by Bill Stanton
“What the fuck did I tell you the last time you just popped in on me?” Pennetta said. “Didn’t I tell you I had no interest in talking to you? Are you stupid? No wonder you’re a fucking rent-a-cop. I have no intention of discussing department business or anything else with you, got it?” he sneered. “Go catch some cheating husband and stay out of shit that’s way over your head.”
“C’mon, gimme a break, will ya,” Bishop said in a voice that almost sounded like he was pleading. He wasn’t above playing the loser private investigator if it got him what he needed. “I’m just trying to make a living here. All I need are a few answers, man. That’s all and then I’m outta here.”
Bishop and Pennetta were only about thirty yards from the ESU cops, who were tending to their weapons and trying not to look like they were watching the exchange. But it wasn’t working. Instead they were like players on a football team watching their captain argue with some guy from a rival high school. But when Pennetta glanced over his shoulder he noticed one of his guys making no attempt to fake it—he was staring at them intently while talking on a cell phone.
When Pennetta turned back to Bishop, the private investigator thought for a moment that he saw a change in the commander’s expression. He thought Pennetta suddenly looked angrier. But he didn’t waste time dwelling on it. He knew the clock was ticking and Pennetta might blow up at any moment, so he just forged ahead. “Did you read all of the incident reports after the raid in Brooklyn?”
“Who the fuck do you think wrote them up?” Pennetta asked. “What’s your point, Bishop? I don’t have time to play here.”
“The point is why would someone on your entry team hear a fucking telephone go off just before they’re about to hit an apartment full of terrorists?” Bishop knew as soon as he got the question out that he’d struck a nerve. “Didn’t you kill all cell phone activity in the area before going in, to prevent anyone from tipping off the targets?”
“I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about, but you’re finished here,” Pennetta barked, no longer trying to sound measured.
Never satisfied, of course, until he poked the bear hard enough to make him charge, Bishop pointed his stick at Pennetta one more time. “What are you covering up?”
Pennetta pivoted his hips slightly. Bishop read the body language and he knew a left hook was coming. But Pennetta moved surprisingly fast for a man his size, especially with the amount of tactical gear he had on, and he was still able to land a glancing blow to the right side of Bishop’s face. Bishop’s hands were already up to cover his head when Pennetta followed up with a right cross, but the force of the blow knocked him down on one knee. Bishop knew he was in trouble. He was in the right position to deliver a quick body shot to Pennetta’s midsection, but that was useless since he had his heavy vest on. He’d probably just break his hand. While Bishop was capable of benching over three hundred pounds, Pennetta was his equal and then some. He was also seven inches taller and forty pounds heavier. And when two alpha dogs are in the pit fighting, the bigger dog almost always beats the smaller dog.
As Bishop started to get up, Pennetta landed another right, this time flush on the chin and with all his weight behind it. Bishop was out cold by the time he hit the ground. The entire altercation had taken less than forty-five seconds.
• • •
When Bishop started to come to, he slowly opened his eyes and blinked half a dozen times to try to get rid of the blurriness. His face felt like it had been stepped on by a horse. He did a quick audit of the damage. Happily, he seemed to have all his teeth, his jaw didn’t feel broken, and there were no visible signs of blood. He shook his head side to side a couple of times. He was still a little dizzy, but he was starting to get his bearings. Almost fully lucid again, he realized he was sitting in the passenger seat of his car in a parking lot. But it wasn’t the parking lot at Rodman’s Neck. This lot was at least ten times the size of the one at the range. Then it clicked. He was in the middle of the parking lot at Orchard Beach, about a five-minute drive from the range. Someone had obviously dropped him off there. He was just about to slide over to the driver’s side when his cell phone rang.
He didn’t recognize the number but answered anyway.
“It’s Zito” he heard the voice say.
“You really didn’t have to call,” Bishop said, trying to act like he wasn’t hurting. “Flowers would’ve been sufficient.”
“Unbelievable. Always the smart mouth. Meet me at my plane on Long Island. The hangar where you first came out to see me. We’ll discuss everything then.”
“Now you wanna talk to me?” Bishop said.
