Badge of Evil

by Bill Stanton

  He saw the brake lights of the other car, now only about twenty-five yards in front of him, pull back onto the road and head down the hill. Bishop tried to follow, but he was stuck in the mud, which reached nearly halfway up his wheel wells. The faster his wheels spun, the deeper he sunk. He started to get angry, but then it struck him that Casper the friendly motherfucker wasn’t going anywhere either. The last ferry of the night had come and gone.

  Through the sheets of rain, Bishop could see the ferry station and the lights of the parking lot at the bottom of the hill, several hundreds of yards in the distance. Bishop got out and kept one hand on the car to keep from sinking in the mud as he made his way to the trunk. He figured he had time for a tactical reload. He grabbed and opened a box of .45 rounds. They were custom MagSafes; he put some in his pocket, and he put a fresh magazine into his Kimber and reholstered. Then he high-stepped his way out of the mud and started a slow jog toward the lights.

  He was jogging right down the middle of the road on the north side of the island through Shelter Island Heights, beautiful landmark homes to his left and right. As he loped past the tennis courts at the top of the hill facing the ferry, he saw Casper darting away from the ferry house. He laughed to himself. “Gotcha, motherfucker! Stupid bastard should’ve read the ferry schedule.”

  Instead of reconstructing the action movies he’d seen a gazillion times, Bishop was trying to talk himself into a state of calm. If he was going to kill this asshole, he needed to be in complete control; he had to achieve an almost Zenlike state. He looked down the hill and there was a moment when Casper looked back up at him; even across several hundred yards on a stormy night, they locked on to each other. The connection was just as real and just as potent as if their eyes had met across a well-lit room. Now that he’d been spotted, Bishop got in a low crouch and started running in a zigzag pattern.

  The rain was very cold and it was coming down hard, pelting his face. His soaking-wet shoes and clothes weighed him down, but his adrenaline was pumping. He’d closed the gap between him and Casper to about two hundred yards when the guy suddenly turned back. There were two bright flashes, quickly followed by what sounded like muffled firecracker pops. Bishop saw the grass in front of him kick up. He tucked and rolled and came up ready to fire back.

  While it was too far to fire a shot, he was able to see the guy was headed toward a short bridge. Bishop saw the bridge led to a tiny hamlet, which looked like maybe it had some kind of small shop, a bait store perhaps, a tavern, and—HOLY SHIT—a boatyard. This cocksucker was looking to get off the island by stealing a boat. Bishop pulled off his waterlogged jacket, holstered his gun, and sprinted to the bridge.

  Bishop saw Casper stop to catch his breath in the middle of the bridge. While he couldn’t make out the guy’s features, the bridge was lit brightly enough for him to see the mask was gone. The man was white, middle-aged, and had a shaved head. He started to head toward the boatyard again. Bishop, fortified by about fifteen seconds’ rest, took off after him.

  By the time Bishop got to the foot of the boatyard, he had his gun out. He stood very still, hoping to hear the assailant, but the wind, the rain, and the waves drowned out anything else. He decided to take a risk. He was desperate now and intentionally moved into the light, knowing that made him an open target. He was hoping the guy would take a shot and give away his position. He waited. Suddenly, through all of Mother Nature’s background noise, he heard the grumble of heavy engines throttling up. He ran down the dock and saw a twenty-six-foot Boston whaler backing out of its slip like a drunk pulling out of a packed parking lot. It crashed into the dock and knocked Bishop down hard. When he hit the boards, his gun slid out of his hand. Groping around in the dark, he finally got his hand on it, but the whaler was already pulling out.

  Bishop got back on his feet and ran ahead. When he got to the end of the dock, he went down on one knee, aimed at the fast-fading whaler, and emptied his mag. Then all he saw was darkness.

  22

  IT WASN’T ONE of Bishop’s better nights. He’d lost the chase, his car was stuck in the mud, and he wasn’t sure what the story was with Lucy. He didn’t know how long she’d been terrorized, what exactly had been done to her, or how she’d be handling it now. He was pretty sure whoever broke into the house only wanted to scare her. Otherwise, why go to all that trouble? If he’d wanted to kill her he would’ve just done it. As Bishop began the two-mile walk back to the house, the rain was still coming down heavily. He was exhausted, chilled, soaked to his bones, and about half covered in mud. If he hadn’t been so pissed about losing Casper the fucking assailant, he might’ve laughed at how ridiculous he probably looked. There he was, trudging along on the side of the road in the dark, his feet squishing in his cowboy boots, the rain dripping into his ears.

