Badge of Evil (22 page)

Everyone in Bell's went silent as the president stepped to the microphone and Brock, in a nicely tailored gray suit, white shirt, and red tie, stood about a step behind him on his left side. With his chest out, his shoulders back, and his gaze fixed on the commander in chief, Brock looked very confident. “Good morning,” the president began. “I'm proud to announce my nomination of Commissioner Lawrence Brock as the secretary of Homeland Security.” Right on cue, Victoria let loose a huge raspberry. “Very mature,” A. J. said, laughing.

“Lawrence Brock is one of the most accomplished and effective leaders of law enforcement in America,” the president continued. Throughout his career, he has demonstrated a deep commitment to justice, a heart for the innocent, and a record of great success.”

“All right,” Victoria said loudly, “that's it. I don't know about the rest of you, but I can't take any more of this. It's bad enough that fat skirt chaser, who by the way hits on me every fucking time I see him, has become some kind of national hero and he's keeping me off the front page, but Homeland Security? Jesus Christ.”

As Victoria ranted, A. J. continued to catch pieces of the president's introduction of Brock. “. . . he understands the duties that came to America on September 11. Commissioner Brock takes that responsibility so seriously, so personally, that last week he put his own life at risk in the active pursuit of those who seek to destroy us. In the name of freedom, he rushed into a dark, danger-filled apartment—”

“A. J., A. J.” The sound from the TV cut out, and A. J. realized Victoria was calling his name, waving the remote in her hand.

“Uh, sorry,” he said a little sheepishly, “I was listening to the president.”

“Well, now it's time to listen to me,” Victoria bellowed. “We need to figure out what the fuck is going on here. First off, I'm now representing Supreme. Bishop, that means your lazy ass is still on the payroll.”

Bishop looked at A. J. and shrugged his shoulders in a gesture of resignation. “Okay,” Bishop said, principally to A. J., “now I have a reason to stay in the game.”

“But there'll be no more episodes like last night,” Victoria continued, “or we're done. When I call, I need to be able to reach you. Understood? The next time you turn your phone off when I want you will be the last time I want you. And the first thing I want you to do is find out who got to the judge. I want to know why I wasn't able to get Supreme released on bail.”

A. J. stole a look at the screen. As the president finished his announcement, Brock stepped forward. As was his custom, he threw his right arm around the president's shoulder and gave him a good squeeze. The president smiled and then stepped back, allowing Brock to have center stage for his brief statement. A. J. turned to the group and began to explain his feeling about the extraordinary events of the past two weeks to Victoria and Lucy.

“I don't know exactly what's going on here,” Bishop said, jumping in, “but something's fucked up. No way two murder-suicides are a random coincidence. No way the Jafaari deaths are murder-suicide at all. I only met the mother once, but there's no chance she killed both her kids and then offed herself. When I talked to her, she was relaxed, focused, and strong. And it was clear she loved her kids. Nothing in her profile would suggest suicide, let alone murder. My investigators'll be all over Bellevue to find out what went down.”

Lucy, her eyes puffy and red, looked at Bishop, then Victoria, and turned finally to A. J. “You need to talk to Supreme.”

“Absolutely,” A. J. said. “And I need to get my meeting scheduled with Brock as well.”

A. J. picked up his coffee cup and took a drink. “Ugh,” he said. “It's ice-cold. All right,” he said, getting up from the table. “We really need to start rockin'. If there's any chance something's really amiss with Brock, besides his being a power-hungry, self-absorbed prick, we better find out before he's confirmed by the Senate.”

“We need a plan of attack,” Lucy said.

“That's exactly what I'm about to give you,” A. J. said with a smile. “Once the two of you get a little rest and you're able to recharge, here's what I want you to do. Bishop, your guys have been all over Brock's raid, right? Good. Then it's time for you to see what they have. We need to find out where the tip came from, how Brock got involved, and whether the whole thing was clean. And we need to find out why the cops are threatening people to keep them quiet. Lucy, you should make contact with Anderson's wife. Go see her in person, if she'll let you, and get whatever you can from her. She had to have some sense of what he was up to.”

