Badge of Evil (28 page)

She almost didn't hear the phone ring. It was Bishop. He apologized for not being reachable earlier, explaining that he was on the phone with his investigators, who'd found out some very interesting stuff that he would fill her in on later. Lucy was surprised at how happy she was to hear from Bishop. She gave him the highlights from her time with Yvette Anderson and then mentioned that she was on her way to the Shelter Island ferry. “My friend's dating this lawyer who's got a house there,” she said. “The lawyer's kind of a dick, an arrogant gasbag, but he won't be there and the house is amazing.”

Bishop started getting a little pumped. He thought this was leading to an invitation. He didn't know Lucy that well, but he did know it was out of character for her to get excited about material things—especially a house that was probably an ostentatious, overdone monument to the lawyer's money and ego. He could also tell, from the sound of her voice when she told him her suspicions about being followed, that she was worried. Sure enough, she made him an offer.

“Wanna come out and keep me company?” she asked in an irresistibly girlish voice. “I could use somebody with a big club to protect me.”

“Well, when you put it that way . . .” Bishop was already headed in that direction to meet Pennetta at the airport, but even if he hadn't been, there was no way he'd have turned down an offer like this. “I'm not sure what time I'll get there,” he said, “I gotta make a stop first. But, yeah, I'll come out and keep you company. Text me the address so I can put it in the GPS.”

“Just remember,” Lucy said, “the ferry stops running at midnight. And I promise I'll make up a room for you all nice and cozy. See you later.”

Bishop took that as shorthand for “Sorry, you're not getting laid tonight.” He hung up the phone and laughed.

•  •  •

As Lucy said good-bye, she was already on the ferry sitting in her car. The boat was fairly small and held, at most, fifteen cars. It was early evening, and given that it was the off-season, the ferry was only about half full. She did a quick scan, looking for the dark-colored sedan she thought had been following her earlier. No sign of it.

If she'd had a more experienced, trained eye, like that of Bishop or A. J., she would have profiled all seven cars on the ferry. She would have seen the old sea salt in the pickup full of lobster pots; the mom in the Subaru station wagon with her three children; what appeared to be a young college student in a beat-up Toyota. And she would've seen two guys wearing jeans and heavy winter coats in a late-model Jeep Cherokee. They were the second surveillance team.

•  •  •

Bishop got to the Long Island airport early and circled the hangar where Pennetta kept his plane to make sure the meeting wasn't some kind of setup, then parked his car facing the gate so he could see everyone going in and out. Bishop's jaw still hurt and he had a dull headache. But there was work to do. He pulled out a legal pad to make some notes. He put down “Andrea Jafaari” and then drew a box around her name. From there, he drew a line that ended at a question mark and another box. In the box he wrote,
Why kill son, daughter, and self? Honest. Strong willed. Hardworking. Good mother.
He drew another line leading to another box, this one with Ayad's name.
Motivation to become a radical? How did he die? What drug was used?
Bishop flipped the page over and put Kevin Anderson's name in a box. In the connecting box with the question mark he put,
Corrupt cop. Accomplices? Murder-suicide? Get tox report, compare to tox report from Jafaaris
. He flipped the page again and wrote down,
Raid in Brooklyn. Have Victoria subpoena Internal Affairs incident report as well as additional reports or files on any of the team members involved in the raid.

Bishop knew he was all over the place. His jaw was throbbing, and trying to make sense of the information made his headache worse. Any one of these investigations presented a mountain of questions and obstacles, some of which seemed almost insurmountable. But he was determined to figure it out, to find the connective tissue he knew in his gut was there. A. J. was right; these events were not random.

He was staring blankly at his boxes and question marks when Pennetta pulled up in his red Silverado. He flashed his high beams at Bishop and then pointed toward the hangar. Bishop followed him in and they parked.

Pennetta was out of uniform. He was wearing jeans, an L.L.Bean-style twill shirt, and work boots. He was staring at Bishop's slightly swollen, discolored jaw when he walked over. “You look disappointed you didn't do more damage,” Bishop said with a bit of attitude.

“I don't blame you for being pissed,” Pennetta told him. “I'm sorry I had to do that, but there's a leak in my unit. I had to put on a little show to make it clear that I want no part of you. I'm not sure who the information's going to, but I have my suspicions. This goes way beyond bullshit gossip and interdepartmental politics. Cops are being put in danger.
My
cops.”