  Since he had nothing but time—the walk would probably take thirty or forty minutes—he kept going over what happened in his head. He didn’t think there was much he could’ve done differently. Maybe the only significant thing, the one move that might’ve made a difference, would’ve been to anticipate the guy would go for a boat. If he’d realized that was his likely move, Bishop might have been able to stop him, but he couldn’t be sure.

  When he finally got back to the house, Lucy was obviously freaked but remarkably under control given what she’d been through. Oz had cut the phone lines and Lucy couldn’t get a signal on her cell, so she’d never called the cops. Just as well, Bishop thought. How big a force could they have on a small island like this anyway, he speculated, two guys tops during the off-season? If they’d come, he would’ve been obligated to either lie or give a full report about what happened, and the cops would’ve seized his weapons, which would’ve been a serious problem.

  By the time Bishop finally managed to get a signal on his cell, he’d decided to leave the cops out of it. The first thing he did was call his guys, Eddie and Paul, and tell them to beeline it to Shelter Island on the first morning ferry. He put Paul on surveillance at the parking lot, hoping the prick would be dumb enough to come back to retrieve the car he’d ditched. Bishop knew this was unlikely, since the guy seemed like a pro, but it was worth a shot. He dispatched Eddie to get his car out of the mud.

  His next call was to A. J. Though they could’ve talked for hours, given how much information they had to exchange, they kept it brief. Bishop gave A. J. the key points of his meeting with Pennetta and told him what had happened to Lucy. A. J. told Bishop about Supreme’s murder and his confrontation in the restaurant with Brock. Their first decision was easy. Lucy and A. J.’s family needed to be moved somewhere to guarantee their safety. Bishop said he had the perfect place and they could meet there tomorrow.

  He had a billionaire client named Lee Morgan who lived on a sprawling 250-acre estate in the most exclusive part of Greenwich, Connecticut. The main house was twenty thousand square feet, and there were several guest cottages and servant’s quarters, a landscaping shack, and a security house. Over the years, Bishop had handled various cases for Morgan, some of them very sensitive and requiring what Bishop referred to as “off-the grid” work. Their relationship developed into one of mutual respect and friendship. It was rare that Bishop asked Morgan for a favor, but he needed one now. His estate was the perfect haven for Lucy and A. J.’s family to spend the next couple of days.

  It was very late, but it was Saturday night, and Bishop knew if Morgan were sleeping his cell wouldn’t be on. Sure enough, he was still up. The only question he asked Bishop was if he’d be harboring fugitives. Bishop replied negative, and when he started to explain, Morgan stopped him. “No need,” he said. “I’ll make sure your friends are well taken care of.”

  With his phone calls done, he needed to find something to cover the shattered sliding glass door, since the wind and rain were blowing into the house. Once that was done, it was time to turn his attention back to Lucy. She was in a fragile state and certainly didn’t want to go anywhere near the bedroom. “Can we sit on the couch and mayb
e you could just hold me for a while?” she asked so sweetly it almost made Bishop cry. Within minutes, she fell asleep in his arms. Bishop stroked her hair and tried to stay alert. He wasn’t sure if someone was coming back. He thought it was unlikely, but just in case, he barely dozed the rest of the night.

  • • •

  In the early afternoon on Sunday, Lucy and A. J.’s family were dropped off in Connecticut, but not without significant protest. They all thought it was ridiculous—even Lucy, who was still shaky from the previous night. A. J. let them vent, and when he thought they’d made their points, he ended the discussion. They were staying and that was final, he told them, reminding them to shut off their cell phones as well. Once they were settled in, A. J. and Bishop took Lucy’s rental car and started back to the city. Since A. J. had gotten a couple of hours’ sleep, he drove and Bishop dozed. They stopped in the Bronx to get gas, grab a bite, and call Pennetta from a pay phone. They were now convinced their cell phones were being monitored. They gave Pennetta an account of what had transpired over the last eighteen hours or so and set up a meeting for later in the day in Flushing, Queens, in the shadow of Citi Field.