A. J. then looked at Victoria and glanced quickly at the television. Brock and the president were turning and walking out of the Roosevelt Room. The press conference was over and Brock's nomination was official. “Vic,” A. J. said, “you need to get Supreme out of jail. And while you're doing that, you think you can get me into Rikers for a visit?”

“Even if I have to blow the warden,” she said.

“Hey, Vic,” Bishop said, “I thought you did that for your last case.”

ON MOST DAYS
, Walter Fitzgerald was okay with his place in the world. He had reached the upper ranks of the NYPD and achieved more success than he could've imagined as a working-class Irish kid growing up on Belmont Avenue in the Bronx. This was not one of those days. This was a day when he felt shortchanged and overlooked. A day when all of his resentments about having to take orders from people with less experience who were not nearly as smart as he was bubbled to the surface. It had been some time since Fitzgerald recognized he'd never get the top job, that despite his wealth of experience, political savvy, and street smarts, he'd never be police commissioner. And, for the most part, he'd made his peace with it. After more than thirty years in the department, he still loved his job, and even if he wasn't going all the way to the top, he'd come pretty damn close. The fact that he'd outlasted five mayors and half a dozen police commissioners was a badge of honor he wore proudly. “In order to thrive, you must survive,” he often said, and that was the goal: survive and thrive.

He'd actually started the day feeling pretty good. It was a Saturday, so he slept in till seven forty-five. Then he made himself a nice big breakfast of ham and eggs, some fresh fruit he'd picked up the day before at a farmer's market in Union Square, and plenty of fresh ground coffee. He was meeting Commissioner Brock at eleven o'clock at police headquarters and he couldn't wait. Fitzgerald was almost as excited about the get-together as he was the first time he was ever called to the commissioner's office nearly twenty years earlier. Back then, the invitation was to recognize and reward him for his outstanding leadership. Two priests in lower Manhattan had been tortured and murdered, and within ten days, the detectives in his command made an arrest.

Since then, he'd had hundreds, maybe even thousands of meetings with all the various police commissioners, and he couldn't remember the last time he was this eager. He was thrilled for Brock, his onetime protégé, who was just back from Washington and his star turn with the president, and he knew that as manic as the commissioner was, he would be sky-high over the nomination. Fitzgerald couldn't wait to hear the gossip and dirty details from Washington.

But now, as he sat in the back of his Crown Victoria at the foot of the Brooklyn Bridge, he was more pissed than pumped. He'd shown up at Brock's office right on time, only to be directed by the commissioner's secretary to the Manhattan side of the Brooklyn Bridge. She didn't know why Brock wanted to meet him there and neither did Fitzgerald—at least not at first. On his way over, he figured Brock must be planning some kind of press event, otherwise why would they be meeting outside?

Some guys just never get enough
, he thought. He knew the commissioner as well as anyone and he'd seen outrageous displays of his ego many times. But this was off the charts, even for Brock. How needy and fucked up could one person be that he'd still be craving attention after a week like the one Brock had had? Any public display at this point, Fitzgerald believed, was an unnecessary distraction with no upside. Brock had already won the big prize. There was serious business to take care of, like the complicated minefield of the confirmation process. Not to mention the little problem of A. J. Ross and Frank Bishop snooping around and looking into the Kevin Anderson situation. They needed to be stopped before they caused real trouble, and Brock's continuing to scream, “Look at me, look at me,” was definitely not the way to do it.
If ever there was a time to just keep your head down and enjoy the spoils,
the chief thought,
it was now.

So as Fitzgerald sat in his car waiting for Brock, his mood had darkened considerably. He no longer even cared much about what happened in Washington. His primary concern now was taking care of business in New York,
his
business. After three decades of extraordinary police work and even more skillful, meticulously planned political maneuvering, Fitzgerald was not about to let someone else's carelessness—even if it was the commissioner's—destroy everything he'd worked so hard to achieve.

