Badge of Evil (34 page)

Oz, on the other hand, was, as usual, completely indifferent. It was all about the goal; the means were unimportant. He looked at things like an accountant, and he needed to balance and close out the books for this quarter. In his mind, the business was about to start showing landmark results, and the only things standing in the way were what he looked at as several accounting anomalies—A. J., Lucy, and Bishop.

•  •  •

Bishop felt somebody watching him. It was Pennetta's six-year-old daughter. Her mother yelled from upstairs for her. “You'd better get up here and into this kitchen yesterday! If your father catches you, you're going to get it.”

Bishop, with his eyes still mostly closed, flashed a big smile at her. Without saying a word she ran up the stairs, only to be met by her father, who scooped her up and playfully whacked her on her bottom. He put her down and said, “You know better than to go down to the basement. Get ready for school and come kiss me good-bye before you go.”

Bishop sat up on the couch, grabbing his back. “Sorry,” Pennetta said, already up and moving. “We're not really set up here for overnight guests.” Bishop stood up, shook his head, and stretched a little. He had more pressing concerns. Where the hell was his newfound partner? He picked up the house phone and started dialing. “You have an idea that'll help us find A. J.?” Pennetta asked.

Bishop held up his hand to quiet him, pressed the telephone against his chest, and said, “No. I mean yes. But I'm calling about my dogs. I'll tell you my idea right after this call.”

•  •  •

A. J. opened his eyes and saw a bed with a patchwork quilt, an old rocking chair, and some pictures hanging on the wall that looked like Norman Rockwell prints. It would've made a cozy room at a rural bed-and-breakfast. Too bad A. J. had spent the night on the floor, handcuffed to an old radiator.

When Fitzgerald came into the room, he was dressed pretty much the same way he had been the day before, in jeans, a plaid shirt, and hiking boots. He would've looked like a country gentleman if it weren't for the Glock nine-millimeter holstered on his side. “Look,” Fitzgerald said with what A. J. thought was resignation in his voice, “I'm going to uncuff you to go to the bathroom. Don't be stupid, okay? You're in the middle of nowhere, and if you act up, Oz will make things uncomfortable for you.”

A. J. simply nodded. Fitzgerald took the cuffs off and A. J. got up slowly. He was stiff and sore from sleeping on the floor and his wrists hurt from the cuffs. Fitzgerald led him into the bathroom across the hall. He told him to leave the door open. A. J. knew better than to protest.

•  •  •

After calling Teresa and arranging for the dogs to be fed and walked, Bishop called Fitzgerald at home. There was nothing unusual about this. From time to time, Bishop would stop by the chief's house for dinner or call about setting up a shooting trip. So Fitzgerald's wife wasn't surprised to hear from him, except for the fact that Bishop was calling at such an early hour. When Bishop asked for the chief, she told him he was away for a few days on some kind of training trip. Bishop thanked her and hung up. If there'd been any doubt that Fitzgerald was involved, any possibility that he was innocent, all of that disappeared when Bishop hung up the phone.

•  •  •

A. J. was led into the living room as the morning sun was pouring in through the bay window. He could see that there were several laptops set up on the kitchen table. Oz, who was looking at the screens, turned and watched as Fitzgerald guided A. J. down the stairs to the root cellar, then sat him down in a big old chair and began to bind his forearms and ankles to it with plastic flex cuffs.

A. J. was trying to decide if he should resist. Even though Fitzgerald was at least fifteen years older than he was, A. J. was still pretty sure the chief could kick his ass. And then there was Oz. It quickly became a moot point. Once he was entirely bound to the chair, fighting back was no longer an option. A. J. was left with only one weapon—his intellect—and he was becoming convinced that if he wanted to stay alive, he'd better start using it.

“THIS NEEDS TO
be contained,” Fitzgerald yelled at Oz. “The more people brought in, the greater the chance of exposure.”

“The plan was discussed with the commissioner,” Oz said calmly. “He felt this was the best way to ensure an end to our problems once and for all.”

“Well, fuck that,” Fitzgerald responded, his face turning red with anger. “Nobody consulted me and I don't like it. We should've just finished this, you and me, and gotten the fuck outta here.”

