by Bill Stanton
A. J. slipped the book back into his pocket and walked around the desk so he was standing over the commissioner.
“Get up, asshole,” A. J. said to him. Seething, Brock complied. He wanted to put his hands around A. J.’s throat and choke the life out of him, but A. J. had the gun stuck in his chest and pointed directly at his heart.
“You don’t have the balls to pull the trigger,” Brock said finally.
A. J. took a small breath and adjusted his position slightly as if he were about to shoot. Instead, he delivered a hard, swift, perfectly aimed knee to Brock’s balls, giving it everything he had. The commissioner crumpled instantly, curling up in a ball on the rug. A. J. decocked the gun, dropped the magazine on the floor, and racked out the round in the chamber.
“Fuck you, Brock,” A. J. said as he turned to leave. The commissioner, still curled up on the floor, teeth clenched, reached out and grabbed A. J.’s pants leg. Swiftly, and stunningly, A. J. swiveled, reached down, grabbed Brock’s hand, and bent the pinky completely back, breaking it instantly.
“That doesn’t exactly even the score, but it’s a start.”
A. J. strode past Brock’s assistant and into the elevator, where he could still hear the commissioner howling.
29
THE POLICE COMMISSIONER’S secretary was nothing if not loyal—especially to Mayor Domenico. While the mayor had a long history with Brock and basically trusted him, he also knew the commissioner could be difficult to control. So he had taken a few precautions—trust but verify. This meant skillfully placing someone at the center of Brock’s activities—a highly recommended, experienced secretary the commissioner was happy to hire, who would dependably and quietly report to Domenico on the commissioner’s activities.
A. J. had barely walked out of Brock’s office when the commissioner’s secretary phoned the mayor, as requested, to let him know the meeting was over. Brock had no idea Domenico had given the encounter his blessing less than twenty-four hours earlier in a clandestine, late-night meeting with A. J. and Bishop underneath the one-hundred-year-old Hell Gate Bridge in the South Bronx. With his sense of the dramatic, Bishop had chosen the desolate, almost ghostly spot, a place he was familiar with from his days in the Fortieth Precinct. Cops sometimes went there to disappear for a while or engage in off-the-books activity while on duty.
It didn’t take much convincing to get the mayor to agree to a meeting. The Feds had filled him in, so when A. J. called, he immediately said yes. A. J. barely had to mention he had information that could affect Domenico’s presidential ambitions.
It was a short meeting. Domenico came with only a small security detail in his official black Chevy SUV. Though the mayor had no idea who Bishop was, he’d met A. J. on many occasions and detested him for dogging his administration in the magazine.
“Nice fuckin’ location,” the mayor said as he climbed out of the car. “A little creepy for my taste, but whatever. Okay, you got me here, now you’ve got ten minutes. Start talking. And this better be worth my time.”
“Are you kidding me with that—” Bishop snapped before A. J. cut him off.
“Understand,” A. J. said, “we’re beyond angry. But that’s not why we’re here. Nevertheless, I suggest you show us a little more respect.”
Now it was Domenico’s turn to snap. “You arrogant little cocksuckers. Who the fuck do you think you are? Get to the point, A. J. I don’t have all night. I don’t like you, you don’t like me, and a little courtesy’s not gonna change that. What do you have for me?”
“If I were you I’d throttle it back,” Bishop said. “We’re holding all the fuckin’ cards here.”
“If that were true we wouldn’t be having this meeting, tough guy,” Domenico said. “I know you can’t nail Brock, so let’s get on with it.”
“Look,” A. J. said, losing his patience. “It’s true our hands are tied here by every goddamned agency in Washington. That is, up to a point. We can’t kill your guy, but we can kill your national political ambitions. So I suggest you listen to me carefully. You already know I’ve agreed not to write about this for the sake of the national interest. Officially. But hey, I can’t be held responsible if rumors start to pop up on the Internet. Regularly. People will begin to ask questions, maybe do a little digging. You understand where I’m going with this? I want that sick motherfucker out of public life.”
To make sure Domenico understood the stakes, A. J. took out Oz’s pocket Koran. The mayor quickly saw the light and they made a deal.
• • •
The next evening, a few hours after A. J.’s meeting with Brock at One Police Plaza, the local news shows and the national network and cable broadcasts all carried the story that New York’s police commissioner had scheduled a prime-time press conference for eight fifteen that evening to make a major announcement. Bishop and Lucy met at Bell’s at about eight, and the place was buzzing over the Brock story. “Did you talk to A. J.?” Lucy asked Bishop.
“No,” he said, “I left him a message to meet us here.”
“There’s no way he’s coming,” Lucy said.
“How do you know?”
“Trust me,” she said, “I know him.”
John, the headwaiter, turned the television on just as the networks were breaking into their regular programming to cover the press conference. “This is so exciting,” Lucy said to Bishop. “You know A. J. totally engineered this. How do you think he got Brock to cave?”
Bishop looked at Lucy like he was considering her question. “You promised you were going to go to V with me. I hope you’re gonna keep your promise.”
Lucy shook her head. “Are you nuts?” she said. “You bring that up now, with what’s about to happen? Besides, I didn’t promise. And if we do go, it’s gotta be our secret,” she said, playfully smacking him in the back of his head.
Bishop’s cell phone rang. “Hey, if that’s A. J.,” she said before he answered, “and you mention V, you’ll never see me step foot in that place—at least not with you.”
“Hey, partner,” Bishop said to A. J. on the phone. “When are you getting here?”
“What’s this ‘partner’ shit?”
“Come on,” Bishop said, “it’s just an expression.”
Lucy was pulling on Bishop’s shirt. “Lemme talk to him, lemme have the phone.” Bishop relented.
