by Bill Stanton
“Tell you what, kid,” A. J. said. “Get this done and I’ll write an Oscar-worthy story for you to direct. But if it turns out the way I think it’s going to, no one’ll believe it.”
• • •
Bishop and Pennetta had been at it for several hours. Their shirts were dirty and stained with sweat. Their throats were scratchy and their mouths were dry. They still hadn’t found the specific box labeled “Roll Call” for the years 2004 through 2009. “Why the fuck couldn’t we just grab this guy’s ten card?” Bishop complained. He knew the answer; he just needed to vent. In the NYPD, the ten card essentially documents your history in the police department from the day you’re sworn in to the day you retire. It covers all essential information—what commands you’ve been on, what firearms you own, and so on. If it had been virtually anyone else but the police commissioner, this process could have been cut short. But there was no ten card for the PC. Bishop was moaning about this when Pennetta yelled, “Bingo! Got it!”
Going through the roll calls, he’d finally found Kevin Anderson’s name. On some roll call sheets he’d be on a foot post, on others he’d be in “Sector Boy” or “Sector David,” which meant he was in a patrol car responsible for covering an area in the precinct designated as Sector B or Sector D. But so far, there was no connection to Brock. They continued to tear through the boxes until Bishop suddenly stopped. With a file in his hand, he slowly looked up at the ceiling for a moment, then turned around and walked out from between the shelves. In an open area near the door, he fell to his knees like he was in church, stared hard at the floor, and dropped the roll call sheet. Then he rubbed his eyes with his palms, as if pushing back tears. Pennetta stopped what he was doing, looked up, and watched.
Bishop got up, went toward the door, and, never turning around, walked out. Over his shoulder he said, “I’ve gotta get some air.” Pennetta picked up the roll call sheet and scanned the lists of names. It said, Assigned to Sector Boy, Kevin Anderson. The name next to Anderson’s was John Keno. Still no Brock. He continued looking down the sheet and then he saw it: Integrity Control Officer, Lt. Thomas Fitzgerald.
• • •
Eddie was having a blast. He was doing nearly ninety on the Connecticut Turnpike heading back to the city with A. J. They’d just come from Greenwich, where, after going through what felt like presidential-level security, A. J. had been able to spend a little time with his family and Lucy. Eddie kind of watched the visit but wasn’t close enough to hear anything. After A. J. said his good-byes, hugging everyone and saving an especially long embrace for his wife, Nikki, all he said to Eddie was a short “Let’s go.”
A. J. barely said a word to Eddie in the car. When they got to One Police Plaza it was five minutes to two. Perfect. A. J. thanked Eddie for his help and told him to call if he ever needed anything, writing advice or whatever. Eddie wanted to wait, but A. J. said he’d find his own way back. He knew Bishop had given Eddie a pile of stuff to do.
A. J. stood in front of police headquarters and gazed up at the fourteen-story brick building sometimes called Puzzle Palace, for the Byzantine bureaucracy and the political intrigue that bubbled inside. A. J. took a deep breath and started walking across the wide, redbrick plaza. About a hundred yards from the entrance to One Police Plaza, he showed his press credentials at the security checkpoint and the cop on duty called the commissioner’s office to check his appointment. Then, with his visitor’s pass in hand, he headed for the building. When he was just about at the entrance, a bald man in a suit with a shaved head approached him. “Mr. Ross?” he said. “I’m a special assistant to Commissioner Brock.”
“Haven’t we met?” A. J. asked. “I’m sure we have. I’m sorry, but I don’t remember your name.”
“It’s Kareem Ozmehet Said,” the man said, smiling.
“Ah,” A. J. said. “How could I forget? What’s up with the commissioner?”
“He has been unexpectedly called to Washington, and as a result he’s on his way to catch a flight out of Newark. But he knows your meeting is important, so he respectfully asked if you could meet him at the airport. There will be time to talk before his flight leaves.”
A. J. considered protesting but then thought better of it. He needed to have it out with Brock, and if it happened in a public space like the airport, that could be even better.