“Any idea why?” Bishop asked.

“Not yet. But before I share anything else with you,” Pennetta said, folding his arms across his chest and leaning against his truck, “I need some disclosure. Why're you doing this, Bishop? From what I hear, you're just a fucking mercenary. The only thing you care about's yourself. And even though you were on the job, you could give a fuck about your fellow officers.”

“I'm not gonna lie to you,” Bishop said, trying to look sincere, “you're right. You pretty much got me pegged. My sympathetic, feel-bad-for-the-other-guy, help-the-underdog days are long fucking gone. And so are my days of bleeding NYPD blue. If it weren't for Chief Fitzgerald, the department would've kicked me to the curb without a pension. And now even he's turned on me. It's a cold and ugly world out there, and we're in it all alone.” Bishop rubbed his sore jaw with his right hand.

“When I was a rookie,” he continued, “my first partner used to tell me, ‘You want a loyal friend, get a fuckin' puppy, 'cause you ain't gonna be able to count on anyone else.' He always upset me when he said that. But I just thought,
Okay, he's a disillusioned, cynical old crank
. Turns out he was right. So to answer your question, yeah, I'm in it for the buck. And if you're gonna tell me you believe in all the bullshit about how the NYPD is a family, how the department really cares, then maybe you're not as sharp as I thought you were. It's all about ambition and politics and collars for dollars. The mayor wants to get reelected, the police commissioner wants to keep his job, the brass wanna get promoted. And the bad guys get locked up because it serves those ends. But the normal balance, fucked up as it is, has been thrown off. I don't know exactly what's going on, but something's up.” He thought he saw Pennetta's face soften just a little.

“Bad shit happens, I get it,” Bishop said, warming to his task. “Decent people screw up. Bad people hurt decent people and the good guys rarely win. There is no reward for doing the right thing. Not in this life. God or some fucking cosmic force wreaks havoc indiscriminately and everyone suffers. It's all as random as lottery numbers. I accept that. So I've adapted. I've minimized my expectations. I expect nothing from people so I'm rarely disappointed. It's all about small victories and learning to pick your spots. I ignore the endless open pit of human suffering. I find happiness where I can. A great pair of tits, solving a difficult case.

“But,” he said, holding up one finger as if asking Pennetta to wait another moment before drawing any conclusions, “all of this enables me to maintain a certain balance in my world. A kind of homegrown equilibrium. But every once in a while, some prick shows up and does something that throws everything out of balance. A prick like Brock, who marches around doing whatever the fuck he wants, breaking all the rules, pissing on everybody beneath him, just because he can. When that kind of thing happens, I will put my beliefs aside, go off the clock, and do what I have to do.”

•  •  •

Pennetta wasn't quite sure what to think, but he felt Bishop was trying to be honest. And he really didn't have much choice. He couldn't even trust anyone in his own department, so he decided to risk talking to Bishop.

He began with the Brooklyn raid. He explained how the whole thing was wrong, how the operation was micromanaged by Brock from the beginning, and none of the standard regulations or procedures were followed. ESU was only notified the actual day of the raid that they'd be hitting an apartment full of suspected terrorists that night. Brock kept the whole thing under wraps, not telling anyone anything. They had strict orders not to inform the Joint Terrorism Task Force, the NYPD's Intelligence Division, or the deputy commissioner in charge of terrorism operations. No one knew the source of the tip or how long the suspects had been under surveillance. Every order, every piece of the planning, and every decision, no matter how minor, had gone through Brock. Worst of all, perhaps, was the commissioner's demand to be part of the entry team. Pennetta said that when he made the mistake of venting to his men, he heard from Brock less than half an hour later. The commissioner pulled him to the side to address his specific concerns, solidifying the fact that one of his own men was whispering in Brock's ear. There had been additional evidence of the leak since the raid.

He told Bishop that he too had noticed when reviewing the reports that one of his men on the stairs heard a telephone ring possibly as much as two minutes before they hit the door. He went to the commanding officer in charge of logistics. “Weren't all cell repeaters in that area shut off?” he demanded. “Shouldn't everyone within a four-block radius, not just the terrorists, have been effectively shut down?” Pennetta said the CO got very nervous and said, “Yes, everything was shut down and no telephone should have been working.”