  After making certain they weren’t being tailed, they headed to Al’s Custom Motors, a detailing and custom car shop owned by one of A. J.’s childhood friends. A. J. and Al Tessa, the owner, had been friends since grade school. What better place to have a meeting and ensure there was no eavesdropping?

  Pulling into the garage around six p.m., they saw that Pennetta was already there and was talking car engines with Al Tessa. Al was waving his arms and extolling the virtues of the legendary ’66 Pontiac GTO, with its 396-cubic-inch V8 and its three two-barrel carburetors, while Pennetta was arguing on behalf of the 2013 Shelby Mustang GT500, the ultimate modern muscle car. After a quick hug with A. J. and an introduction to Bishop, Al showed them where the coffeepot was and then excused himself, heading to his loft office so they could have some privacy.

  Forty-five minutes later, Pennetta, with the veins bulging in his neck, said, “You expect me to believe a sitting New York City police commissioner is complicit in not one murder but more than half a dozen, including an NYPD lieutenant?”

  “I know it sounds preposterous,” A. J. said. “I’m just asking you to keep an open mind and look at the information. Think about it for a second. If the three of us hadn’t come together and we only had the facts we have individually, I agree it wouldn’t add up. But when you put all the pieces together, what other possibility is there? First Anderson and the hooker, then the suspects in the apartment, the Jafaari family, and then Supreme. Brock’s connected to every one of them.”

  “To my knowledge,” Pennetta said, picking up a ratchet and playing with it nervously while he talked, “Brock was never in the Three-Three’s command. And that’s where you place Anderson when he made this supposed deal with Supreme. And while I know Brock and Fitzgerald are tight, you should be ashamed of yourself, Bishop. There’s no doubt Brock’s a scumbag and a grandstander and a media whore, but I thought Fitzgerald was the guy who saved your ass.”

  “Now who’s a fucking hypocrite?” Bishop said to Pennetta. “You only go after the guys you don’t like?”

  A. J. stepped in before things got too heated. “Hey, guys, we’re not the enemy. Focus, okay? How do we figure this out? How do we find the connection between Brock and Anderson?”

  “Roll call,” Bishop said immediately.

  A. J. looked at him quizzically.

  “That’s right,” Pennetta said eagerly. “There’s a roll call for everyone who’s in the precinct, not just the guys who work a particular tour. It’s the CO’s roll call, and it’s a complete list of everyone, including civilians, who’s assigned to that particular precinct on a given day.”

  Pennetta got up and moved over to the red Snap-on toolbox that stood almost six feet high. He opened one of the drawers, put the ratchet away, and turned to A. J. “What he’s saying is we need to look at that roll call and see if we can link Brock and Anderson.”

  “You know anyone in the Thirty-Third Precinct?” A. J. asked Bishop.

  Bishop frowned and shook his head slowly from side to side.

  Pennetta, looking just as dour, raised his hand and surprisingly said, “I do. I’m tight with the administrative lieutenant. I’ll take the day myself and go up there tomorrow.”

  “Fine by me,” Bishop said. “I’m completely fuckin’ exhausted.”

  “Now,” Pennetta said, “what about you being followed?”

  “They’ve absolutely got our houses staked out, and they’re tracking our cell phones. We need to pick up prepaid phones and communicate that way.”

  It seemed, for the moment at least, that they were done. A. J. gently ran his hand along the fender of a bright red, fully restored ’69 Firebird. “That’s a beauty, isn’t it?” Pennetta asked.

  “I had a ’72,” A. J. said. “It was totally stock, but it was a great car.”

  “Listen,” Bishop said to A. J. as they were leaving. “No one’s getting into my place unless I want them to. Why don’t you stay with me? I’m sure you wanna see Nikki and the kids, but it’ll save you the ride in from Greenwich.”

  A. J. thought about it for a moment. “Okay,” he said. “Thanks. Tomorrow Brock and I need to have a serious sit-down.”

  23

  A. J. WOKE UP on Monday morning around eight and found himself nose to nose with what he thought was a large wolf. There were several seconds of terror until he remembered where he was. He rolled over and it was like he was seeing double. Two massive king shepherds had climbed up on the pullout couch where A. J. was sleeping at Bishop’s place and surrounded him. With their tails wagging, they started happily licking him. He pulled the covers over his head for a few moments, but when he peeked out the dogs were right there waiting. At 135 pounds each, they weren’t easy to push off the bed.

