Circle of Six (16 page)

He looked away, shaking his hands and head. “Nah, nah, nah, DT. You ain't puttin' that shit on me. I ain't had nothin' to do with that.”

“Do you really think I give a fuck if you were or weren't there? That gun did two cops, and those are your boys, and one of them is saying you were there, and he's coming to court to say you were. So the twenty years behind that bullshit we got you with is really the least of your problems. Killing a cop brings you the chair, Benjamin.”

“Man, fuck that shit. I ain't had nothin' to do with those killings. Them was the black soldiers, the same motherfucker who's been lookin' for you. Twyman motherfuckin' Meyers. And I wasn't motherfuckin' there.”

“Prove it.”

He was nervous; sweat was beading above his brow. He tried to play off the fear that was closing in on him. “Why I gots to prove it? Ask the motherfucker yo-self.”

Now I had him. “I would, if I knew where the motherfucker was.”

I sat back smiling. I saw the lights finally go on behind Benjamin's angry eyes. He relaxed and smiled. “Oh, this motherfucker get it. You want the soldier who lookin' for you.”

He realized he'd be given a pass. That is if he wasn't actually involved in the shootings, and the guns he was captured with weren't wanted in connection with any other shootings. “The guns upstairs, they gonna come back to anything stupid? Anything that's gonna piss me off?”

“Far as this nigga' know, those gats is clean.”

“I find out you playing me, you're gonna go for everything,
comprende
?”

“Yo, DT, I'm tellin' you, me and my brother knows these motherfuckers, but we ain't with them, you know what I'm sayin'?”

Benjamin Bunch turned out to be a wealth of information on all things pertaining to the BLA. Though he was quick to point out that he never met Meyers, according to Bunch, it was common knowledge in the street that Twyman Meyers was an assassin for the BLA and had targeted and murdered cops, not just in New York, but also all over the country. He described how Meyers was uniformly feared in the street, and was quickly becoming mythical in power. The urban legend that was starting to propagate around Meyers helped the BLA recruit legions of more-than-ready and willing, black soldiers.

Everything that Bunch had given me was street info, secondhand, which meant that he could not corroborate in court with damning firsthand knowledge of any of the murders. But Bunch knew the whereabouts of Meyers's support system, his safe house.

Meyers and his men had a slew of women who willingly offered food, shelter, and sex. These dens were usually far from Harlem, where the police and the FBI had stepped up dragnets and raids. Bunch gave a street, Tinton Avenue, the Bronx. He didn't have a specific house, but he knew the building was the second one off of Pontiac Place, on the left-hand side in the direction of 152nd Street. As recent as two days prior, Meyers was spotted there in the company of a pregnant woman.

We did our due diligence on the guns, running all the serial numbers. None came back stolen or wanted, though it would take at least a week to
do a national check on them. We gave the Bunch brothers a deal, as long as the info was credible and Meyers was caught.

This was the closest anyone had gotten to the upper echelon of the BLA.
Was the pendulum finally swinging back in our favor?
I prayed to Saint Michael, the patron saint of police: Let the information be truthful, and let me be the first person to lay eyes, cuffs, or bullets on Meyers. I was so close, and getting closer.

Every available undercover detective and federal agent was set up. I knew if Meyers was there, it would be just a matter of time before audacity got the best of him, and he'd make a mistake. At least that's what I was hoping for.

There were teams of three working around the clock in the area of Tinton Avenue. None of the detectives and agents read
prototypical cop
. They were excellent UCs, all with a lot of time spent in overt surveillance, meaning they were adept at hiding in plain sight.

I was so anxious that if my tour started at 4:30 p.m., I would be in at 11:30 in the morning. It had been two years since I had this predator in my cuffs. Then he was freed to kill again and then he brought his filth upon my family.

I couldn't stay on or near the set. If Meyers saw me first, he'd follow me until he had opportunity and advantage; and he'd execute me. So I roamed the outside area of Tinton, giving myself a five-block buffer zone. That way I could get to the set if they needed an ID on Meyers before taking him down. But in my heart of hearts, I hoped to see him before anyone else.

