Circle of Six (25 page)

Joe was casually dressed. He moved to the bar, pouring himself a bourbon neat. “What can I get you, Randy?”

I noticed the familiar manila envelope on the bed. I was sure I hadn't given him any more photos or requests. “Nothing, Joe, thanks. So what's going on?” I asked this with as much supplication as I could muster, not removing my eyes from that envelope.

He walked past me with a grin on his face, picked up the envelope and handed it to me. I didn't know what it contained, I was almost afraid to open it.
Why the sudden meeting indoors? Were there compromising pictures in the envelope of me at the bureau? Was I going to be used as a patsy for the feds?
The paranoia traveled through my body like a shot of speed. I was starting to lose it.

“Go on, open it,” he said.

I unwound the string, pulled up on the flap. Inside was a legal-size paper and a one-on-one mug shot. I removed the photo first. It wasn't a federal photo. It was a local shot, taken by the Boston Police Department. He was a black man, angry eyes, clean-shaven, closely cropped hair. I looked at Joe for some help. He nodded at the paper. I unfolded it. It had the particulars of the arrest, his NCIC numbers or arrest numbers. But the thing that really caught my eye was his name, Samson 3XX Allahtowon. He was a Muslim.

He said, with his usual sarcastic flair, “That's your answer to those forty-nines you been papering the town with.”

“How do you know about the forty-nines?”

He flopped on the bed. “C'mon, Detective,” he said, laughing. “What do you think? You New York coppers are the only ones with friends on the streets? I, my man, work for the Federal Bureau of Investigation, this ain't
some rinky-dink third world operation. FBI,
paisan
.”

Joe was proud to be working for the bureau, and I liked that about him. I once shared the same enthusiasm for my job. Again, he laughed, though it was at my expense, as it usually was, and I welcomed it. “And, Randy, this guy ain't any pug. He was one of the original players questioned in the Malcolm X hit. He's got some juice in the Nation.”

This was the home run I'd been waiting for. This was exactly what Van Lindt had asked for, an outsider with inside information. The fact that I got him through my forty-nine campaign made it that much sweeter. The info on the paper said he was collared for possession of stolen bearer bonds. That was a federal crime. What troubled me was that he had gotten jammed only two days prior. How did the feds get to him so quickly? He had to have been working as a CI for them.

Joe told me to transfer all the information off the paper onto a separate page, after which he dropped the paper in the sink and lit it on fire. “The picture's yours, Randy.”

I didn't need to ask any more questions, because I wouldn't get any answers. My answers would come from Boston. Joe Pistone knew I needed an eyewitness, and this man had to be him. The NYPD was going to Boston with a pair of roller skates. This guy would skate off his D-felony charge to help solve an A-felony case. I was sure this was legit. There was no way in hell he would offer up this info—bringing a New York City cop 450 miles—if he had nothing to trade.

I walked out of the room floating on air. My effort to go outside the NYPD had finally paid off. I was off to Bean Town. But first, I had to clear it with Muldoon.

I immediately called Van Lindt to brief him. He was as thrilled with the news. I gave him the man's pedigree and all the information on the Boston arrest. He told me he'd run it up the pole. That meant he'd have his investigators do a
round-robin
on the man, which was an in-depth search of prior arrests to see if there were any outstanding warrants on him. We could develop a decent profile on the man: was he prone to lying, what his motives could be, could those motives jeopardize our case. If this all jibed, and he gave us credible information, I knew he was walking on this D-felony charge, and so did he. This is why men and women became CIs, the quick cash and for the
get-out-of-jail card
of useful information.

A petition to go out of state for an interview with a detained subject was no simple request. Money and an out-of-state firearms permit had to
be procured, and the local and federal law enforcement arms all had to be notified that I was coming with authority to offer a deal. I decided against phoning Muldoon. As much as I hated being in his presence, this one called for a face-to-face. But really, how could he turn this down? This wasn't a high-ranking police official I was questioning; he was a perp who quite possibly knew who the shooter was. This was going to make my case.