“Look, just be there in three hours.” The telephone went dead.
Bishop stared at the phone for a couple of minutes and rubbed his aching chin. “Musta been my charming personality that won him over,” he said to himself. “Wait till he really gets to know me.”
19
LUCY HAD TRIED not to seem concerned in front of Yvette Anderson. A. J. always told her not to reveal anything when she was doing an interview. It was more effective to be stoic, he’d say, not to show much emotion to the person she was interviewing. It was okay to appear friendly, sympathetic, and understanding; that was all part of the seduction, part of making someone comfortable and eager to talk. But let the emotions come from them.
As Lucy said good-bye to Yvette and drove down the driveway and out the dirt road, though, she was a little rattled, and her anxiety went up another couple of notches once she got out on the main road and thought she saw the sedan Yvette had pointed out at the house following her several car lengths behind. She called A. J., hoping for advice but also just wanting to hear the reassuring sound of his voice. Unfortunately, the call went straight to voice mail.
Then she called Bishop . . . no luck there either. She tapped her fingers nervously on the steering wheel and looked in the rearview mirror. She was sure the car was still there. Why would anyone follow me? she wondered. Was it her connection to Supreme? The shooting at Roxx? Her trip to the Anderson house? As she ticked off the list in her head, she almost started to laugh. She realized it could be any of them, or all of them. She knew at that moment, in a way she hadn’t before, not even when she was arrested, that this was real. When she used to fantasize about being a reporter in New York City, this was what she pictured—drama, intrigue, dealing in sensitive information, upsetting people in power, and, yes, even a little danger. It made Lucy think of her father, who often used the old cliché “Be careful what you wish for.”
She looked at the speedometer—she was doing eighty. Lucy quickly slowed down and checked the mirror again. The car that had been tailing her was gone. That’s weird, she thought. Maybe she’d been mistaken; maybe there was never a car there in the first place. Could she have imagined it? Relax, Lucy told herself. Breathe slowly and evenly, slowly and evenly.
It was late in the day and she was tired and hungry. A wave of exhaustion washed over her. Her limbs felt heavy and weak. Maybe the past few days had taken more of a toll than she’d realized. The last thing she wanted to do was deal with the long drive back to the city. She opened her window to get some air, hoping that would help her snap out of it. She decided to stop, get a bite to eat, and call one of her friends, who was dating a big-shot divorce lawyer with a house on Shelter Island. She’d stayed there once before, and since it was the off-season, she figured the house was probably empty and she could stay there overnight, then head back into the city in the morning.
“Hey, Sue,” Lucy said when her friend answered. “What’s up, girl?”
“Lucy, I’m good. How’re you? Everything okay?”
“Good, good. Listen, I need a favor. I’m out in the Hamptons working on a story. It’s getting kinda late, I’m tired, and rather than drive back to town, I was hoping maybe I could crash at your friend’s house on Shelter Island.”
“Absolutely. You sure everything’s okay? You sound a little, I don’t know, stressed or something.�
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“No, no, I’m fine, just tired and focused on this story I’m working on. We’ll catch up in the next couple of days when things settle down a little.”
“Okay. Lemme give you the security code. It’s the same for the gate and the front door. Type ‘Atticus Finch’ on the keypad, all lowercase.”
“Seriously?”
“Don’t even ask. There’s a key under the flowerpot next to the front door. Fridge is probably empty, but the liquor cabinet’ll be stocked.”
“You’re the best. Speak to you in a couple of days. Love you.”
“Hey, love you too.”
Lucy pulled into a diner in Westhampton, parked the car, and dragged her weary body inside. She ordered a cup of coffee, grilled chicken, and a Greek salad.
After dinner and two more cups of coffee, she was happy to get back in the car, especially when she looked around and didn’t see anyone following her. As she was driving to Sag Harbor to catch the ferry to Shelter Island, Lucy kept the window down a little for air, clicked Gary Clark Jr. on her iPod to up the energy level, cranked the volume, and bounced in her seat to the stunning guitar riffs.