“Hey, boss,” she said. “Are you in front of the television? Brock is just walking up to the microphones. Wait, let’s hear what he has to say.”
“Call me back when you’re ready,” A. J. said to her.
Brock was standing at the lectern in an impeccably tailored suit, and he kept his right hand under his left to hide the splint on his pinky. Behind Brock were the usual suspects—what Bishop referred to as the “battling bobbleheads”: the deputy PC, the fire commissioner, the head of Emergency Management, and various other city agency bosses jockeying to get some TV face time.
“Good evening,” Brock said, looking directly into the cameras. “I come before you tonight to announce that I am withdrawing my name from consideration as secretary of Homeland Security, and I am resigning as New York City’s police commissioner, effective immediately. I have discussed these decisions with the president and with Mayor Domenico. Given the dire recent events around the world, I firmly believe I can better serve this great nation by leaving government service and taking up the fight against ISIS . . .”
The press corps erupted. Cameras flashed, reporters leapt out of their seats shouting questions, and arms waved furiously. Brock simply turned and walked out. Ever the survivor, he had managed to find a way out.
Bishop looked depressed, almost sullen. He stood up, paused for a moment, and then leaned in and gently kissed Lucy on her cheek before walking out of Bell’s into the cool Manhattan night.
Lucy was puzzled for a moment. Then she called A. J.
“So, what’d you think?” she asked, a hint of excitement still in her voice.
“About Brock?” A.
J. asked.
“C’mon, A. J.”
“Okay, okay. I think it’s a good but difficult lesson. In the real world, the good guys don’t always win.”
“At least he’s resigning as PC,” Lucy said in a somber tone. “He’s going to fight ISIS as a private citizen? What’s that mean?”
“I’m not really sure,” A. J. said after a long pause. “I guess it means he’s still in the game. He lives to fight another day. At least we’re not walking away empty-handed. ”
• • •
A. J. hung up and walked slowly into his office. He sat down at his laptop and stared at the screen. After a few minutes he closed the computer. His hand was throbbing and he was totally spent, but the Motrin was starting to work.
“Annie,” he yelled, “are you ready?”
“Coming, Dad. I just need to grab my bat bag.”
“Okay, I reserved the batting cage for nine thirty, so let’s make tracks.”
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
This book could not have been done without the collective love, knowledge, patience, and support of the following people. You have our most sincere gratitude:
Judith Regan
Ron Hogan
Colby & Taylor Horowitz
Terry (Mom) & Matthew (Bro) Stanton
Brad and Lamia Jacobs and Family
Jim Conroy
Jay Novik
John, KK, Sinclair and Schiller Ranch
Big Al Sessa
Sly and Jennifer Stallone
Bill Bratton
Rikki Klieman
Megyn Kelly, Esq.
Marilyn Chinitz, Esq.
John Herzfeld and Rebekah Chaney
Phil Houston and the QVerity Team
Shirene Coburn and Coburn Communications
The Fitzgerald Family
David Zinczenko
Dan Abrams
Stephen Lang
Lara Spencer
Kimberly Guilfoyle, Esq.
Dr. Raja Flores
Dr. Emilio Biagiotti
Mark Speranza
Jon and Brandis Dietelbaum
Al and Donna Parlato and Family
Robert Strent, Esq.
Rich Gaspari
Frank Daconti
Robert Sharenow
Frank Shea
Marc Victor
Kevin Reilly
Pat Rogers
Bill Lappe
Chief Steve Silks
Chief Tom Fahey
Insp. Russell Green
Noah Oppenheim
Joe Tacopina, Esq.
Dr. Jeff Dorfman
The Musano Family
Frank and Barbara Hoffman
Stephanie Levinson
Steve and Rafael
Tara Lane
Victoria Gotti
Dan Magnan
John Miller
Ira Rosen
Paul Pietropaulo
Brian Kilmeade
Neal P. Cavuto
Andrew Wilkow
Larry Shire
Matt Zimmerman
Chris Coumo
Santina Lucci
Chris Viasto
CRAIG HOROWITZ is a former award-winning journalist with New York magazine, where he was one of the city’s best-known reporters, covering City Hall, Rudy Giuliani, the NYPD, and 9/11. He has also reported extensively from the Middle East and served as a senior writer at People magazine. A guest lecturer at Columbia’s Graduate School of Journalism and NYU’s Graduate School of Journalism, as well as a regular commentator on television and radio, his writing has been featured in many anthologies, including The Best American Crime Writing 2005 (HarperCollins). He is currently is a partner at Finsbury, a global strategic communications firm.
BILL STANTON is a recognized leader in the field of safety and security and a founding partner at QVerity. When his career as a decorated NYPD officer ended when he was injured in the line of duty, he moved into the private sector, where he specializes in executive protection and investigations. He was a safety and security contributor for both The Today Show and Good Morning America, and appears regularly on programs at FOX, CNN, Telemundo and other networks. He is the author of The Anti-Terror Checklist.
65 Bleecker Street
New York, NY 10012
Copyright © 2015 by Craig Horowitz and William Stanton
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information address Regan Arts Subsidiary Rights Department, 65 Bleecker Street, New York, NY 10012.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, incidents, and dialogue, except for incidental references to real persons, products, or places, are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, places, or events is coincidental and is not intended to refer to any actual persons, products, or places.
First Regan Arts hardcover edition, July 2015.
Library of Congress Control Number: 2015935083
ISBN 978-1-941393-59-8
eISBN 978-1-941393-94-9
Interior design by Nancy Singer
Jacket design by Ervin Serrano
Front jacket photographs: Police cars ©Joseph C. Justice Jr. / Getty Images; background lights © Jeff Spielman / Getty Images; water drops © Machmarsky / Shutterstock