and smiled at her.
“What’s up for today?” she asked, cradling her coffee mug with both hands.
“Still seems pretty quiet, so I’m gonna pick up Oz and head over to Fat Jack’s Steakhouse for lunch with my guys. You know, have a little celebration.”
“He gives me the creeps,” she said.
“Who, Oz?”
“Yeah. What the fuck is the deal with him, anyway?”
Brock laughed. “That’s part of his appeal. Guy’s a rock. More loyal and dependable than anyone I’ve ever met.”
“He still makes my skin crawl. I hate the way he just looks at me with those empty eyes. Is he a cop or what?”
“He works directly for me, okay? That’s all you need to know.”
“Fine. By the way, don’t you think it’s a little premature to celebrate? Aren’t you worried about jinxing things?”
“Not at all,” Brock said, breaking off a piece of muffin from a plate on the table. “None of the guys except Oz even know the White House is supposed to call today. I mean, they’ve heard the rumors about the Homeland Security job, but I haven’t said anything. They think we’re celebrating the raid. You know, killing the terrorists.”
“The papers say the surviving kid’s mother’s hired Victoria Cannel, and she’s everywhere proclaiming his innocence. Says he’s no terrorist and she intends to sue the city for fifty million dollars.”
“Well, it’s a free country. Even for the mother of a terrorist. Who was that guy you had dinner with on Friday night at Giovanelli’s?”
“What? What guy?” she said, appearing startled.
“C’mon, Lynn. Don’t fuck with me. The blond guy. You sat at a table by the end of the bar. You had the Dover sole and he had the lobster risotto.”
“How do you—?”
Brock cut her off. “Hey, I asked you who he was!”
Lynn still looked startled, but she managed to compose herself. “He’s an agent. He represents a writer I’m thinking about signing to write for my site. We were—”
Brock cut her off again. “I gotta go,” he said. “I’m already late.” He leaned in like he was going to kiss her good-bye and said quietly in her ear, “Whatever that is between you and him, it’s over. Understand me? I don’t wanna have to fuckin’ tell you again. You need to see him, do it in the office. I’ll call you later.”
9
A. J. PARKED HIS Ducati on Sixty-Seventh Street near the corner of Columbus Avenue. He locked his helmet to the bike and ran his fingers through his hair over and over again as he started walking toward the Equinox health club just up the block. A. J. wore his hair, which was fairly thick, at a medium length, and it would get matted down by his helmet and look terrible. As long as it wasn’t really hot and he wasn’t sweating, though, A. J. was able to puff his hair up enough, using his hands, so it looked
more or less okay.
It was nine forty-five on Monday morning and A. J. was on his way to try to find private investigator Frank Bishop. He’d never met Bishop, but he knew his reputation as a wild man and a world-class bullshit artist. Always doing his homework, A. J. had called a couple of people to see what else he could find out. “You wanna know what kind of PI he is?” asked one cop A. J. knew pretty well. “He couldn’t find a fuckin’ black guy in Harlem. Wait a second. Let me rephrase that in a more politically correct way. Bishop couldn’t find Mickey fuckin’ Mouse in Disneyland.” A. J. also called one of the city’s most successful investigators, a former detective he’d written about, who’d founded a security firm that grossed more than $30 million a year. Bishop had worked for the guy right after he left the police force. “Shit,” the investigator said, laughing, “I sent that crazy fuck out on a routine surveillance nine years ago and I’m still waitin’ for him to come back.”
But A. J. was sure there had to be more to Bishop than what he’d been hearing. Otherwise, why would any of the city’s top lawyers hire him, let alone a hypercompetitive, win-at-any-cost pit bull like Victoria Cannel? Victoria had called A. J. on Sunday afternoon to offer him an exclusive on her client, Ayad Jafaari. She promised complete access to the defense team, the kid’s family, and possibly Ayad himself if and when he regained consciousness. Victoria was an egomaniac and a relentless self-promoter, but she’d always been straight with A. J. She never lied about the facts of a case or intentionally tried to mislead him. And she never blatantly, piggishly made it about her. She wanted her share of face time, of course—all the premier criminal defense attorneys were prima donnas with egos that would embarrass a rock star—but she never forgot that ultimately it was about the client.