  Teresa, the live-in, came down and started chasing the dogs away in Spanish. She greeted A. J. with a perky “buenos dias” and a big mug of coffee.

  “Gracias,” A. J. said appreciatively, “that’s great. Just what I need.”

  Bishop, who was already dressed and ready to roll, came into the room humming. “Jeez, still in bed?” he said. “I always heard reporters were lazy.”

  “Nice,” A. J. said, sitting up now on the bed. “Good morning to you too, asshole. Zito coming to pick you up?”

  “No,” Bishop said, laughing. “I’m meeting him up at the Three-Three. The last thing we need is for whoever’s watching the house to connect Zito to us.”

  “Mr. Bishop,” Teresa said, “you no walk dogs again? Babies playtime. Ay dios mío, these dogs pull me down the street every time they see a squirrel.”

  “Muchas gracias,” Bishop said. “I promise I’ll take you shopping next weekend. Target, Walmart, Costco, anyplace you want. I’m just really swamped right now. I’ll make it up to you. Hey, I’ll buy you the Clapper, clap on, clap off, my treat.”

  “Wow,” A. J. said, “now that’s gratitude. Big spender!”

  As Bishop pulled on his jacket and drank the last of a protein shake, he told A. J. that Teresa would cook anything he wanted, and Eddie, who had successfully managed to extricate his Porsche from the Shelter Island mud yesterday, would give him a lift anywhere he needed to go. Concerned about being followed, Bishop would make his way to the Three-Three via some combination of subway and taxi.

  • • •

  Pennetta and Bishop shared coffee and doughnuts and an hour of war stories with the administrative lieutenant at the Thirty-Third Precinct. Pennetta told the lieutenant he was planning a reunion for everybody he’d worked with at the precinct more than a decade ago—hence the need to go through the roll call. With no reason to doubt Pennetta’s story, the lieutenant took them to the basement records room and let them loose on the files.

  “Fuck,” Bishop said, taking a look around at the stacks of boxes everywhere. It was a daunting sight. The shelves ran from the floo
r almost to the seven-foot ceiling and they were packed with decrepit-looking boxes. The low ceiling made an already cramped, uncomfortable space even more unpleasant. Since the period they were interested in was before the department’s records were fully computerized, they’d have to fight through the cobwebs, dust, and mold to examine the contents of at least two dozen musty cartons of paperwork. Making matters worse, organization of old files was not exactly a priority for the NYPD.

  “You know how much I normally get an hour?” Bishop asked. “This is way below my pay grade.”

  “You hide in the bushes with a camera to try and catch cheating husbands to earn a living,” Pennetta said. “Lose the fucking prima donna attitude and get started on the left side there. I’ll take the right.”

  • • •

  After Teresa whipped up a sumptuous Mexican breakfast of frittatas and huevos rancheros for A. J., Eddie showed up a little after nine, obviously tired from working pretty much around the clock but happy to tell A. J. all about himself. He was in his early twenties and for a brief moment had considered going into the family business—the NYPD. So far, however, things hadn’t quite gone as planned. His PI work left little time for anything else.

  While A. J. and Eddie were talking about movies, A. J.’s cell phone rang. It was Brock’s office calling him back. One of the commissioner’s aides told him he should come to Brock’s office at One Police Plaza at two o’clock.

  A. J. hung up and looked at his watch. He really wanted to see Nikki and the kids and Lucy. He wished he had one of his bikes in the city. But he had a plan B. He thought if Eddie were willing to have a little fun and drive a little faster than he probably should, they could still shoot up to Greenwich for an hour or so to see everybody and get back in time for his meeting with Brock. A. J. put the cell phone in his pocket and told Eddie what he had in mind. He also told him it was a little more complicated than just getting there and back. There was a surveillance team watching him, so they’d have to shake the tail before they could head to Connecticut. He asked Eddie if he was up for it. Eddie was quiet for a moment and then smiled. “You kidding me? he said. “It’ll make a great scene in one of my movies.”