Badge of Evil (23 page)

“Hey, hey, watch your mouth,” Brock said. “Let's have a little respect. What's the matter with you, anyway? You afraid of heights?”

“Who the fuck isn't?”

Brock had made sure one of the ESU guys brought along a camera; he'd taken a few pictures during the climb and he was taking some now with the skyline in the background. One of the other officers was unloading his pack, which contained drinks and sandwiches from Brock's favorite restaurant. “Hey, guys,” the commissioner said. “Do me a favor. Go down to the truck and take out a bottle of champagne. I forgot to put it in the pack. I need all four of you to go.” The sergeant hesitated, not wanting to abandon his responsibility, but one quick look from the commissioner was all it took. He knew Brock wanted to be alone with the chief and he was not to be argued with.

Once the ESU guys started their descent, Brock looked at Fitzgerald, who still seemed to be scowling. “You know this is not just about me,” the commissioner said. “This is for all of us, everybody in the crew. When one of us succeeds, we all succeed. That's what we always said. So you're coming with me.” Before Fitzgerald could protest, he said, “I don't want to hear anything, Chief, you're coming to Washington. But first you need to clean up the mess with Bishop and A. J. There's nothing they can do to hurt us. They'll never connect the dots. All the same, make it go away. That motherfucker Bishop has always been a pain in the ass, even when he was a cop. Maybe someday you'll explain to me why you protect him. As far as Supreme goes, leave him to me. We can't have any loose ends. The FBI's gonna be all over the vetting process and I need to look clean. And so, by the way, do you.”

Fitzgerald knew better than to argue when Brock was like this. The commissioner was pacing back and forth on the tower, each time coming and closer to the edge. Fitzgerald just sat and watched, careful not to send any signals with his body language or his facial expressions to antagonize the commissioner. He was just trying to ride out the storm. But he knew that ultimately something did need to be done about Bishop and A. J.

“Everything's under control, Commish,” Fitzgerald said finally. “I pulled a few strings, so Supreme's not getting outta Rikers any time soon, even though he's got that bitch Victoria Cannel representing him now. His bail was denied. I got him being watched, and I got Bishop and A. J. Ross and his assistant under surveillance as well. Whenever any one of 'em takes a piss, I'll know what shade of yellow it is.”

The commissioner, certain he'd gotten his message across, had relaxed and became upbeat again. He walked to one corner of the tower and motioned for Fitzgerald to join him. When the chief reluctantly complied, Brock put his arm around him and fully extended his other arm, pointing north. Fitzgerald was wondering what the hell the commissioner was doing. It was a strange, almost statuelike pose. Then it clicked. The chief looked down and saw a throng of reporters and cameras gathered at the foot of the bridge, tipped off to the photo op, no doubt, by Brock's people.

The wind picked up a little, swirling around the two men as they stood together stiffly for another few moments. Fitzgerald looked at the pleasure-boat traffic on the water. For just an instant, he had a wistful, envious sensation. How nice it would be, he thought, to spend a Saturday on the river, or in a park, or lying on the couch like a normal person. Maybe he'd reached the time in his life when he wanted to be able to go home on Friday and shut down, to leave it all at the office until after the weekend.

“Chief, Chief.” He suddenly realized Brock was trying to get his attention. “Are you with me? All right, it's time to go down.”

The moment of doubt for Fitzgerald passed. “What's the mayor gonna say when he sees photos of this little escapade?” he asked.

“Well, I guess I'll find out shortly. I'm going to see him as soon as we're done.”

“Aren't you concerned?” Fitzgerald asked.

“Fuck him,” Brock said with a full measure of arrogance. “This is our time.”

•  •  •

Mayor Domenico was uncharacteristically subdued when Brock met with him. There was no yelling, no grand theatrical gestures, and no playing to the cheap seats. He sat behind his desk and was pretty much all business. He had his glasses on, his sleeves rolled up, and an unlit cigar stuck in his left hand. Brock was a little disappointed, but he knew this was a session they had to have. Domenico was in operational mode. He'd been a high-ranking attorney in the Justice Department, so he knew the system and he knew exactly how the process would go. He had his secretary bring in a pad for Brock so he could take notes. The mayor then spent about thirty minutes briefing the police commissioner on who he needed to call, which lawyers had to be involved, what paperwork had to be pristinely presented, and which of his cronies he'd have to jettison.

