Badge of Evil (14 page)

Bishop began to hear sirens. He didn't have much time. “Okay, fatso, let's see how tough you are now. It's time for us to have a conversation.” With the sirens getting louder, he pulled “Muhammad” over to the stove and pushed his face down close to one of the open flames—so close that some of his hair began to singe. “Start talking,” Bishop commanded. “Why the strong-arm? Why try and play it so tough?”

Sweat was literally pouring off the guy now and Bishop thought he might be having a little trouble breathing. Through clenched teeth he said, “It was your people who told me not to talk.”

“My people?” Bishop said incredulously. “The fuck you talkin' about, ‘my people'?”

“The cops. They threatened me—”

Just then Bishop heard the sound of breaking glass and the front door being smashed in. “Shit,” he said out loud, “I guess your friends are back.” He also heard the sirens out front now and the sound of screeching brakes. Keeping the gun against the head of his hostage, Bishop moved back into the front room, where nearly thirty people were screaming and yelling and on the verge of starting a riot with Bishop at the center. Then there was a sea of blue pushing through the mob. Bishop shoved “Muhammad” toward the enraged Muslims and quickly holstered his weapon.

Raising his hands high above his head, he started yelling, “I'm retired off the job. I'm retired off the job.”

The sergeant came over to Bishop. “Ever think of becoming a diplomat?” he asked him. “What the hell happened here? Never mind, I don't wanna know. Did you call in the ten-thirteen?”

“A ten-thirteen?” Bishop said, repeating the urgent radio code used when an officer needs assistance. “I didn't call any ten-thirteen in. But I'm pretty sure I know who did.”

•  •  •

About forty-five minutes later, the crowd had been uneventfully dispersed, police were taking statements, and Bishop was sitting in the back of a patrol car two blocks away, hands cuffed behind his back. He was tired and dirty and his side ached where one of the Muslim goons had rammed his shoulder into him. But more than anything else, Bishop was worried about damage control. He'd have to call Victoria, a call he dreaded, because he knew she'd go nuts on him. And what could he say? How would he explain what happened?
Fuck
, he thought,
this is a disaster.
Bishop was angry with himself for letting it happen—no, for
making
it happen. He had too much at stake now to eagerly get into these kinds of brawls. But he kept pushing anyway. It was like he couldn't stop himself. It was time to grow up. He rubbed his side where it was sore. He wished he had some Motrin.

He also wished he could bitch-slap that arrogant little prick A. J. Ross for bolting on him when things heated up. Not that he was expecting any help, but still . . . On the other hand, he did call in a 10-13 to bring out the cavalry. Whatever. He needed to focus. Maybe he should call Chief Fitzgerald. Why would the cops threaten “Muhammad” and tell him not to talk? Just then, the car door opened and a big man with broad shoulders that spanned a good portion of the front seat got in.

“You really fucked up, Bishop,” the man said in a deep voice without looking in the rearview mirror to make eye contact with Bishop. “Big- shot PI. Always on the cable shows shootin' your mouth off, gettin' mentioned in the papers. This time you went too far, jerk-off. You're sticking your fuckin' nose in shit that doesn't concern you.”

“Are you reading that off your sleeve or did you memorize it?” Bishop asked.

“That's funny, dickhead. But we'll see who's laughing at the end of the day.”

“Who the hell are you and why are we sitting in the car?” Bishop asked, thinking maybe the guy looked and sounded familiar. He was huge, about six feet six, and black.

“Shut up and do as I say or you'll end up at Central Booking, which is where you belong. Here's how it's gonna work. We're going for a little ride. There's someone who wants to talk to you,” he said, starting the car.

“Hey, Frankenstein. Can I call you Frankenstein even though you're black? I mean, I'm not violating some politically correct race thing if I do that, am I? I can't think of any black monsters. Does Blacula count? Sorry, I meant Count Blacula,” Bishop said, laughing at his own lame joke. “I don't think there were any actual black monsters, were there? Whatever. Anyway, we're going for a little ride? Are you kidding me with this bull—”

“
Shut the FUCK up!
” the guy screamed, cutting him off. “That's your last warning. You either shut up and listen or you can kiss your pistol license and your PI license good-bye. Am I clear?”