While he waited, he took a picture of his daughter out of his wallet. Bright blue eyes, luminous smile. He remembered how excited he was when the doctor announced, “It's a girl!”

His reverie was abruptly broken when the Emergency Service Unit vehicle pulled up. Brock and his entourage arrived a few minutes later. When the commissioner got out, he was grinning like a six-year-old at recess. He walked over and wrapped Fitzgerald in a big, tight bear hug. He squeezed hard for several seconds before letting go. “We did it, man, we actually fucking did it,” Brock said, laughing.

“Congratulations,” Fitzgerald responded soberly.

“ ‘Congratulations,' ” Brock repeated incredulously. “That's it? That's all you got? What the hell's the matter with you, man? How 'bout some excitement? How 'bout some noise? How 'bout some ‘Holy fuckin' shit, Commish, you're unbelievable'? C'mon, Fitz, it doesn't get any bigger than this.”

“Sorry, Commissioner, I got a lot on my mind. I really am thrilled for you.”

“Well, you're doing a great job of hiding it.”

“Listen, couldn't we do this at Nello's or Fat Jack's or some other restaurant? I'll buy.”

“Fuck you,” Brock said, smiling. “This is gonna be great. I already made us a reservation and it's only two hundred seventy-six feet away.”

“You're kidding, right?” an anxious Fitzgerald asked.

“The fuck I am, brother.” But even before Brock answered, Fitzgerald saw two ESU officers approaching with harnesses, one for each of them. As the chief slipped into the canvas and leather contraption, which was not unlike the kind used by window washers, he knew what Brock was doing. The two of them were going to climb to the top of one of the towers on the Brooklyn Bridge. He felt like he wanted to strangle Brock.
This compulsion to engage in risky behavior must be some kind of sickness
, Fitzgerald thought. There was no other way to explain it. Brock was at the absolute pinnacle of his career; why would he stupidly dance along the edge and risk losing everything? Fitzgerald had about as much patience for pop psychology as he did for the ACLU, but in this case he was seriously starting to wonder if Brock's compulsion to tempt fate was really a subconscious effort to sabotage himself.

Fitzgerald didn't dwell on his simplified attempt at analysis. At that moment he had more pressing concerns—like how the fuck he was supposed to get to the top of the tower? The main suspension cables came up out of the ground at the foot of the bridge. There was one on the right side and one on the left. They gradually rose to the top of the first tower at about a thirty-degree incline, and then they stretched straight across to the next tower. From there, they began their descent down to the ground on the other side of the East River. Each of these cables was about the width of a diving board, but of course they weren't flat. They were cylinders. Walking on one was like walking on one of those balance beams that gymnasts use. You had to work to maintain your equilibrium and watch every step. Each main cable, about the thickness of a good-size log, was flanked on both sides by two narrower ones that ran parallel all the way up and across the span. These secondary cables were about at waist height, so, like a couple of window washers clamping onto the side of a building, Brock and Fitzgerald locked onto these cables with straps attached to each hip. They could also use them to hold on to during their ascent. As they began their climb, there were two beefy ESU officers in front of them and two behind as a safety precaution.

It was a beautiful day with the kind of cloudless blue sky that sometimes causes outfielders to lose track of simple fly balls. Fitzgerald was breathing heavily as he climbed and he could feel the sweat underneath his shirt and dripping down his face. He focused intently on every step, carefully and slowly placing one foot in front of the other. Though he was afraid he'd lose his balance if he turned his head and really looked around, he could still see how spectacular the 360-degree view was. Unfortunately, he could also sense what was below him—on one side was the roadway and on the other was the blackness of the East River.

The climb, which probably could've been done in twenty minutes, took nearly twice that time because of the chief's cautious pace. When they reached the top of the tower, there was a flat surface about twenty feet by twenty feet where they could sit, relax, talk, and have lunch. Brock took a long, deep breath and exhaled slowly with a big smile on his face. “How great is this, huh, Fitz? Really makes you feel alive.”

“Fuck you, cocksucker,” Fitzgerald responded. “I'm gonna get even with you for this.”