by Bill Stanton
He told Bishop that he too had noticed when reviewing the reports that one of his men on the stairs heard a telephone ring possibly as much as two minutes before they hit the door. He went to the commanding officer in charge of logistics. “Weren’t all cell repeaters in that area shut off?” he demanded. “Shouldn’t everyone within a four-block radius, not just the terrorists, have been effectively shut down?” Pennetta said the CO got very nervous and said, “Yes, everything was shut down and no telephone should have been working.”
When Pennetta went to the property clerk’s office to go through Ayad Jafaari’s belongings, there was no cell phone with his things, nor was there one listed in the inventory of his possessions. But one of his guys told him the kid definitely had a phone in the apartment. It was in his pocket when they checked him after the shooting stopped to see if he was still breathing. Pennetta did a little digging, pulled the phone records, and discovered that Jafaari did receive a call just about five minutes before ESU boomed the apartment door. “Someone tipped those motherfuckers off,” Pennetta told Bishop angrily, “right before we breached. Someone put my guys in danger.”
• • •
Bishop’s adrenaline had begun to pump while he listened to Pennetta. This was the commander of the NYPD’s Emergency Service Unit, the man in charge of the department’s most elite cops, spilling about serious violations of procedure, leaks, screwups putting cops at risk, and possible corruption, all related to the biggest, most celebrated bust in years.
“Commander,” Bishop told him, clearly unable to contain his excitement, “we need to get a cup of coffee and talk.”
20
THE RIDE TO Shelter Island on the South Ferry was only about five minutes. Once there, Lucy quickly found her way to Route 114 and she was at the house in about fifteen minutes. At the front gate, she punched in the security code and drove down what seemed like several hundred yards of gravel driveway that ended at the huge house. It was fairly secluded by the significant setback from the road, tall hedgerows on two sides, and a backyard that literally spilled into the ocean. Lucy found the key under the flowerpot and let herself in, entering the alarm code as she shut the door behind her.
She stepped out of the foyer and into the soaring two-story living room, where the cold-looking furniture and the antiseptic modern art made the already gymnasium-like room seem even more cavernous. Lucy was no authority, but she knew a little about painting, and this stuff was mostly dreadful—expensive, but dreadful. The living room had a bunch of black, European-looking leather sofas, chairs, and ottomans, and an enormous flat-screen TV. She was ready to settle in on one of the black leather sofas, open a bottle of wine, and maybe watch a movie while she waited for Bishop to show. But first she wanted to shower. It had been a long day. She figured she’d borrow a pair of sweats—her friend said to take whatever she needed from the closet—to get comfortable. She also really wanted to talk to A. J.
• • •
Fitzgerald felt his phone start to vibrate.
“Whaddaya got?” he asked, recognizing the number immediately.
“We followed her to some giant fucking house on Shelter Island,” one of Fitzgerald’s detectives said. “You should see this place, Chief. Unbelievable. Must belong to some guy who’s hosing her. Anyway, I’m guessing she’s in for the night at this point. We’ve been sitting on the house for, like, an hour. We’re about twenty-five yards or so from the main gate, and Sherlock here is bitching he’s hungry and tired,” he said, jabbing a finger at his partner, who was sitting next to him in the Jeep Cherokee.
“Jeez, act like a professional,” Fitzgerald said. “Okay, call it night. I’ll talk to you in the morning. Good work.”
• • •
Fitzgerald called Commissioner Brock. “That’s a coincidence,” the commissioner said. “I was just about to call you. Listen, Chief, bring in your men. At least for tonight. I don’t wanna risk having them spotted. That would be a bad thing.”
The chief didn’t tell Brock that his guys were already on their way home. And Brock didn’t tell the chief the real reason he wanted Fitzgerald’s men gone. He picked up the phone and called Oz. “You have the location, right? Good, let’s get this taken care of tonight.”
