Badge of Evil (32 page)

“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.”

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 floor 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.”

“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.