She almost didn’t hear the phone ring. It was Bishop. He apologized for not being reachable earlier, explaining that he was on the phone with his investigators, who’d found out some very interesting stuff that he would fill her in on later. Lucy was surprised at how happy she was to hear from Bishop. She gave him the highlights from her time with Yvette Anderson and then mentioned that she was on her way to the Shelter Island ferry. “My friend’s dating this lawyer who’s got a house there,” she said. “The lawyer’s kind of a dick, an arrogant gasbag, but he won’t be there and the house is amazing.”
Bishop started getting a little pumped. He thought this was leading to an invitation. He didn’t know Lucy that well, but he did know it was out of character for her to get excited about material things—especially a house that was probably an ostentatious, overdone monument to the lawyer’s money and ego. He could also tell, from the sound of her voice when she told him her suspicions about being followed, that she was worried. Sure enough, she made him an offer.
“Wanna come out and keep me company?” she asked in an irresistibly girlish voice. “I could use somebody with a big club to protect me.”
“Well, when you put it that way . . .” Bishop was already headed in that direction to meet Pennetta at the airport, but even if he hadn’t been, there was no way he’d have turned down an offer like this. “I’m not sure what time I’ll get there,” he said, “I gotta make a stop first. But, yeah, I’ll come out and keep you company. Text me the address so I can put it in the GPS.”
“Just remember,” Lucy said, “the ferry stops running at midnight. And I promise I’ll make up a room for you all nice and cozy. See you later.”
Bishop took that as shorthand for “Sorry, you’re not getting laid tonight.” He hung up the phone and laughed.
• • •
As Lucy said good-bye, she was already on the ferry sitting in her car. The boat was fairly small and held, at most, fifteen cars. It was early evening, and given that it was the off-season, the ferry was only about half full. She did a quick scan, looking for the dark-colored sedan she thought had been following her earlier. No sign of it.
If she’d had a more experienced, trained eye, like that of Bishop or A. J., she would have profiled all seven cars on the ferry. She would have seen the old sea salt in the pickup full of lobster pots; the mom in the Subaru station wagon with her three children; what appeared to be a young college student in a beat-up Toyota. And she would’ve seen two guys wearing jeans and heavy winter coats in a late-model Jeep Cherokee. They were the second surveillance team.
• • •
Bishop got to the Long Island airport early and circled the hangar where Pennetta kept his plane to make sure the meeting wasn’t some kind of setup, then parked his car facing the gate so he could see everyone going in and out. Bishop’s jaw still hurt and he had a dull headache. But there was work to do. He pulled out a legal pad to make some notes. He put down “Andrea Jafaari” and then drew a box around her name. From there, he drew a line that ended at a question mark and another box. In the box he wrote, Why kill son, daughter, and self? Honest. Strong willed. Hardworking. Good mother. He drew another line leading to another box, this one with Ayad’s name. Motivation to become a radical? How did he die? What drug was used? Bishop flipped the page over and put Kevin Anderson’s name in a box. In the connecting box with the question mark he put, Corrupt cop. Accomplices? Murder-suicide? Get tox report, compare to tox report from Jafaaris. He flipped the page again and wrote down, Raid in Brooklyn. Have Victoria subpoena Internal Affairs incident report as well as additional reports or files on any of the team members involved in the raid.
Bishop knew he was all over the place. His jaw was throbbing, and trying to make sense of the information made his headache worse. Any one of these investigations presented a mountain of questions and obstacles, some of which seemed almost insurmountable. But he was determined to figure it out, to find the connective tissue he knew in his gut was there. A. J. was right; these events were not random.
He was staring blankly at his boxes and question marks when Pennetta pulled up in his red Silverado. He flashed his high beams at Bishop and then pointed toward the hangar. Bishop followed him in and they parked.
Pennetta was out of uniform. He was wearing jeans, an L.L.Bean-style twill shirt, and work boots. He was staring at Bishop’s slightly swollen, discolored jaw when he walked over. “You look disappointed you didn’t do more damage,” Bishop said with a bit of attitude.