Oz led A. J. around to the back of One Police Plaza and directed him to a slightly beat-up Jeep Cherokee with blacked-out windows. He opened the front door, and when A. J. looked inside, he saw the broad smile of Chief Walter Fitzgerald, dressed casually in jeans and a red plaid shirt. Oz got into the backseat and directed A. J. to the front. He slid in, and the chief pulled the SUV out slowly and headed toward the Holland Tunnel.
• • •
Lee Morgan’s estate was spectacular. No detail, no matter how small, had been overlooked. The main house had been built at the turn of the last century, and the facade featured elaborate stonework and filigree that could never be duplicated today. Along with the pool, there was a red clay tennis court, and the gently rolling, sculpted grounds led down to the water.
Lucy was walking in the lush gardens alone. She was having a hard time. Though part of her felt great relief to be able to relax in this beautiful protective cocoon, she was conflicted. She felt guilty that she’d been ostensibly taken out of the game, benched at the most critical time. She even felt a little like a coward, though in her heart she knew she had absolutely nothing to be ashamed of. As awful as her experience at the house on Shelter Island had been, she was still angry and a little embarrassed that the psycho had been able to make her scream.
She wasn’t normally prone to feeling sorry for herself, and she knew this was a bad time to start. She was desperately trying to think of something she could do to help A. J. and Bishop nail Brock and whoever else was involved. She’d been going over everything that happened in her head, first forward and then backward. She knew she was missing something. Lucy remembered the day of the press conference after Brock’s raid, the day when all of this started. It seemed so long ago even though it was only a little more than a week. She recalled meeting Supreme, whom she’d actually begun to grow fond of, and now he was gone, murdered in jail. She thought about the night at Roxx with Bishop and how much fun she was having before she ended up with blood on her clothes. She replayed her visit to Yvette Anderson and momentarily felt a little surge of pride that she was able to get information from her that no one else had gotten. She pictured the house and the huge living room fireplace with its photo wall. Then she froze.
A. J.’s wife Nikki was relaxing out on the lawn with the kids. Nikki was sitting in an Adirondack chair reading the paper, and the kids were throwing a ball around and chasing each other. Nikki looked across the broad expanse of property at Lucy. She was just standing there, staring down at the grass. She wondered what Lucy was doing. Nikki was very fond of Lucy and looked at her almost like she was Annie’s older sister. She felt terrible about what had happened on Shelter Island and hoped it wouldn’t have any lasting effects. Nikki was just about to call out Lucy’s name to see if she was okay when all of a sudden Lucy started running in her direction. She wasn’t jogging; this was a flat-out sprint, and she had a wild look on her face.
Nikki stood up as Lucy approached and she reached out to grab her. “Please, please, Nikki,” Lucy blurted, barely able to catch her breath. “I have to get to A. J. I have to talk to him now!”
Racing into the guesthouse, she went straight to the phone. She desperately needed to tell A. J. what she’d just realized. The morning Brock spoke at the press conference after the raid; the photo by the fireplace of Anderson receiving his lieutenant’s shield from police commissioner Brock; the night of the murder attempt on Supreme at Roxx. All of these had one thing in common—Lucy didn’t know the man’s name, but she remembered his swarthy, slightly fleshy face. She remembered him standing in the background behind Brock at the press conference. She could picture his face in t
he corner of Kevin Anderson’s promotion photo. And now she could see the night at Roxx in her mind’s eye. In that split second after the third shot rang out, after Supreme’s bodyguard had been hit, she looked into the crowd and saw a white guy, pulling off a wig, revealing his shaved head. He stood out because he was the only middle-aged white guy besides Bishop in the club. As she struggled to dial A. J.’s cell number with her trembling hand, she guessed that he was probably also the sick fuck who’d terrorized her on Shelter Island. She had to let A. J. know.
24
BISHOP RUSHED OUT of the Thirty-Third Precinct and started walking down Amsterdam Avenue. It was about two in the afternoon and the streets were crowded. This far uptown, Manhattan looked and felt more like one of the outer boroughs. The buildings were much smaller, traffic was lighter, the streets seemed wider, everything felt more open. There were also very few white people. About two blocks from the precinct, Bishop saw a bar and went in. He needed a drink.