He was in his usual position, head down at his little desk and elbow-deep in paper. He'd become more guarded of late, though, if at all possible, willing to help. I told him the news. I was shocked by his response, or lack thereof. He moved to his file cabinet, issuing me all the necessary paper needed for travel. As he quietly dropped the forms into my hands, I kept repeating, “Thank you, Sir, thank you, Sir.”

Deep inside, I knew this was the break I needed. I felt vindicated for the betrayal I'd committed against the job. They'd all come to the understanding, beyond all the mistakes that were made, all the rhetoric that was spun, and all the political posturing, someone had to answer for the murder of a New York City cop. Finally, we were all on the same page.

I filled the work out, and Muldoon sent Vito to the borough with the requests. I needed a shower and a change of clothes. I went home, loving life.

I was in that next morning at 7 a.m. I needed to pick up my out-of-state carry permit and money. From the 2-5, I'd then head to Van Lindt's office to retrieve the court-ordered writ, which essentially gave me the power to talk and deal.

I assumed the paper would be neatly bound and secured with the 2-5 squad boss. It wasn't. I went into Muldoon's office. I was surprised to find him at his desk. He was never in before 10 a.m. “Good morning, Sir.”

He turned, glancing at my overnight bag. He pulled his glasses from his face, rubbing the bridge of his nose. He had the look of a beaten man, now completely suppliant to me, suddenly at my mercy, but why? He shook his head back and forth, mustering dialogue, which he was never any good at. “The borough has denied you travel privileges.”

I felt the room close in on me, all the air suddenly sucked away. I began to speak. No words came out. My eyes dropped to the ugly green linoleum. Don't know how long I stood in the airless black silence, could've been seconds, could've been minutes. I looked at the bag in my hand. How fucking stupid I was. Then I looked at Muldoon. His back was to me. Was he embarrassed at all? I was tired of being undermined by these
pricks, tired of being the sappy suck-dick to him and the miserable gutless pissants he had colluded with. Relatively, I had been working above board; this was all going to end. I no longer wanted to be on this job with all the cowards gilded in brass. The NYPD was now the enemy, and I wasn't about to lose to a group of pirating cardboard cops. My commitment to Phil and his family was all that remained. That and the anger fueled my every move.

I was back in the moment, able to breathe. I asked, “Anything else, Sir?”

He didn't speak, and I wasn't surprised.

There was dead air on the line after I delivered the bad news to Van Lindt. He only asked, “Don't they know this is a dead cop?”

“That would only make a difference if they were cops, John.”

“I suppose you're right, Randy.”

True to his nickname, he offered this compact piece of advice, “Keep working it, Randy. We need a witness.”

Technically up to this point, I hadn't broken the law; I'd certainly committed terminable offenses as far as the job went, but nothing I could be collared for. I was about to change all that.

After hitting Vito with yet another pep talk, I went to work liberating every piece of paper on the Cardillo murder from the 2-5 shitter—fives, sixty-ones, forty-nines, all of the original aided reports. I removed the 911 tapes, my mosque mockup, and every memo-book entry made by the sixty-seven cops I'd interviewed. I boxed it all up and brought it to my Hollywood office. The crime? Burglary. You can't remove official police documents from a police facility, ever. Hell, any other time, I would've collared myself for this. I was now on dangerous ground, but honestly, I didn't give a fuck. The trail of paper I'd created led directly to One PP, and they had the authority to sequester all of that material, material that was placing them on thin ice: hindrance and nonfeasance of duty for starters. I wasn't about give them the chance to preempt me by removing and destroying this evidence. I had to manipulate my enemies and level the playing field. This was a good start.

Now isolated on Fifty-Fourth Street with enough paper to torch the porcelain palace to the ground, I went back to the daily grind—snapping useless photos, traveling all over the city, interviewing perps with no information at all. The good news was that I was becoming my own intelligence division on the Black Muslims in New York City, particularly Mosque Number 7. And
I became a wiz at getting around in Brooklyn. As far as collecting any pertinent information, I was no further along than when I first caught the case. It was frustrating, because all I had to do was knock on that mosque door and this case would suddenly turn solvable. To add to the frustration, every month I had to meet Bart Gorman, hat in hand, and lie to him about the progress of the case. “The men are getting antsy, Rand. Another Christmas right around the corner, then another year, these guys are not giving up. They want blood.”