A. J. could hear the two men arguing from the cellar. He'd been sitting in the dark for what he thought was hours, amid a bunch of old rusty tools, a few tires, assorted boxes, and preserve jars that had probably been there for years. A. J. had started to feel like he was trapped in a Quentin Tarantino movie, except this was real. He was working very hard not to panic, to try to stay focused on figuring out some way to improve his chances.

The two men were in the living room. Oz, displaying his usual detachment, had matter-of-factly informed the chief that two additional men were coming to help, and they were due to arrive at any moment. The chief got really agitated when he learned they weren't from the department.

•  •  •

Not long after, an old Honda Civic came up the dirt road to the house, and two men in their twenties with tobacco-colored skin and dark hair got out. As they came into the house, Fitzgerald looked like he was about to have a stroke. “The commissioner has used these assets in the past for deep undercover work, even to penetrate possible terror cells,” Oz said, anticipating his complaints.

“I can see why,” Fitzgerald said, practically spitting the words out, he was so angry. “They look just like the guys we lit up in last week's raid. Same shit, different names, is my guess.”

The two men completely ignored Fitzgerald and started talking to Oz in what sounded like Arabic. The chief just stood there listening and shaking his head. “You gotta be fucking be kidding me,” he muttered. Then they sat down in the living room and discussed the plan.

•  •  •

Bishop was sitting and having a cup of coffee with Pennetta when his cell phone rang just before ten a.m. The number came up “Restricted,” but he knew who it was. The voice was cold and direct. “Mr. Bishop, get a pen and take down these instructions. I'm only going to give them once.” Bishop signaled for Pennetta to get a pen and paper. Then Bishop said, “Go ahead.”

“By now you know the situation. We have your friend. I'm not going to waste time on the obvious. I'll assume you know what'll happen if you don't follow my instructions exactly.”

“Listen to me, cocksucker. I know who you are,
Oz
, and I'm gonna nail your fucking head to the hood of my car and drive down—”

Oz abruptly cut him off. “Save the tough-guy talk for the slutty women you're always trying to impress, Mr. Bishop. You and I know you're not really up to the task. You
didn't get it done
at Roxx, did you? And be happy I didn't kill you on Shelter Island—”

“You dirty fucking—”

“Enough,” Oz said, cutting him off again. “I suggest you shut up and listen to what I have to say. The clock is ticking and you're wasting time.
Your time.
You and your lovely friend Lucy Chapin are going to take a little trip. Your journey will begin precisely at eleven thirty. You'll be told when and where to stop and we'll be watching you. No one is to come other than the two of you. You'll be given additional directions at each of your stops.”

Bishop's mind was going a thousand miles a minute. “What the fuck do you want, you murdering piece of shit?” he said, knowing how ridiculous he sounded even as it was coming out of his mouth. But he couldn't help himself.

Oz ignored the outburst. “We know where you are and we know where Lucy is, so you'd better go pick her up. Trust me, you don't want to be late.”

Oz proceeded to give Bishop instructions. After getting Lucy, he was to immediately drive to the George Washington Bridge, then head south on the New Jersey Turnpike. While he took down the instructions, Bishop decided to try something. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out the prepaid, disposable cell phone he'd recently purchased. He dialed Fitzgerald's cell number and pressed Send.

His suspicion was confirmed almost immediately. When the call connected, he heard the number ring somewhere in the background where Oz was.
Gotcha
, Bishop thought. Without missing a beat, he continued taking down the directions from Oz.

“You'll be contacted with further instructions once you're on the road. And don't forget, we'll be watching you.” Oz hung up. Bishop put the phone down. Pennetta stared at him, waiting for an explanation. He went over all of it, emphasizing that Oz had instructed him to bring Lucy and that they'd be tracked as they traveled. Given the schedule Oz had put forward, he needed to get started soon, which didn't leave them much time to figure something out. “You know what he wants, right?” Pennetta asked.

“Absolutely,” Bishop said. “He wants to kill us.”