As Bishop took a seat at the far end of the bar, the door opened. Pennetta walked in and took the empty seat next to him.
They both ordered two shots of vodka, then sat for a while in silence. A small TV over the bar was playing one of the daytime courtroom shows with no sound. Finally, after about ten minutes, Bishop spoke first. “Why?” was all he said. Pennetta let the question hang in the air. “Why?” Bishop asked again. “It makes no sense. Everything good about the job, everything right about being a cop, I got from Chief Fitzgerald. Whenever I felt like it was all a bunch of crap and none of it meant anything, he was the guy who showed me I was wrong. He could always make me feel like being a cop made a difference,” he said, downing his second shot, then swiveling in his seat to look at Pennetta.
“I know the chief’s not about money,” he continued. “He never gave a shit about anything other than the fucking job. I had a gig once and I really hit a home run for the client, and he gave me a Rolex. I already had one so I decided to give it to the chief, you know, as a thank-you for all the shit he put up with from me. And he wouldn’t take it. ‘What the fuck am I gonna do with something like that?’ he said to me. ‘Where am I gonna wear it?’ He wouldn’t take a fuckin’ watch as a gift. So this, this just makes no sense.”
“Stop feeling sorry for yourself for a moment ’cause you lost your mentor,” Pennetta said. “Fitzgerald didn’t do it for the money, at least not in the way you’re looking at it. Stop for a minute and think about this. What happened to him like twelve or thirteen years ago when he started drinking again?”
Bishop looked down at his glass. At first he didn’t remember. But then it came back to him.
Pennetta saw the look of recognition on Bishop’s face. “That’s right,” he said, “Fitzgerald’s daughter!”
“Shit,” Bishop said, shaking his head. “We never really talked much about it. He never wanted to and I never pushed him. I remember she was born with all kinds of medical problems—like she had cystic fibrosis and some kind of rare blood disease. I remember at one point when I was still practically a rookie there were fliers posted around the precincts advertising fund-raisers for a Lieutenant Walter Fitzgerald. I didn’t know him then. We met like four or five years after she was born, and he almost never mentioned her.”
Bishop stared at himself in the mirror behind the bar, then turned away when Pennetta started talking. “All the special treatments, the drugs, the home care, must have cost huge amounts of money. I think she was even in some kind of facility for the last two years before she passed. It would be very easy to justify doing anything when you’re trying to save your daughter’s life.”
Bishop was disgusted. Nothing, he thought, is ever what it seems. The bartender passed and he ordered another round.
• • •
Traffic in the Holland Tunnel was light, and Chief Fitzgerald appeared relaxed as he drove. He looked at A. J., who was sitting next to him, and noticed how active his eyes were, taking in everything. Oz, sitting in the back, hadn’t said anything since they left police headquarters. “So what’s the deal, Chief?” A. J. said. “You’re looking a little informal today. The department have casual Mondays now?”
Fitzgerald laughed. “Casual Mondays, that’s funny. Today’s just my regular day off. But apparently the PC has something to tell us, and he insisted we all be there.”
“Any idea what it is?” A. J. asked.
“Not a fucking clue,” the chief said. “Maybe you’re gonna get that big scoop you’ve been looking for.”
Before A. J. had a chance to respond, his cell phone started vibrating. He had a policy of not taking calls when he was working, so he let it go to voice mail.
• • •
Lucy looked at the phone and cursed as soon as she heard A. J.’s voice mail. She knew his rule about not taking calls when he was reporting a story, but this was different. She had promised him she wouldn’t use her cell phone, but she had to get a message to him somehow.
• • •
“If the commissioner’s taking the shuttle to DC, why didn’t he just go Delta out of LaGuardia?” A. J. asked as the Cherokee came out of the tunnel and into New Jersey. The chief smiled uneasily at him.
A. J.’s phone buzzed again. Annoyed, he took it out of his pocket to see who was trying to reach him. It was a text from Lucy. “CALL ME ASAP—U R N DANGER—BROCK’S RT HAND MAN WAS SHOOTER AT ROXX.”