• • •
After having a cup of coffee with Pennetta at a diner near the airport, Bishop knew he was at least headed down the right road. He wasn’t quite sure where it was taking him, but he figured that would come in time. There were still too many unanswered questions. But even with the questions, it was possible to begin putting some of the pieces of the puzzle together. At least it would’ve been if Bishop had been able to put aside his personal feelings and his long-standing loyalties. He essentially refused to recognize what was taking shape right in front of his eyes. Despite all of his tough talk about the NYPD and its failings, he was still connected to the police department in a deep and meaningful way. In his heart he was still a cop and probably always would be. So he simply couldn’t admit the link between Kevin Anderson, Supreme, the Brooklyn raid, and the deaths of the Jafaari family. At least not yet. Because it looked like all roads were leading to the police department—and specifically to Brock and Fitzgerald.
Bishop jumped back on the LIE and took it to the last exit heading toward Greenport. It was starting to get late. He knew he was getting old since he was looking forward to a good night’s sleep rather than taking a shot at coaxing Lucy into the sack. When would he ever have a better opportunity? A Saturday night, just the two of them all alone in a huge house on Shelter Island? She was feeling a little vulnerable . . . Okay, he thought, I better get a second wind here. He called Teresa, the live-in maid at his house in the city, and asked her to make sure she fed and walked Gus and Woody. It was, as always, a negotiation. He had to promise to take her to Target and Walmart on Long Island over the next weekend.
• • •
As A. J. walked back to his car from the jail at Rikers, he felt like he wanted to grab somebody by the throat. He was furious about Supreme’s murder. He didn’t believe it was the result of a screwup. The only way a high-profile inmate like Supreme could’ve been shanked was if somebody in a position of authority wanted it to happen.
A. J. got in the car and turned on his phone. Though it had only been a matter of hours since he’d had brunch with Reverend Watters in Harlem, it felt like a different day. He had fifteen voice mails and too many texts and e-mails to bother counting. They’d all have to wait. He called Nikki to make sure everything was okay. He told her not to wait up and to kiss the kids good night for him since he’d probably be late. Then he tried Lucy and Bishop. He didn’t reach either one of them. He wanted to tell Lucy about Supreme before she heard it on the news, and he wanted to find out how she did with Anderson’s wife.
A. J. knew what he had to do. He needed a face-to-face with Brock. Maybe he could push a few buttons and get the commissioner to inadvertently give something up. Experience had taught him over the years that the more arrogant the subject, the easier they were to manipulate. He decided to head into the city. A call to the commissioner’s office gave him nothing. Brock wasn’t in. Why would he be on a Saturday night? And the cop who answered the phone didn’t give anything up. But A. J. was pretty sure he could find the commissioner.
First, though, he drove to his office in midtown. He felt really dirty after Rikers and wanted to wash up and put on a fresh shirt. No one was in, of course, and he left his editor a handwritten note. It seemed a little more personal than sending her another e-mail. He hadn’t seen her in more than a week, which was not all that unusual. He rarely spent much time in the office, particularly when he was in the thick of a story. She knew he was working on Brock, but she had no idea the direction the reporting had taken. He’d fill her in when he could do it in person.
He called a couple of the photo agencies that assigned photographers to stake out celebrities at restaurants, clubs, hotels, theaters, or anywhere else they might turn up. Normally, N
ew York’s police commissioner wouldn’t be on the paparazzi’s “it” list of hot targets, but since the Brooklyn raid, Brock, America’s hero, was as marketable as Brad and Angelina. Sure enough, they all had Brock at the Broken Wing, a hole-in-the-wall restaurant on West Twenty-Second Street. A. J. knew the place. The commissioner usually favored high-visibility spots like Nello’s, Cipriani, and Da Silvano, but he liked occasionally trading war stories with the Broken Wing’s owner, a former Green Beret, and it was a place where he could relax, have a leisurely dinner, and spend several hours drinking wine without being hassled.
A. J. returned a few calls and answered some e-mail, killing time until he was sufficiently calmed down from the whole Supreme-Rikers episode that he’d be able to control himself with Brock. He wanted to maintain the upper hand, which meant, as he’d always told Lucy, never let them know what you’re thinking. The last thing he wanted to do with the police commissioner was get angry and lose his head.
