Badge of Evil (10 page)

“Ready, ladies?” Russell asked.

Bishop and Fitzgerald looked at each other and then nodded to Russell.

“Okay, then. Make ready your weapons.”

Both men felt for their holsters without taking their eyes off the targets. The tension was growing. “Don't think. React,” Russell said. “When you think, you get in trouble. Keep it simple. See the motherfucker, shoot the motherfucker.”

He waited another couple of seconds before shouting the command to fire. In a flash, both shooters sent two rounds to the body and one right between the eyebrows. They were dead even in movement, speed, and accuracy. They did two rounds like this and Russell decided to change the conditions. He added a tactical reload after the first two shots to the body. This meant releasing the magazine so it fell to the ground, inserting a new one, and getting off the last shot to the forehead. All, of course, while losing as little time as possible.

After several more rounds, it was still too close to call. “Last round,” Russell announced before their seventh attempt at the Mozambique. “Ready?” When he shouted, “Fire,” the chief was clearly a hair quicker to the draw. “That's too good,” Bishop said, holding his hands up in mock surrender after both men hit their targets. “No way I can beat that.”

•  •  •

While the chief talked to the range master, Bishop and the two cops picked up all their spent shells. This took a while since there were hundreds. Bishop was always surprised by how many rounds they fired in a short time. Then they all cleaned their weapons before Bishop and Fitzgerald took off for City Island to grab some lunch. Barely ten minutes from the range, City Island remained a great little hidden piece of New York, a tiny spit of land in Long Island Sound accessible only by a short bridge from the Bronx, with one main avenue that ran the mile-and-a-half length of the island and no street more than a couple of hundred yards from the water. It looked and felt like an old-time New England fishing village, with just over four thousand mostly middle- and working-class residents. It was the kind of place where property often stayed within families, which went a long way toward controlling the character of the place, keeping out both minorities and Manhattan yuppies looking for waterfront property.

Bishop and Fitzgerald, as always, went to Artie's, a local hangout right near the second of the three traffic lights on the island's main drag. Unlike most of the island's other restaurants, which had lots of glass and outdoor deck areas to take advantage of the water views, Artie's, with its brick interior, was as viewless as a vault. The food was the main attraction. Bishop and Fitzgerald took a table in the back along the wall.

After their time at the range, they were talking about guns and ammo. Specifically, they were engaged in the endless debate over the relative merits of a nine-millimeter versus a .45. Which inflicts more damage, the smaller, faster nine-millimeter round or the much larger, slower forty-five-millimeter bullet? It was the shooter's version of a couple of sports fans arguing over who's a better quarterback, Tom Brady or Peyton Manning.

They both ordered the lobster special, and when their drinks came, Fitzgerald changed the subject. “So when're you planning on tellin' me about your new case?” he asked. “You know, the one where you're trying to help get a terrorist off. The one where you're working for someone who wants to kill the same men, women, and children you once took an oath to protect and serve.”

Bishop thought for a moment before responding. Though he had obviously known the subject would come up, he didn't expect the chief to come on so strong right out of the gate. It caught him off guard. “Oh, you heard about that, did you?” Bishop said, trying to be cute. The effort was pointless. The chief didn't crack even a hint of a smile, and Bishop suddenly couldn't think of anything clever to say.

“Shit,” he mumbled finally, “what was I supposed to do, turn down the biggest fuckin' case I've ever been offered? Business is good, Chief, but it's not that good. I mean, think about the publicity and what this could do for my career. This could—”

“From where I sit, this looks like it could kill your career,” the chief said, interrupting him. “But let's assume you're right, and maybe you are. Lawyers get rich and famous representing subhuman cocksuckers all the time. Is that all that matters? The money? The notoriety? You have no allegiances, no belief in right and wrong? You just sell yourself to the highest bidder?”