“I'm close, Bart, very close. After I collar this guy, they can go after the job, but you have to cool them out till then. The press gets a hold of this, it'll read like we're hiding something. Trust me, I'm close. I need a little more time.”

I needed more than time. I needed a break. I kept plugging away.

Vito had been sitting on this case since 1972, two and a half years with nothing to show for it. With the information he had, he could have easily sabotaged this case. If he'd just gabbed a little, he could have set the job on fire, caused a complete shutdown by the patrol force. But he hadn't. He'd proven to me his ultimate goal was to catch his partner's killer. I went to Muldoon, requesting that he put Vito in for his gold shield. He listened, and agreed to do so, though not because Vito deserved the promotion. He did it because I explained the rank and file situation was starting to boil over again. If patrol saw Vito rewarded for his efforts in the case, it just might put a cap on their frustration for the time being.

The second week of January, the request was formally denied by One PP.

Third week of February, we found out Lynn was pregnant. I worried for our future.

In March, I met Van Lindt's replacement. Van Lindt agreed to stay on another three months to bring the next catching ADA up to speed. His name was James Harmon. Harmon and I had an immediate bond. We had both been paratroopers. He served in Vietnam; I served in Korea. Though we served in very different wars, paratroopers shared a lifelong brotherhood. Throughout the remainder of the case I'd learn just how special the bond really was.

While briefing Harmon in Van Lindt's office, I received the strangest call from Vito. Someone from the mosque had called, requesting to speak with me in person, immediately. The caller stated that
they
would be on 116th Street to greet me. Vito said the caller was not aggressive or militant. The caller also said that someone from headquarters would be present as well. I
was burning with curiosity, as was Harmon. He asked if he could ride along. I liked that.

As opposed to rolling right up on the mosque, telegraphing my arrival, I drove past 116th Street in my private vehicle. I was surprised and relieved to see three FOI men standing at the entrance with a large uniformed officer. His back was to me.

Before we got out of the car, I noticed Harmon remove his watch his necktie. When he caught me watching him, he simply shrugged his shoulders and smiled, “Hey, you never know.” I liked this man more with each passing second.

Once on 116th Street, I caught a glimpse of the cop and knew immediately who he was: Deputy Commissioner Ben Ward. Now I was really intrigued. Something was in the mix. It just didn't feel right. Who called this meet? Ward or members of the mosque? As I neared the building, I recognized all three of the FOI men. One of the men was Captain Josephs, head of the FOI. The other two men were familiar to me only from the pictures I had recently taken. As I approached, I was ready to salute Ward, but he averted his eyes immediately.

I was at the foot of the double doors, ground zero. I felt a surge of anger rip through me. I knew Josephs was the man who called this meet. His cocky attitude said as much. Ward remained silent.

I stood toe-to-toe with Josephs. He was a big man, six foot one, barrel-chested, wide-shouldered, with a large neck and hands; he was formidable, and I understood how he'd come to lead the FOI soldiers. He didn't back away. If anything, he moved closer to me, and I felt Harmon move even closer.

“I was told someone here needed to speak with me immediately,” I said, inches from his face.

His grin wasn't a smile, “Why is it that you need to speak with members of the Nation?”

I would have preferred shitting out a large piece of furniture than to have been placed in the situation I found myself in. The idea that I was summoned, like a grocery clerk, to these gates and had to justify my existence to the enemy, all in the presence of a superior officer, tore into me like shrapnel through sheetrock. His smug attitude, his perfectly knotted bowtie, his above-the-law attitude, his false sense of security, and above all else, his collusion with Ward, made me want to take his head off. I stepped closer, so close I felt the heat from his skin. “I'm conducting a police investigation
into a murder. It's none of your business why and
if
I want to interview Muslims.”

I accentuated the word
if
. I didn't want him to think I was fessing up to his accusation. His eyebrows rose dramatically into arches. “Oh, you do want to speak with them,” he said pompously.