When Pennetta went to the property clerk's office to go through Ayad Jafaari's belongings, there was no cell phone with his things, nor was there one listed in the inventory of his possessions. But one of his guys told him the kid definitely had a phone in the apartment. It was in his pocket when they checked him after the shooting stopped to see if he was still breathing. Pennetta did a little digging, pulled the phone records, and discovered that Jafaari did receive a call just about five minutes before ESU boomed the apartment door. “Someone tipped those motherfuckers off,” Pennetta told Bishop angrily, “right before we breached. Someone put my guys in danger.”

•  •  •

Bishop's adrenaline had begun to pump while he listened to Pennetta. This was the commander of the NYPD's Emergency Service Unit, the man in charge of the department's most elite cops, spilling about serious violations of procedure, leaks, screwups putting cops at risk, and possible corruption, all related to the biggest, most celebrated bust in years.

“Commander,” Bishop told him, clearly unable to contain his excitement, “we need to get a cup of coffee and talk.”

THE RIDE TO
Shelter Island on the South Ferry was only about five minutes. Once there, Lucy quickly found her way to Route 114 and she was at the house in about fifteen minutes. At the front gate, she punched in the security code and drove down what seemed like several hundred yards of gravel driveway that ended at the huge house. It was fairly secluded by the significant setback from the road, tall hedgerows on two sides, and a backyard that literally spilled into the ocean. Lucy found the key under the flowerpot and let herself in, entering the alarm code as she shut the door behind her.

She stepped out of the foyer and into the soaring two-story living room, where the cold-looking furniture and the antiseptic modern art made the already gymnasium-like room seem even more cavernous. Lucy was no authority, but she knew a little about painting, and this stuff was mostly dreadful—expensive, but dreadful. The living room had a bunch of black, European-looking leather sofas, chairs, and ottomans, and an enormous flat-screen TV. She was ready to settle in on one of the black leather sofas, open a bottle of wine, and maybe watch a movie while she waited for Bishop to show. But first she wanted to shower. It had been a long day. She figured she'd borrow a pair of sweats—her friend said to take whatever she needed from the closet—to get comfortable. She also really wanted to talk to A. J.

•  •  •

Fitzgerald felt his phone start to vibrate.

“Whaddaya got?” he asked, recognizing the number immediately.

“We followed her to some giant fucking house on Shelter Island,” one of Fitzgerald's detectives said. “You should see this place, Chief. Unbelievable. Must belong to some guy who's hosing her. Anyway, I'm guessing she's in for the night at this point. We've been sitting on the house for, like, an hour. We're about twenty-five yards or so from the main gate, and Sherlock here is bitching he's hungry and tired,” he said, jabbing a finger at his partner, who was sitting next to him in the Jeep Cherokee.

“Jeez, act like a professional,” Fitzgerald said. “Okay, call it night. I'll talk to you in the morning. Good work.”

•  •  •

Fitzgerald called Commissioner Brock. “That's a coincidence,” the commissioner said. “I was just about to call you. Listen, Chief, bring in your men. At least for tonight. I don't wanna risk having them spotted. That would be a bad thing.”

The chief didn't tell Brock that his guys were already on their way home. And Brock didn't tell the chief the real reason he wanted Fitzgerald's men gone. He picked up the phone and called Oz. “You have the location, right? Good, let's get this taken care of tonight.”

•  •  •

After having a cup of coffee with Pennetta at a diner near the airport, Bishop knew he was at least headed down the right road. He wasn't quite sure where it was taking him, but he figured that would come in time. There were still too many unanswered questions. But even with the questions, it was possible to begin putting some of the pieces of the puzzle together. At least it would've been if Bishop had been able to put aside his personal feelings and his long-standing loyalties. He essentially refused to recognize what was taking shape right in front of his eyes. Despite all of his tough talk about the NYPD and its failings, he was still connected to the police department in a deep and meaningful way. In his heart he was still a cop and probably always would be. So he simply couldn't admit the link between Kevin Anderson, Supreme, the Brooklyn raid, and the deaths of the Jafaari family. At least not yet. Because it looked like all roads were leading to the police department—and specifically to Brock and Fitzgerald.