“Chief, with all due respect, I'm not a cop anymore. I'm a private fuckin' detective. And in case you hadn't noticed, it's usually not the good guys who hire me. This is not a calling, it's a job. And often it's a pretty shitty one. I spend half my time hiding in the bushes trying to get pictures of some selfish shithead cheating on his wife. Or I gotta chase some lonely, pissed-off wife who's tryin' to get even by sucking some other guy's dick. So if I'm not doing this for the money, Chief, what the hell'm I doin' it for? Maybe a little fame, I guess, which never hurts with the ladies. And, shit, I mean the adrenaline rush is great sometimes, but if I didn't need the money, I'd give this up in a fuckin' heartbeat.”

“I understand all that, but I thought your reputation, at least within the department, meant something to you. First you leave the job under a cloud, and now this. You know, a lot of people have you in their sights right now.”

“Is that coming from you, Chief? Or are you trying to give me a heads-up about what I can expect? 'Cause if it's a warning, I appreciate the thought, but I'm a big boy and I can handle whatever shit comes my way.”

“It's nice to be confident, Frank, but when the commissioner gets wind of this he's gonna have a major hard-on for you.”

“To tell you the truth, I never thought he was all that fond of me to begin with.”

“He thinks you're completely full of shit. All style and no substance.”

“I didn't realize he knew me that well,” Bishop said with a smile. “Maybe the makin'-it-up-as-you-go-along thing cuts a little too close to home for him.”

“Funny. But this is no laughing matter. We've been friends a long time, Frank, and I want you to listen to me. You fuck with the bull, you'll get the horns. Help nail this motherfuckin' terrorist and move on.”

“But what if . . .” Bishop hesitated for a moment and then continued. “What if he's not a terrorist? What if he's—”

“See, that's the kind of subversive shit I'm talking about,” the chief said, clearly angry now. “Nobody wants to hear that. Why would you even say that?
Jee-sus
, man. What the hell was he doin' in that apartment, then? Pickin' fuckin' wallpaper? Commissioner Brock was almost killed that night and your guy was right in the middle of the action. What more do you need?”

“Look, if this is as clear-cut as you and everybody else seem to think, then there's no problem. I'll do my investigation and the scumbag'll end up gettin' fried.”

“Okay,” the chief said finally, “let's get outta here.”

•  •  •

Bishop paid the check and the two men headed for the parking lot. Walking toward his car, Fitzgerald looked back over his shoulder and asked, “Is Anthony Pennetta on your interview list?”

Bishop, about to open his car door, asked, “The ESU commander?”

“I guess that's a no. Just as well. Zito'd never talk to you anyway. He barely talks to anyone in the department unless he has to.”

With that, the chief got into his unmarked police sedan with his detective driver. As the car started to pull out of the lot, he put the window down. “Watch your back on this, Frank,” he said. “I'd hate to have to find a new sucker to hustle at the range.”

•  •  •

The two men spoke by cell this time and it was a shorter conversation. No pleasantries and no effort to make small talk. It was strictly business.

“Have you made any progress on the project we talked about?” one of the men asked to begin the conversation.

“Indeed, I have,” came the response. “I am quite gratified to say that I believe I have come up with the perfect solution. I think you'll be very pleased with the results. It will eliminate our problem and be untraceable.”

“Security at the hospital won't be an issue?”

“None whatsoever.”

“Timetable?”

“Resolution will be achieved within the next seventy-two hours. No need to give this any more thought. Consider it done.”

“I knew my faith in you would be rewarded. Thank you, my friend. I'll talk to you soon.”

AS BISHOP BEGAN
the drive back to Manhattan he had a soft, relaxed smile on his face. It was a look of satisfaction. Just when he thought that maybe he'd gone too far and the chief was really pissed at him, the old guy tossed him a batting-practice fastball right down the center of the plate. ESU commander Anthony Pennetta. “Shit,” Bishop said out loud in the car, “how the fuck could I have missed that?” He was relieved that the chief was still in his corner, but he was really annoyed with himself. He knew Pennetta should've been near the top of his interview list. The guy was in the goddamned hallway when the shooting started, and he was in the apartment only seconds after it stopped. And anyone with even a half-assed connection to the upper level of the police department and its factional, Iraqi-style politics knew Pennetta and Brock couldn't stand each other.