A. J. had written a cover story not long ago about a cop who’d been convicted of brutalizing a suspect. There were four cops accused in the incident. One of them confessed and claimed he acted alone. The victim, however, swore that one cop grabbed him from behind and held him while the other guy beat him. He never saw the second cop’s face. A. J.’s copiously reported 7,500-word piece laid out a convincing case that the wrong cop had been convicted of holding the victim during the beating. As a result, prosecutors reopened the case. When the piece initially came out, the wrongly convicted cop’s lawyer called A. J.
“I just read your story,” the lawyer said. “And you gotta be fuckin’ kidding me.”
“What?” A. J. blurted instinctively. He was caught completely off guard by the lawyer’s reaction.
“After everything I did for you, all the time I gave you, that’s the thanks I get? Where the fuck am I in the story? Where’s my picture? There’s like one quote from me in the whole goddamned thing.”
“I’m sorry,” A. J. said, his voice dripping in sarcasm. “I don’t know what I was thinking. I had the mistaken impression that this was about your client, the guy who might spend the next fifteen years in jail for something he didn’t do.”
The lawyer just didn’t get it. Victoria Cannel, on the other hand, was smart enough to know that if she was honest and helpful, her cases would get better coverage, and over the long haul, she’d get plenty of ink as well.
During their brief conversation, Victoria insisted that Jafaari was not a terrorist. She wasn’t sure yet about the four dead guys, she said, but her client was an innocent kid in the wrong place at the wrong time. She suggested A. J. start by talking to Bishop, to get a feel for the case and what they had. Though she wasn’t able to reach him, she told A. J. that most mornings Bishop was at the gym. “The one on the West Side,” she said, “where all the celebrities go.” A. J. didn’t mention that he was just beginning to work on a piece about Police Commissioner Brock. No reason to. Both subjects were huge stories, and if the threads became intertwined, so be it. He’d go, as he always did, wherever the story took him.
• • •
A. J. spotted Frank Bishop almost as soon as he walked into the fully carpeted and mirrored gym. It was easy. Bishop was the tannest guy in the room, and in this room, that was saying something. The private eye was sitting at the edge of a flat bench, resting between sets. A. J. watched from a distance as he wiped his face, took a deep breath, and lay back down to do some more reps.
Bishop had 275 pounds on the bar, a considerable amount of weight to bench-press even for an accomplished lifter. It was the kind of weight that required complete focus. Bishop wanted to do another eight reps. He was on his third rep when, out of the corner of his eye, he noticed A. J. hovering off to the side. His concentration was totally broken. With a surge of adrenaline, Bishop threw the 275 pounds back onto the rack.
“Sorry,” A. J. said as Bishop was getting up. “I guess I should’ve hung back farther until you were finished.”
“Gee,” Bishop said through his heavy breathing, “ya think?”
“My name is A. J. Ross, I’m—”
“I should’ve known,” Bishop said, cutting him off. “You’re the reporter. Victoria left me like six messages last night and another bunch this morning. She says you’re important. So far I’m not impressed.”
“Fair enough,” A. J. said, picking up a towel and handing it to Bishop.
“What is it I’m supposed to do for you anyway?” Bishop asked as he started walking toward the locker room. “Whaddaya want?”
“Information. I’m looking at doing a story about this kid Jafaari and the police raid on the apartment. I need material. I need to know what you know. I need to know what really happened.”
“What makes you think anything happened other than what’s been reported? If you’re here to write some story that trashes the cops, I’m not gonna—”
“Whoa, slow down,” A. J. said, putting up his hands. They were by Bishop’s locker now, and as the private investigator peeled off his sweaty T-shirt, A. J. was astonished at the size of Bishop’s chest and arms. “Look, that’s not what I do. You obviously know nothing about me.”