A. J. drove past the restaurant and immediately spotted Brock’s security detail outside. There were also a couple of photographers hanging around, smoking, bitching, talking on the phone, and hoping to get the money shot when Brock came out after dinner. A. J. parked the car down the block; smoothed his dark blue cashmere blazer; adjusted the collar and cuffs on his button-down, Bengal-stripe oxford shirt; and walked back to the Broken Wing and went right past the security guys. They knew who he was, but they’d reacted too slowly to stop him.
Oozing determination, A. J. headed directly to the big round table in the back by the brick wall. Brock was sitting with his girlfriend, Lynn Silvers, and one of his flunkies, a civilian named Johnnie Dell. A. J. had never met Dell, but his name had come up over and over again in his reporting. Though A. J. hadn’t yet been able to find any proof, the rumor was that he served as a kind of bagman for Brock, arranging under-the-table deals and payoffs for access and preferential treatment.
A. J. got all the way to the table before two of Brock’s security guys caught up to him. They each took one of his arms. Brock looked up and smiled. Then he quickly waved them off. A. J. was not happy about being manhandled. “You might want to reevaluate your security detail, Commissioner,” A. J. said, smirking, “if a physically unimposing writer can come right up on you in the middle of dinner.”
“You may be right,” Brock replied calmly. “How are you, A. J.? What brings you here unannounced?”
Dell and Silvers were both staring at A. J. with unmasked expressions of disdain. Brock didn’t invite A. J. to sit down, though there was plenty of room at the table.
“Standing here talking to you like a delinquent schoolkid facing the principal doesn’t work for me. We need a few minutes to talk,” A. J. said, looking directly at Dell and Silvers. “Just you and me. No girlfriend, and no . . . friend.”
Without showing the least bit of anger, Brock signaled his companions to give him a moment. Once they’d left, A. J. sat down. The waiter came over and refilled the commissioner’s wineglass. It was an expensive bottle to be sure, but A. J. was certain Brock was not paying the check. He’d eaten enough meals with the commissioner to know he never put his hand in his pocket. Dinner was on either Dell, Silvers, or the restaurant. When the waiter then put a fresh glass down in front of A. J., Brock held up his hand. “He won’t be drinking,” he said. The waited nodded and left the table.
“What’s up, A. J.? I told you the story is yours, even though they’re all still calling. 60 Minutes, Vanity Fair, everybody. But I’m going with you. You’ve earned it.”
“Don’t patronize me. I don’t give a shit about 60 Minutes or Vanity Fair. You want to give your story to one of them, be my guest. I’ve got enough now to kill you with a thousand cuts.”
Brock sat up straight and slowly took a sip of wine before responding. “You’ve obviously got something on your mind, A. J. So let’s talk, as long as you’re not wired.”
A. J. opened his blazer. Brock looked at him and then he pushed out his chair to frisk A. J. while he was sitting down. He did it so inconspicuously that no one would’ve noticed, even if they’d been looking at them from one of the other tables.
“Why the paranoia, Commissioner? You worried about something?”
“Worried?” Brock laughed. “You burst in here with no warning and then you tell me you’re gonna cut me up. Don’tcha think I should be a little concerned?”
“What happened to Supreme?” A. J. asked flatly, ignoring Brock’s remarks.
Brock’s face was impassive. “Is that what this is about? A fucking drug dealer? It’s my understanding that someone took a shot at him, and his bodyguard took the hit. So what, that’s news? And then the pussy tries making a getaway and clips one of my officers, and he was carrying without a permit. So he gets to cool off at Rikers. What’s the problem?”
“He’s just been murdered.”
“Forgive me if I don’t rush to Rikers and offer my condolences. Look, make your point, A. J., because you’re starting to annoy me.”
“My point is Supreme. My point is Kevin Anderson. My point is Andrea Jafaari, Mary Jafaari, and Ayad Jafaari. All dead, all on your watch, all somehow connected. Something’s going down and you’re in the middle of it. I don’t know if you’re behind it or just caught up in it, but I’m gonna find out.”
A. J. watched as Brock squeezed his napkin until his knuckles turned white. He had wanted to rile the commissioner, but now he was worried he might’ve gone too far.