Bishop didn't say anything, just sat back and tried to place the guy. Who in the NYPD would be able to take a precinct sector car off-line and use it at will, like his personal vehicle? No detective he knew could do that. And the guy's suit was way too nice for a detective. Maybe he was a chief? But Bishop was pretty sure he knew all the chiefs. One thing was clear as they got on the expressway—they were headed to Manhattan.

Traffic was very light and in no time they were in midtown. Bishop still had no idea what was going on. They pulled over on Fifty-Third Street and Broadway, to a side entrance of the Sheraton. The guy helped Bishop out of the car and—
finally!
—took the cuffs off. “Remember,” he said as they headed into the hotel, “behave.” Once they were inside the Sheraton's blue and beige lobby, it was clear that some event was about to start, as hundreds of expensively dressed people were funneling into the main ballroom. Security personnel were everywhere. People in and out of uniform acknowledged the big guy and Bishop. Some of them were talking into their wrist, and Bishop wondered if they were Secret Service or part of the NYPD's Intelligence Division. Almost everyone, guests and security alike, was in black tie.

“Hey, Frankenstein,” Bishop said quietly as they got into a side elevator, “if you'd given me a heads-up I would've had my tux ready. I own three, in case you were wondering. One's a Hugo Boss, six-button double-breasted model with peaked lapels. Another is a shawl collar—”

“Shut up,” the big guy said, cutting Bishop off, and Bishop could see by the look on his face he was serious.

The elevator stopped on the fifteenth floor, where there was a security guy waiting, and the three of them headed to the corner suite. The double doors swung open and revealed a huge living area done in subtle beige tones, with lots of marble, an oak dining table, a plush leather couch, and a flat-screen TV. Standing by the floor-to-ceiling windows that looked south on Times Square was A. J. Ross. A bored-looking female security agent stood by the dining table.

Bishop looked at A. J. and with a shrug of his shoulders said, “What the fuck? What is this, the NYPD's rendition program?”

“Cute,” A. J. said, obviously annoyed. “Guys,” he said, looking at his watch and turning to the security agents, “I've been here a long time. I know he's doing me a favor, but I gotta tell you, if he doesn't show in the next five or ten minutes, I'm outta here. My time is valuable as well.”

Almost on cue, the female agent, with her head cocked and her index finger pressed to her IFB wireless earpiece, said into her wrist: “Affirmative, both subjects are here awaiting the Eagle, ten-four.” Looking at A. J., she said, “He's in the elevator and on the way up.”

“Hey,” Bishop said, “is anybody gonna tell me what the fuck is going on?”

“No,” A. J. responded. “Just shut up.”

Before Bishop could fire back, the doors swung open, there was a flurry of activity, and moving like a fighter surrounded by his entourage on his way to the ring, Lawrence Brock made his entrance. Wearing a tuxedo and holding an unlit cigar the size of an electric toothbrush in his left hand, Brock was all smiles. While the people around him all seemed to be talking on their cell phones, the commissioner shook hands with A. J. and Bishop.

“Let's step in the other room so we can have some privacy,” he told them. “I apologize that I'm a little pressed for time, but I've got to get downstairs shortly and introduce the mayor. It's a fund-raising dinner.”

“Commissioner,” one of his aides said, “please remember we need to go over your speech again.”

“I know, I know,” he said, raising his cigar-laden hand. “Give me five minutes with no interruptions.” The aide looked at her watch, smiled curtly, took out her cell, and began dialing.

The commissioner ushered A. J. and Bishop into the other room of the suite and closed the door behind them. Lighting his cigar, Brock said behind a big puff of smoke, “Guys, before I ask how the two of you know each other, I've got a more important question. What the fuck are you doing?”

Both men were dumbfounded. They stared at him not knowing what to say. “Really, boys,” Brock began again, as if he were talking to two mischievous children. “What are you doing? The entire city is kissing my ass. They want me canonized, and you morons are out in Brooklyn turning over rocks to try and find some fuckin' Muslim to piss on me and the department. I don't get it. Bishop, if it wasn't for A. J. here calling me, you'd be down at Central Booking right now getting your picture taken. A. J., I thought you keep better company than this. You can kiss your exclusive good-bye if this is who you're gonna run around with.”