“I know you’re a reporter, which in this case may be enough.”
“Not much of an investigator, are you?”
“First you come in here and interrupt my workout, then you tell me you’re gonna dump on the cops, and now you’re insulting me. I can see why you’re a big-deal reporter. Must be your winning personality.”
“All right, look,” A. J. said, clearly exasperated. “Why don’t we start this whole thing over?”
“Okay by me,” Bishop said, taking off his shorts. “But unless you want to wash my back, why don’t we reconvene in the café after I shower?”
About twenty minutes later, a freshly scrubbed Bishop showed up dressed in his uniform: black Dan Post lizard-skin boots, snug Seven jeans, a skintight black Armani T-shirt, and a black custom-tailored blazer with a black pocket square. He grabbed a chair and sat down heavily at the small table where A. J. was drinking coffee and reading e-mail on his phone.
“How ’bout a cup of coffee?” A. J. asked him.
Bishop looked at his $5,700 Panerai GMT watch to check the time. “Sorry, we gotta go. Maybe we’ll grab some coffee in Brooklyn.”
“Brooklyn, who’s going to Brooklyn?” A. J. asked.
“We are. I’ll explain on the way.”
• • •
Outside the gym, Bishop told A. J. they were going to Bay Ridge. “First, to the neighborhood where the raid went down, and from there to the local hooker bar.” A. J. cracked up at this. “What?” Bishop asked. “What’s so funny?”
“I think you mean hookah bar. H-o-o-k-a-h,” A. J. said with a big grin. “Not ‘hooker.’ ”
“What the fuck?” Bishop snapped. “Okay, egghead, I’ll tell you what. Why don’t we race to Brooklyn? If you win, you get full access, no bullshit. If I win, you get to buy me dinner and the opportunity to convince me that I should help you. Where’s your bike?”
“What bike?”
“That”—Bishop pointed at A. J.’s chest—“is a vintage Ducati jacket, and those”—he pointed
down at A. J.’s feet—“are high-performance Sidi motorcycle boots. You’re on a bike. Where is it?”
“And they told me you couldn’t find Mickey Mouse in Disneyland. My bike’s right over there,” A. J. said, motioning across the street to his gleaming S4R S Monster, with its Testastretta V-twin engine. “But as far as the race goes, it’s pointless. Victoria already promised me full access.”
“If we’re gonna work together, I want to get some idea of who I’m gonna be spending my time with. I want to see if you’ve got any balls. But I guess—”
“What’s the address, caveman?” A. J. asked abruptly as he started putting on his helmet.
“6807 Fifth Avenue,” Bishop said as he went to his Porsche Boxster S, parked two cars behind A. J. After he’d pulled out into the street and waited at the light at the corner of Sixty-Seventh and Columbus Avenue, A. J. rolled up alongside him, lifted his face shield, and asked, “Who says go?”
Bishop was looking at A. J. and listening to the low, fearsome rumble of the Ducati’s engine. At the edge of his peripheral vision he could see the light they were sitting at turn yellow. Just as it was turning red, Bishop yelled, “I do. Go!” With that, the private detective slammed on the accelerator, screeched through the red light, and just missed getting walloped by oncoming traffic. A. J. was forced to sit and wait for the light to change.
Working the emergency brake, Bishop made a power turn onto Sixty-Fifth Street, heading east toward Central Park. At the entrance to the park he saw a cop directing traffic. Stopping momentarily, he flashed his ID and gave him fifteen seconds’ worth of small talk before mentioning the commanding officer of the Twentieth Precinct (which handled the park) and asking for a small favor. He then banged fists with the cop, shot him a little salute, and, with a big grin, streaked across the park.
• • •
About sixty seconds later A. J. came across Sixty-Fifth Street on his bike and the cop waved at him to pull over. “Can I see your license and registration?” the cop said.