I was into my fourth night near the set, as were a small division of DTs, special agents, and Tactical Patrol Force cops—used for riot control—in case of a nasty struggle. I was beginning to think Meyers had been tipped. It was dark, and I'd been near the set for close to thirteen hours. I decided to call it a day. I'd be back the next morning.

The phone was ringing as I opened my apartment door.

I was greeted by a friendly voice, “What's up, Kid?”

It was Ambrose. “What, you miss me already?”

He laughed sarcastically, “Yeah, yeah, yeah, we all miss our little ray of sunshine.”

“I bet you do. You need help with some ground balls?”

“Not on my worst day,” he laughed, but I knew he hadn't called to chat. He continued, “Listen, Kid, I just got a phone call from—and you're not going to believe this—Robert Daley.”

“Daley? What'd he want?”

“Well, he didn't want me. He wanted you.”

I laughed, still not grasping the importance of the call. “What'd he get off the wrong stop on the A train, got jumped on 125th?”

“No, he left me his home number, told me it was very important that you call him ASAP.”

“Amby, did he say what he needed?”

“Guy was short, sweet, and to the point, Randy.”

Amby rattled off the number. Before we hung up, he said, “Randy, listen, we need to talk.”

“So let's talk. What's up?”

He hesitated, “Been hearing lots of talk coming from downtown, mostly rumors, but anything from below the fifth should be considered, cause those suits don't know how to keep a fucking secret, secret.”

Below the fifth
was code for police headquarters. I was intrigued. “What did you hear?”

“Sleepy's retiring.”

“And...”

“Rumor has it, you gonna get it. And before you take the case, you and I need to talk, in person.”

I fell into a chair. A wave of nausea came over me. I was rocked by a stabbing pain behind my eye. I moved my hand just above my ear, the point of impact from the brick. This always happened when I placed myself back in time to April 14.

“You all right, Kid?” He asked.

The thought of catching the biggest case of the NYPD, arguably, in the last century, where so much was at stake, sent a shiver down my back. “Yeah, Amby, just a little tired. I'm doing a ten-by, tomorrow. I'll stop by the house before I head up. We'll talk then.”

I didn't want to churn anymore rumors in the mill. We agreed to meet in the morning. I hung up, still clinging onto Daley's number. I wondered if he'd heard the same. I was catching this horror of a case. Curiosity got the best of me. I called him.

Daley picked up the phone on the first ring, like he'd been waiting for my call. “Bob Daley?” I asked.

“I know that voice; it's Randy Jurgensen,” he said, laughing cordially.

“So I got your message. What can I do for you, Bob?”

“Well honestly, Randy, there's much to talk about, but I'd prefer to do it in person.”

He didn't give me a chance to question him further, “How's tomorrow looking for you?”

Everyone was aware of Daley's angry separation from the job, his fervent attempt to disclose the truth behind Phil's murder. And after realizing all the dishonesty that was forced upon him, it took a lot of guts to drop his shield on the PC's desk. From where I stood, he was one of the good guys. “Okay, Bob. Best time for me is before eight in the morning.”

“Perfect, Randy. I'll come to you, where?”

“Let's meet at the Skyway Diner on eleventh, around 6:30. That good for you?”

I intentionally chose an early meeting time, wanting to see how urgent this was. His response kept me up most of the night. “Excellent, I'll be there 6:30, sharp.”

Robert Daley was sipping coffee as I entered the Skyway Diner. His head was buried in a mound of papers, and as I approached, I noticed an abundance of gray developing on his temples. He wasn't the young prodigy anymore, handpicked by Murphy himself to head up the DCPI.

He stood as I neared the table, inconspicuously in the back of the cop-heavy diner. I assumed he wanted to be as discreet as possible.

“Randy, you're looking good,” he said as he firmly shook my hand.

“You too, Bob. You too.”

We sat. He shuffled the handwritten pages into a worn brown leather satchel, the kind college professors carried. I could see why Murphy chose Daley for the center stage position of public information. He was a good-looking man who projected both intelligence and decisiveness; Daley was one of the very few intelligent appointees made by Murphy. “I haven't had one of these covert sit-downs since I found out there was $50,000 put on my head. I hope it hasn't been upped on me.”