A. J. looked at the text and realized how stupid he’d been. He’d let hubris completely cloud his judgment. He was angry about everything that had happened and so intent on having it out with Brock, he’d missed all the obvious signs—Oz intercepting him in front of police headquarters, traveling in a Jeep Cherokee instead of an official car, and Fitzgerald out of uniform on supposed official business. Of course they weren’t going to Newark.
Oz said it first. “He knows.”
“I know he does,” Fitzgerald responded calmly as he plucked the cell phone out of A. J.’s hand. “But A. J.’s not stupid. He’s aware that you have a silenced automatic pointed at the small of his back and that doing something heroic would not be in his best interest. He should realize if he behaves and does what he’s told, he’ll be able to walk away from this without a scratch.”
The conversation reminded A. J. of the way Nikki and his kids would sometimes talk about him at the dinner table as if he weren’t there. He shook his head. Now was not a good time to think about his family. He needed to focus; he needed to figure out what the hell he was going to do. He looked at the signs as they passed the exit for the Newark airport and headed south on the New Jersey Turnpike. The three of them rode in silence.
• • •
Bishop rarely did any serious drinking with the guys. For him, alcohol, and vodka in particular, was simply a means to an end. The end being the beginning of a great time between the sheets. Nevertheless, Bishop and Pennetta were half in the bag when Bishop’s cell began buzzing. It was Lucy. With a wry, half-drunk smile, Bishop showed the phone to Pennetta so he could see it was Lucy calling. Prepared to be playful and sexy when he answered, Bishop quickly lost his buzz when he heard her voice. She was frantic, talking so fast Bishop at first had trouble understanding.
“It’s him, it’s him,” she screamed over and over.
“Lucy,” Bishop implored her. “Lucy, slow down, I can’t—”
“Listen to me,” she said, controlling her breathing now—inhaling and exhaling slowly, one breath at a time—the way A. J. often told her to. “There’s no time to explain. The shooter at Roxx was the guy who works for Brock, that weird, creepy guy. You know who I mean? The bald, Middle Eastern guy. And I’m guessing he’s the freak from Shelter Island too.”
“How do you know? What is—”
Lucy cut him off. “The only thing that matters is A. J.! We need to find him.”
“Okay, okay,” Bishop said. “I hear you. Listen to me, don’t say anything to Nikki yet. No need to panic anyone. I’m here with Zito and we got it—”
Before
Bishop could say covered, Lucy, fully composed now, was on him.
“Just please get it done,” she barked at him. “Now!” And she hung up.
Bishop looked at Pennetta, who had overheard most of the short conversation.
“Oz,” he said. “That’s the name of Brock’s guy.” The lieutenant said he was a mysterious figure around police headquarters whom he’d met a couple of times when dealing with the commissioner.
Since there was little they could do, except stop drinking, they decided to wait at Pennetta’s house in Wantagh, out on Long Island. They figured that was the safest place, given that no one had any idea Pennetta was involved. The house was a fairly typical split-level, the kind found in middle-class suburbs by the thousands. What was atypical was the number of women living there. Pennetta, who was in his early fifties, lived with his mother-in-law, his wife, and his four daughters—a thirty-year-old from his first marriage, a twenty-two-year-old from his second marriage, and a six- and nine-year-old from his current wife. The place was like a life-size dollhouse, with loads of pink and frills and stuffed animals everywhere. Bishop thought it was a riot. Serves the testosterone-loaded fucker right, he thought. It’s great how nature works to balance the universe.
The basement was Pennetta’s sanctuary. All of the girls, including his wife and mother-in-law, knew not to go downstairs for any reason. It was his place. In contrast to the rest of the house, it was a man’s space, with a big-screen TV for sports, dark wood paneling, and two beat-up old couches. Against one wall was a bar and on the opposite one was his wall of fame. There were photos of him as a young marine in uniform, photos of him in the Aviation Unit, and a big eleven-by-fourteen of Zito in full assault gear with his ESU team.