The mayor asked Brock several times if he anticipated any hot spots, anything the investigators might find that could potentially be a problem. Each time he asked, Brock responded in the same way: No, sir, there was nothing he was aware of that should cause any problems. And each time it came up, the mayor reminded Brock in a severe but muted tone that this was not just about him. The mayor told Brock, as if it needed repeating, that his long-term plan was a run for the White House, otherwise he might've taken the Homeland Security job himself. Therefore, any embarrassment, any humiliating surprise during the approval process, was absolutely unacceptable, since it would potentially damage much more than just Brock's nomination.

It was a painfully difficult position for the mayor to be in. Though he wasn't his usual demonstrative self, he was seething. Despite the intense closeness of Domenico's relationship with Brock, and the fact that Brock had always unquestioningly deferred to his authority, Domenico was, for the first time, concerned that the police commissioner might ultimately be impossible to control. It was a bitter pill for him to swallow. Domenico had built his entire public life on the themes of discipline, personal accountability, and control. Every fire, every shooting, every water-main break, Domenico was there in his windbreaker letting everyone know he was in charge. It was always
his
cops and
his
crime-control strategies that made the city safe. If a reporter asked him why the schools were failing, he'd say it was because he didn't control them. But it turned out that the arrogant tough guy now might not be able to control his police commissioner—a monster that he, in true Dr. Frankenstein fashion, had created. He'd fired one of Brock's predecessors, one of the most effective police commissioners in decades, just because he thought the guy was getting too much press. Now, with Brock, he'd begun to have real moments of doubt.

“What about the raid?” Domenico asked, getting up from behind his desk for the first time. “What's the status of the various investigations?”

“We'll be fine,” Brock said without any attitude. He sensed the mayor's quiet agitation. “Now that the last Arab's dead, there are no witnesses other than cops. The investigations at this point are simply routine and should be wrapped up shortly.”

“What about the deaths of Jafaari and his family?”

“I have no reason at this point to think it was anything other than what's been reported, a distraught mother who killed her son and took her own life,” Brock said.

The mayor, who'd been walking around the office for the last five minutes or so, now leaned against his desk, right in front of Brock. “Get moving right away on those instructions I gave you earlier,” he said. “The sooner you get started, the less friction there'll be in the process.”

They shook hands and Brock stood up to leave. When he was by the door, the mayor said, “Oh, I almost forgot. One more stunt like this morning's little show on the bridge, and I'll pull the fucking plug on your nomination myself. Close the door on your way out.”

THE LATE SATURDAY
-morning sun hit Lucy right in the face, momentarily blinding her as she drove east out of Manhattan in her rental car. She fumbled with her right hand to get her sunglasses out of the bag resting on the seat next to her. Once she got them on, the road reappeared and she was able to relax. Lucy loved to drive and it was something she'd rarely gotten to do since moving to the city. She was still a little tired from the all-night ordeal that began at Roxx and ended with her getting booked downtown, but she was feeling really good. She'd slept through most of the afternoon and then gotten another solid ten hours that night. More important, she was very happy with the way she'd handled herself when things got ugly. She'd never really been tested that way before, and she was thrilled that she'd been tough enough to maintain her composure and deal with it like a professional.

When they left Bell's yesterday, A. J. had tried to get her to go home with him so his wife, Nikki, could pamper her and she'd be guaranteed some rest. But Lucy just wanted to lie down in her own bed and sleep. Surprisingly, A. J. relented, dropping her off at her apartment once she'd promised to call when she got up. On the way there, she convinced A. J. that she was fine, just a little tired, and he should let her go to the Hamptons to interview Kevin Anderson's wife. He was resistant, but she got him to cave on this, too, making it clear to him that he couldn't be in two places at once and his priority, given everything that had happened, should be a face-to-face with Supreme at Rikers Island.