Brock paused for a moment, checked his watch, and took a long drag on his cigar. Exhaling, he said, “We can all get what we want here. A. J., call my office tomorrow and let's schedule dinner. Bishop, if you stop chasing ambulances and trying to make me look like an asshole, I could probably even throw you a bone.”

“Hey, Commish,” Bishop said, “I was just wonderin'. Who's the Frankenstein-looking assbag who drove me here?”

Brock smiled. “You're a piece of fuckin' work. That's Chester, he's part of my detail. Think you could take him? I'd like to see that.”

Bishop didn't say anything. “All right, guys,” Brock said finally, “I gotta get going. I assume we're clear on this. I'd invite you to the dinner downstairs, but you both look like you're in desperate need of a shower. Not to mention a tailor.”

With that, Brock walked past Bishop without acknowledging him and enthusiastically shook A. J.'s hand. “Call my office to set up the dinner.” Then, from the other room: “And don't forget you owe me now, A. J.”

As Brock went out the door, everyone else followed. In an instant, the suite was empty except for A. J. and Bishop. For a moment they just stood there staring at each other.

“Shit,” Bishop said suddenly through a half-cracked smile. “My fucking car is still in Brooklyn.”

LUCY WAS AT
her desk at the
New York
offices, which was right outside A. J.'s office. Her cubicle was small but comfortable and had the cluttered look of someone who was not just busy, but busy working on a variety of different projects simultaneously. There were stacks of press releases and invitations on her desk, a growing tower of newspapers on the floor, and dozens of Post-it notes with instructions from A. J. stuck all over the place like random yellow decorations. There were no personal items except for one small photo of Lucy and her father taken at his sixtieth-birthday party.

She was on the phone with a news producer at a local TV station, hoping to track down footage of the Kevin Anderson murder-suicide scene in the Hamptons. As she was wrapping up the call, she saw Frank Bishop approaching her cubicle. She recognized him from his TV appearances. “Hi,” she said, “can I help you?”

“Ah, I'm sure you could,” he responded lecherously, with a big snow-white, bleached-teeth grin. “But right now I'm looking for A. J. Ross.”

Lucy ignored the lame attempt at . . . what, charm? Flattery? Wit? She wasn't sure what it was. She felt like it was just one of those days when every guy she dealt with seemed more immature than the last.

“He's not in the office,” she said with just a hint of edge in her voice. “I'm his assistant.”

“My name is Frank Bishop. I'm a private investigator,” he said completely straight, having noted Lucy's icy reaction to his opening line.

“Yes, A. J. told me about you.”

“Okay, given how this is going so far, I can guess what he said. Anyway, I need to talk to him.”

“Don't you have his cell—”

“It's Lucy, right?” Bishop asked, cutting her off. “I do,” he lied, “but I really need a face-to-face. It's important.”

“Well, he won't be back this afternoon. He coaches his daughter's softball team and they have practice today.”

“I don't suppose there's any chance I can get you to—”

“What? Tell you where they practice? I'll make you a deal, Mr. Bishop. I have to drop off some papers for him. If you promise you'll tell him you forced me at gunpoint, I'll let you drive me out there.”

Twenty minutes later, Bishop and Lucy were on the West Side Highway heading toward the George Washington Bridge. The decision to take the bridge and not the Lincoln Tunnel was made only after a brief argument. Lucy pushed for the tunnel because it was more direct. But it was a beautiful afternoon and Bishop, predictably, wanted to put the top down on his Porsche and enjoy the ride. Once the small talk began, it made Lucy wish they were still arguing about the route.

“So,” Bishop asked with a smirk on his face, “what's a nice girl like you doing working for an elitist, liberal douchebag like Ross?”

Normally, Lucy would've gone nuts over a remark like that, but she was certain Bishop was intentionally baiting her, crudely probing to get some idea of who she was. “Does this technique work with all the women you try to fuck? Or fuck with?” Lucy asked, deciding to dive straight in.