“Are you nuts?” Brock said quietly, though his jaw was tightening. “You wanna play hardball? Let me tell you something, you little fuckin’ pip-squeak, don’t ever make the mistake of trying to intimidate me. You fuck with me and I promise you’ll be sorry. Maybe you should be more concerned about your family and the predators that sometimes lurk in parks and watch young girls at play. Or your lovely assistant. What’s her name again? Lucy? Perhaps you should be a little more concerned about her.”
A. J. stared at Brock and tried to maintain his composure.
“So here’s my advice,” Brock continued. “Do your profile of me, tell a good story the way you always do, and enjoy the recognition. Your editor’ll be happy, you’ll get plenty of face time on TV talking about me, and you’ll get lots of credit for the big exclusive with America’s hero Lawrence Brock. Then you can take care of those close to you and move on to the next story. Have I made my point?”
“Here’s my advice to you, Commissioner Brock,” A. J. said, surprising himself with the force of his voice. “Don’t start packing for Washington. This isn’t over. Not even close.”
Without waiting for a response, A. J. got up and started to walk out of the restaurant. His heart was racing and he didn’t dare even take a breath, afraid that he’d start hyperventilating. He kept his eyes fixed straight ahead. He tried not to walk too fast so it didn’t look like he was rushing to get away.
When he got in the car, he locked the doors and fumbled to put the key in the ignition. His hands were trembling and he tried to get his breathing under control. He was scared, but he was also proud of himself for not folding. He knew, now more than ever, that there was no way Lawrence Brock could be allowed to take over Homeland Security.
21
BISHOP FELT LIKE it took forever to get to Greenport and the ferry to Shelter Island. He wasn’t sure if the drive seemed so long because he was tired or because he was starting to get excited about seeing Lucy. He couldn’t remember ever feeling this way about a woman before. His relationships all followed a fairly predictable pattern. He’d spot somebody he was attracted to, he’d romance her a little—take her to dinner, out to the clubs—and the goal was always the same: to get into her pants.
But his feelings for Lucy were completely different. Yes, he had the hots for her, and, yes, he absolutely wanted to get into her pants. But it went way beyond that. He actually found himself thinking that she was the perfect woman: sexy, funny, interesting, not too girlie, and smart. Not name–the–five–Great Lakes kin
d of smart, but smart in her ability to read people. She was as intuitive as a skilled investigator. Talking to her was as much fun as Bishop could imagine having that didn’t involve guns, cars, or getting naked.
Greenport was half an hour from the last exit on the Long Island Expressway. Bishop finally rolled up to the ferry dock at a few minutes after eleven p.m. The ferry was scheduled to leave at eleven fifteen and from Greenport, unlike the shorter Sag Harbor ferry, it was a fifteen-minute ride. He figured that would get him to Lucy around eleven forty-five. The gate was open and Bishop eased his Boxster up on the boat. Then he hopped out and popped open the trunk.
Bishop liked to be spontaneous but found it always worked better when he did a little preparation. Nestled in the back of his trunk and covered with a small blanket, he kept spare “get-lucky bottles” for nights just like this, when the possibility of scoring came up unexpectedly. Confirming that he had wine and Beau Joie in hand, he smiled, closed the trunk, and got back into the car to wait for the ferry to take off.
• • •
Lucy was busy getting herself comfortable in the big house. She’d showered, put on sweats, and turned on the fireplace, and now she was curled up on the huge living room couch. The weather was getting nasty. A storm was coming in, which was a surprise given how beautiful it had been only a few hours earlier. The wind was already whipping around the house and beating against the glass doors that faced the ocean. She was multitasking: watching Cinema Paradiso, one of her favorite movies, on the big flat-screen, while typing up the information she’d gathered from her conversation with Yvette on her laptop. She had opened a bottle of wine and was almost two glasses in when she found her eyes were getting heavy. She looked at her watch. It was just after eleven p.m. Bishop had texted her to say he’d be at the house around quarter to twelve. She was determined to stay awake, but it was a losing battle. A few minutes after finishing her second glass of wine, she was out cold.