He grinned at my attempt to get right to the point. “Well honestly, Randy, I personally think you're worth way more than fifty, but that's just me.”

He was good at what he did—extracting and disseminating information—and for good reason. He made you feel as though you were his equal, no higher on the pedestal of power and no lower. He made you feel like he was coming to
you
, whereas many deputy commissioners created a
“great-and-powerful-Oz” vibe.

“So, Randy, I'm writing a book. It's called
Target Blue
, and I'd love to talk to you about it.” He must've recognized frustration develop behind my eyes. “Before you say no, let me at least give you my pitch.”

Daley was not that far removed from the job. He had to have known that Meyers showed his face at my mother's home. He had to have known that they were relocated out of state, and he'd have to have known that I was working the BLA again. “The book is a culmination of a year in the life of the NYPD, the Knapp corruption, the BLA, climaxing with the murder of Phil Cardillo. Randy, you are a big part of this department, especially this past year. The book won't be complete unless your insight is attached.”

“Who else knows about this book, Bob?”

“They know about it, Randy,” he grinned, “A press release was sent to the Deputy Commissioner of Public Information offices. I'm sure it was forwarded to the twelfth floor.”

The twelfth floor was the PC's office. I got a laugh out of that. “Bob, all due respect, and I do respect you for what you've been through and what you've done. But you have to understand; I'm still working the job. I do an all around telling secrets...”

He was quick, “Telling the truth.”

“Okay, telling the truth. I tell the truth and those guys in the puzzle palace won't fire me. You wanna know what they'd do? Strip me of my shield, put me back in the bag, and demote me to paper disposal at One PP. I haven't given this job fifteen years of my life to give anyone that type of advantage on me. There's just too much to lose, Bob.”

He sat back, a little deflated, though we both knew there was a long line of guys who would pay him for the opportunity to publicly vent. “I understand, Randy. But you have to know that this book and all it will assert has to be told.”

I believed it was going to be an accurate description of how the NYPD had been undermined and subsequently torn down under political pressure. And there was no one better to tell it than the man who was once the liaison between the police department, the mayor's office, the people of New York, and the rest of the world. It would certainly be an incendiary distraction, but despite that I felt gratitude. The bastards at One Police Plaza deserved to be exposed, and Robert Daley was just the man to do it.

I stood and shook his hand. I said, “You write that book, Bob. Tell it the way it really is, and don't hold a fucking thing back.”

He smiled and said, “You can count on it, Randy.”

I walked out of the diner convinced that Daley's book was going to do more good than bad. The rank and file needed someone to tell the truth about April 14. They needed validation for the anger and frustration they felt toward the job and the bosses. It was then that I finally understood why the bosses were so intent on creating the
Blue Book
Vito talked about; they needed to preempt Daley's book. It was going to be interesting to see which one came out first, the book of lies or the book of truths. But still, the focus wasn't anywhere near Phil Cardillo's killer.

Amby had two cups of black waiting when I arrived at the 2-8 squad. We walked and talked through Harlem.

“What'd Daley want?” He asked.

“Guy's writing a book. He wanted to interview me for it. You believe that?”

He tilted his big head toward me. “And you said?”

“C'mon, Amby, I was born in the day, but not yesterday.”

“Good, so that brick didn't totally turn your brain into Jell-O.”

“Nah, I got about five years till retirement; wanna make them good ones.”

“Well you got more than five if you want, you know.”

I knew Amby was getting at something. As usual, he got right to the point. “Your star is on the rise. Job ain't gonna forget what happened to your family. You know that, yes?” I nodded. “Did a little prying and you're about fourteen names from first grade.”

First grade was the pinnacle position to have as a New York City detective. Out of the 3,000 cops assigned to the detective bureau, 2,400 were third grade, the lowest position, 310 were mid-rank second grade detectives, and 290 were first grade, the highest position. First grade was what every street cop aspired to be, including Amby and me.

He had my attention. “Once you get grade, you can work the tit anywhere in the city, do what you want, run any operation you want. But you have to stay on the high road.”