Lucy had made this trip to the Hamptons countless times over many summers. It was almost a ritual. For a while, it was all partying all the time. She'd stay at some rich player's house with her model girlfriends; they'd hang out poolside during the day, and at night they'd go from one A-list event to another. She was on every publicist's guest list. Eventually she graduated to more sophisticated outings where the conversation was a little more interesting and the people had a lot more money, but the bottom line was more or less the same—too many annoying men hitting on her, a memorable hangover, and a really empty feeling the next day.

This trip would be very different. She thought about how far she'd come in such a short period of time. It was strange. In some ways, it seemed like only yesterday that she'd been a model, and in other ways it seemed like another lifetime. Lucy never thought of modeling as a long-term thing, but the money had been great, the perks even better, and for a while the whole thing just became irresistible. It was also fairly easy. Mindless, but easy. She remembered the moment she knew she was done. She was at a studio shoot in SoHo for the spring lines from the hot new Italian designers of the season, and for the first time in her career she decided to make a creative suggestion. She wasn't being annoying or temperamental or acting like a diva. She simply thought the setup for the shot could be more interesting. Lucy was standing under the lights and a stylist was primping and fussing with her clothes when she offered her suggestion. There was no response. No one even looked at her. The music in the studio was pretty loud so at first she thought maybe no one heard her. She said it again, a little more assertively, and there was still no response. This time it was clear they were ignoring her. Finally, when she'd repeated it a third time the photographer said, “Sweetheart, please don't worry about anything other than looking beautiful. It'll give you wrinkles.” That afternoon she went online and began the application process for grad school. She continued to model quite a bit that spring, but she knew the end was in sight. She took the summer off, and in September, she started classes at Columbia to get her master's in journalism.

As she passed Exit 60 on the Long Island Expressway, Lucy turned off the radio and plugged in her iPod to play her favorite recording of Vivaldi's
The Four Seasons
, featuring Isaac Stern, Pinchas Zukerman, Itzhak Perlman, and Shlomo Mintz. She needed to focus on the task at hand and classical music always helped her concentrate. Almost overnight, she'd gone from handling mostly banal, run-of-the-mill research tasks and the occasionally interesting background interview for A. J. to serious reporting. Every interview she did now was crucial and had the potential to break a big story. More important, lives were possibly on the line. Lucy knew she needed to get this right, but she just wasn't sure about the best way to handle a woman whose husband had been found dead in the bedroom of their house with a naked hooker who'd been beaten to death.

•  •  •

While Lucy was on her way out to Long Island to see Yvette Anderson, A. J. trekked uptown to Harlem for a little background work and some waffles and fried chicken at Willie's Uptown, a restaurant that served what was often called the “best Southern food north of the Mason-Dixon Line.” A few minutes after A. J. walked in and sat down at a table, the owner, a very large man named Willie Lynch, came out of the kitchen to say hello. “It's been too long, brother,” Willie said warmly. “We gotta get you uptown more often.”

“You know I love coming here,” A. J. said with a smile, “but every time you feed me, I've gotta spend a week at the gym doing double time.”

“Hey, no talk about waistlines today. I'm gonna make sure you and the reverend leave my place happy.”

“You always do, but don't go to any trouble for me,” A. J. said.

“It's no trouble. It's what I love to do, especially for good people like you and the Rev.”

With that, the front door opened and the Reverend Kellen “Muddy” Watters walked in. There were few bigger head-turners in New York than Watters. Whatever else he was, and he was many things, he was a transcendent celebrity, the kind of personality that made people of every color and from every walk of life stop and take notice when they saw him. Even people who couldn't stand him had to acknowledge his extraordinary television presence and his skill at manipulating the conventions and symbols of the black struggle for civil rights. Every aggravating Day of Outrage he conducted, every mindless cry of “No justice, no peace!” and every appearance with a black family grieving over the murder of one of its members had left an image of Watters burned into the public psyche.