“That's right. His plan is to get all of you in the same place and make sure it's the last place any of you will ever see. And just like that, all of the trouble goes away and the commissioner goes to Washington.”

They needed to come up with their own plan, quickly, and Bishop had an idea. He told Pennetta about his little trick—that while he was on the phone with Oz, he'd called Fitzgerald using his prepaid cell. Sure enough, he heard the chief's phone ringing in the background while he talked to Oz. Bishop thought they could turn the tables on Oz and Fitzgerald. If he and Lucy were going to be tracked by their cell phones, why couldn't he do the same thing? They had to find out where Oz and Fitzgerald were, and he was hoping that his call to the chief would be the key. He reached out to a contact he had at Verizon and gave her the information. She said she'd get back to him as soon as she came up with something.

Then Bishop was multitasking. Watching him work the phones on a normal day was a sight: he'd have two landlines and two cells going at once. One would be for PI business, two would be for personal business and making connections, and the fourth would be all monkey business. But now the activity was more frenzied than usual and much more focused. All the phone lines and all of his energy and attention were zeroed in on the task at hand. He called Eddie, who still had his car, and told him he needed to shoot up to Greenwich—at the speed of light—and get Lucy's cell phone. “Don't worry about why,” Bishop said, “just get it done.”

Bishop's plan was pretty simple. He had no intention of driving south with Lucy. If Oz was going to track them by their cell phones, then only the phones actually needed to be in Bishop's car. He would give Eddie and Paul his phone and Lucy's phone and they would drive the car according to the directions from Oz. The calls from Oz to Bishop's phone could be forwarded, without detection, to Bishop's prepaid cell. And in the event the car was actually being tracked by spotters, which Bishop thought was highly unlikely, detection of Eddie and Paul would be difficult with the top up and the windows blacked out.

But in order for the plan to work, Bishop had to find out where A. J. was being held. Bishop was explaining the plan to Pennetta as they got in the car to drive to Republic Airport. Just as he was finishing up, the phone rang. It was his contact at Verizon special services. After several minutes of listening, Bishop's face broke into a wide smile. “Sweetheart,” he said excitedly, “you're the best. Next week, dinner anywhere you want and whatever else your little heart desires. I'll call you.”

Bishop turned to Pennetta, still smiling. “We got the motherfuckers.” His friend at Verizon said the call to Fitzgerald's phone had gone to a cell tower in Morganton, North Carolina. That was the critical piece of information required to set Bishop's plan in motion. When the second call came from Oz, Eddie and Paul were on the road in Bishop's Porsche, driving south on the turnpike. Oz had no idea that his calls were being forwarded to Bishop, nor was there any way for him to know that Bishop had pinpointed the town where he and Fitzgerald were holding A. J.

SATISFIED THAT HE
had the situation completely in hand, Oz was now in the basement facing A. J. Flanking him were the chief and a Middle Eastern–looking man A. J. had never seen before. A naked lightbulb hung close to A. J.'s head and the harsh light caused him to squint. Oz was the first to speak. “Mr. Ross,” he said stiffly, “I'm sure by now you know what I'm capable of, so I'm not going to try and scare you. The fact is, you should be scared. Nevertheless, I'm told you're an honorable, courageous man, and I'm sure you're determined to hold out. So rather than waste time asking you questions you're not going to answer, we'll start with a little pain. Hopefully, once you fully understand how serious I am, that'll speed things up.”

A fourth man, also apparently Middle Eastern, came down the stairs holding a bag of ice in one hand, and a large carving knife and a sharpener in the other. A. J. was pulled into the center of the room, where there was a table with a square of butcher block on it.

Oz took out his weapon. He was carrying an HK nine-millimeter. “This is how it's going to work,” he said. “The chief is going to unbind you, and you're going to stand up and place your left hand flat on the butcher block. If you flinch or move, I'll put a bullet in one of your knees.”

One of the men who'd gone upstairs was coming down again. This time he was carrying an IV pole and what looked like bags of plasma. A. J. looked at this and then back at Oz with real concern in his eyes. Oz smiled and with an almost reassuring nod said, “Yes, my friend, we've done this before. If need be, we can keep you alive for days.”