“I don’t blame you for being pissed,” Pennetta told him. “I’m sorry I had to do that, but there’s a leak in my unit. I had to put on a little show to make it clear that I want no part of you. I’m not sure who the information’s going to, but I have my suspicions. This goes way beyond bullshit gossip and interdepartmental politics. Cops are being put in danger. My cops.”
“Any idea why?” Bishop asked.
“Not yet. But before I share anything else with you,” Pennetta said, folding his arms across his chest and leaning against his truck, “I need some disclosure. Why’re you doing this, Bishop? From what I hear, you’re just a fucking mercenary. The only thing you care about’s yourself. And even though you were on the job, you could give a fuck about your fellow officers.”
“I’m not gonna lie to you,” Bishop said, trying to look sincere, “you’re right. You pretty much got me pegged. My sympathetic, feel-bad-for-the-other-guy, help-the-underdog days are long fucking gone. And so are my days of bleeding NYPD blue. If it weren’t for Chief Fitzgerald, the department would’ve kicked me to the curb without a pension. And now even he’s turned on me. It’s a cold and ugly world out there, and we’re in it all alone.” Bishop rubbed his sore jaw with his right hand.
“When I was a rookie,” he continued, “my first partner used to tell me, ‘You want a loyal friend, get a fuckin’ puppy, ’cause you ain’t gonna be able to count on anyone else.’ He always upset me when he said that. But I just thought, Okay, he’s a disillusioned, cynical old crank. Turns out he was right. So to answer your question, yeah, I’m in it for the buck. And if you’re gonna tell me you believe in all the bullshit about how the NYPD is a family, how the department really cares, then maybe you’re not as sharp as I thought you were. It’s all about ambition and politics and collars for dollars. The mayor wants to get reelected, the police commissioner wants to keep his job, the brass wanna get promoted. And the bad guys get locked up because it serves those ends. But the normal balance, fucked up as it is, has been thrown off. I don’t know exactly what’s going on, but something’s up.” He thought he saw Pennetta’s face soften just a little.
“Bad shit happens, I get it,” Bishop said, warming to his task. “Decent people screw up. Bad people hurt decent people and the good guys rarely win. There is no reward for doing the right thing. Not in this life.
God or some fucking cosmic force wreaks havoc indiscriminately and everyone suffers. It’s all as random as lottery numbers. I accept that. So I’ve adapted. I’ve minimized my expectations. I expect nothing from people so I’m rarely disappointed. It’s all about small victories and learning to pick your spots. I ignore the endless open pit of human suffering. I find happiness where I can. A great pair of tits, solving a difficult case.
“But,” he said, holding up one finger as if asking Pennetta to wait another moment before drawing any conclusions, “all of this enables me to maintain a certain balance in my world. A kind of homegrown equilibrium. But every once in a while, some prick shows up and does something that throws everything out of balance. A prick like Brock, who marches around doing whatever the fuck he wants, breaking all the rules, pissing on everybody beneath him, just because he can. When that kind of thing happens, I will put my beliefs aside, go off the clock, and do what I have to do.”
• • •
Pennetta wasn’t quite sure what to think, but he felt Bishop was trying to be honest. And he really didn’t have much choice. He couldn’t even trust anyone in his own department, so he decided to risk talking to Bishop.
He began with the Brooklyn raid. He explained how the whole thing was wrong, how the operation was micromanaged by Brock from the beginning, and none of the standard regulations or procedures were followed. ESU was only notified the actual day of the raid that they’d be hitting an apartment full of suspected terrorists that night. Brock kept the whole thing under wraps, not telling anyone anything. They had strict orders not to inform the Joint Terrorism Task Force, the NYPD’s Intelligence Division, or the deputy commissioner in charge of terrorism operations. No one knew the source of the tip or how long the suspects had been under surveillance. Every order, every piece of the planning, and every decision, no matter how minor, had gone through Brock. Worst of all, perhaps, was the commissioner’s demand to be part of the entry team. Pennetta said that when he made the mistake of venting to his men, he heard from Brock less than half an hour later. The commissioner pulled him to the side to address his specific concerns, solidifying the fact that one of his own men was whispering in Brock’s ear. There had been additional evidence of the leak since the raid.