Nevertheless, Pennetta wasn't even on Bishop's list, and Bishop knew he'd fucked up. He'd gotten distracted by all the bullshit surrounding the case. Though Bishop seemed, to people who knew him only casually (which was most people), far more interested in getting drunk and getting laid than he was in getting the job done, he was in fact almost manic about his work.

He had no illusions. He was aware that people often thought of him as little more than a party boy, someone to hang out with. Even worse, however, he was sometimes seen as a kind of court jester, someone to provide a little diversionary entertainment and nothing more. For these people, laughing
at
Bishop was reason enough to hang out with him. By his own description, he was “the girl you wanted to fuck, not the one you wanted to take home.” This image of him was mostly the result of his younger, significantly wilder days, and he was still struggling to overcome it.

But Bishop had no regrets. In the small, competitive world of celebrity private eyes, image and self-promotion are everything. “You've really got to bang the drum and make some noise to get them in the tent,” Bishop told people. “But once they're inside, you've got to give them a good performance or they won't come back.” He never forgot that without the wild-man, do-anything, take-your-pants-off-and-get-up-on-the-bar character he'd created early on, no one would've noticed him. It was the thing that separated him from everyone else.

That, and the Bishop charm, which for many people was an acquired taste. There was nothing subtle, sophisticated, or cool about Bishop. By contemporary standards, he was pure caveman—an honors graduate of the Frank Sinatra–Arnold Schwarzenegger finishing school. He was disarming and often shockingly blunt. At a chic Manhattan restaurant one night Bishop was chatting up several attractive, obviously successful women he'd just introduced himself to at the bar while everyone was waiting for a table. There was some mildly suggestive, playful teasing and everyone was all smiles. A little while later, when the women had been seated at a table next to Bishop's, one of them got up to go to the ladies' room.

She stopped and said something innocuous to Bishop about her after-dinner plans. He smiled; picked up the long, thick pepper mill from the table; and said, “How 'bout I get some batteries for this and we have a party?” Rather than smack him or walk away horrified, she smiled, leaned over, and began stroking his ridiculously ample chest.

•  •  •

One of Bishop's plugged-in friends had once told him you know you're totally wired in New York when you can get anything you need and anybody you want to reach with two phone calls, whether it was playoff tickets, restaurant reservations, or a favor from the mayor. It was all about who you knew, not how much you had. While Bishop hadn't quite reached the Zen plateau of two phone calls, he was getting close—it took five calls to find Anthony Pennetta.

Bishop's sources told him that outside of his family and his job, Pennetta's only real passion was flying. Early in his career, he had been in the Aviation Unit, where he got his pilot's license. When he was promoted to lieutenant, he went over to the Emergency Service Unit, but he never lost his love of flying. Pennetta had four kids and was completely devoted to his family, so money was always tight, but he'd worked out a deal for flying time in exchange for giving lessons at a flight school at Republic Airport in Farmingdale, Long Island, about a forty-five-minute drive from Manhattan on a relatively quiet, traffic-free Sunday afternoon like this.

Pennetta was making final preparations for the sky time he'd been looking forward to for days when Bishop unexpectedly rolled up. Though Pennetta had no idea who he was, he figured him for someone on the job with his cocky walk and badass attitude. When Bishop introduced himself, Pennetta just stared at him. He remained silent while the private detective told him he was representing the lone survivor of the terrorist raid.

The ESU commander was an imposing physical presence, a mass of tightly controlled energy. Bishop was rarely intimidated, but with Pennetta looming over him like a stack of boxes about to topple, he felt vaguely threatened. But since Pennetta didn't make a move toward him or turn his back and walk away, Bishop figured he'd better start talking. He had no idea how much time he might have before Pennetta decided to shut him down. He tried to make small talk about flying. The sense of freedom, the beauty, the adrenaline rush. But Pennetta was clearly not in the mood for charm and bullshit.