Badge of Evil Page 3

  He pulled his helmet on, secured the chin strap, lifted the face shield, and threw his right leg over the custom-made saddle. Sitting on the bike, he used his feet to push off and roll out of the garage. On the driveway, he turned the key and pressed the starter button, and the bike came to life with a roar. This unique, sweet rumble was Ducati’s signature as much as the polo pony was Ralph Lauren’s.

  A. J. closed the Velcro on his gloves and checked his mirrors. He squeezed the clutch with his left hand, tapped the shifter into first gear with his left foot, and began to give the Monster some gas by twisting the throttle with his right hand. At the same time he let the clutch out slowly and he was off, the garage door closing automatically behind him.

  Every time he rode, the first few minutes were always the same. Take it easy, get comfortable, and just enjoy the enormous fluid power under him. He leaned lightly into the first few turns, letting the tires warm up. This was critical. Cold tires on a bike have very little stick.

  The satisfaction of riding a bike for A. J. really had two parts. First, of course, were the sensations: the thrill of pure speed, the exhilaration of hurtling through space on something so seemingly flimsy, and the tactile fulfillment of using both hands and both feet to operate the machine. There was also a physical pleasure, as there was in skiing, that came from linking turns together and developing a natural rhythm while riding. There is no steering wheel on a motorcycle. You don’t actually turn it the way you do a car or a bicycle. To go left or right, you have to lean the bike in that direction rather than turn it. The sharper the turn, the more dramatic the lean, and the greater the rush.

  The other key element that made riding so appealing for A. J. was the focus required. Writers spend a lot of time inside their own heads. They’re always thinking, rethinking, examining, and analyzing their interactions, as well as replaying conversations. On the bike, however, A. J. had to turn all of that off. He had to clear his head. Riding demanded his full and complete attention. It was all about the machine and negotiating the environment around him. There was no margin for error. Sometimes he treated it like being inside a big video game. He rode like every car was out to kill him, which wasn’t much of an exaggeration.

  A. J. comfortably maneuvered the bike toward lower Manhattan, weaving in and out between cars, picking his line and leaning into the turns like a confident skier negotiating the gates on a slalom course. He glanced at the clock on the dash. It was 9:05. He’d make the press conference with ten or fifteen minutes to spare. In the distance he could see the brake lights where the backup began for the Holland Tunnel. With a small stretch of open road in front of him, A. J. gave the throttle a hard twist. The front tire lifted about six inches off the ground and he was gone in the blink of an eye.

  • • •

  The press conference lasted about forty-five minutes. It was the hottest ticket in town. Instead of the usual six or seven television cameras along the back wall of the police department’s press room, there were more than twenty. The networks, the cable channels, and even Sky News and Al Jazeera sent crews. The room was meant to hold up to fifty reporters, plus the TV equipment, but there were at least twice that many crammed into the space. It was hot and stuffy, tempers were short, and several arguments erupted as reporters jostled for position. Those given temporary NYPD press passes were mostly relegated to the back of the room and whatever space they could find along the side walls.

  The press room, on the second floor of police headquarters, had the standard run-down look of a city government facility: crappy linoleum floor, toxic fluorescent lighting, and walls that hadn’t been painted in years. The only exception was the front wall, which served as the backdrop for any clips that TV viewers would see from the event. This wall had a ridged, dark oak paneling that could also be found in the lobby and on the top floor in the hallway outside the commissioner’s office.

  A. J. parked his bike on the side of the building, like he always did, where the cops kept their cars. Lucy looked relieved when she saw him walk in. She was in their usual spot, on the center aisle in the second row, and she was talking to Jerry Polone, the police reporter from the New York Post. Right in front of them was the guy from the Times who covered the cops, an annoying, imperious Ivy League nerd who acted like he was above all this.

  The Times reporter had little interest in talking to the other reporters, but when he did it was mostly to tell them that the police beat was a short-term assignment—he was only getting his ticket punched on his way to a job in the Washington bureau. A. J. thought his writing had the same clenched quality as his personality and his reporting rarely penetrated the surface of a story because the cops couldn’t stand him and he had no sources.

  “Well, now I know this is a really big news day,” Jerry said to Lucy with a smile as A. J. reached their seats. “Look who’s come downtown. I’m honored, as always, to be in the presence of greatness.”

  “As I am to be so close to run-of-the-mill mediocrity,” A. J. said good-naturedly. “What’s up, Jerry? Harassing my coworker?”

  “It’s okay,” Lucy said, “Jerry was just asking if he could come up to the office some afternoon and watch me lick stamps. I told him if I had no self-esteem or if we were living in, oh, 1950, I’d be flattered.”

  No one was sure exactly how long Jerry Polone had been covering the NYPD for the Post and he wasn’t telling. A. J. figured out from their conversations that he had been around for at least eight police commissioners, which had to be twenty-five years or so. He knew everybody and he knew how everything worked. He’d always been incredibly gracious to A. J., including the first time A. J. showed up at police headquarters, essentially clueless, to work on a story. Though A. J. had never asked why, Polone told him who to talk to, how to get to them, and, in one or two cases, even what to ask.

  “Whaddaya think?” Polone asked A. J.

  “I hate to say it because he’s such a self-absorbed ego-driven shitbag, but it looks like Brock’s a . . . I don’t know. I think the hero thing’s a bit much, but it looks like this may be the real deal.”

  “Something’s bothering me about it,” Polone said. “There’s something . . .”

  “You mean, what the hell was the police commissioner of New York doing raiding an apartment?”

  “There’s that, for sure. But there’s something else. I can’t put my finger on it. But word’s already going around questioning the assault. Where’d the intel come from, why didn’t Brock tell any of the other agencies . . . ?”

  “Maybe you’re letting your personal feelings get in the way. I mean, we know Brock’s a jerk, but he did get in a gun battle and—”

  “No, it’s not that. I just—”

  At that moment the room fell silent and there was a sudden ripple of applause that seemed to move from front to back. It was 10:05 and Mayor Nicholas Domenico, Brock, and Pennetta walked into the room. A. J. and Jerry looked at each other in disbelief. Applause from the reporters? This, A. J. thought, is going to be hard to sit through.

  The mayor, who was nearing the end of his second term, spoke to the reporters first. It was always his show, even now, when Brock was the reason for the huge media turnout. Domenico was only about five feet six inches and had a large head, a protruding brow, a huge expanse of forehead, and arms that seemed a little too short for his body. He looked like a mismatched set of parts, like he’d been drawn by a cartoonist. He also had an overpowering personality and an ego that was probably even bigger than Brock’s. His need to fill every room he walked into was his great strength as well as his great weakness.

  “Good morning,” he said, getting things started. “As most of you know, public safety has been the cornerstone of my administration. From my very first day in office more than seven years ago, I have had no more important goal, no higher priority, and no greater purpose than keeping New Yorkers safe. I promised the people of this great city that I would do whatever it took to get this job done. And in the battles against crime and
terrorism we have achieved historic results, results that continue to be the envy of cities all over the world. My partner in this noble cause—the tip of the spear, if you will—has been police commissioner Lawrence Brock. Though he has spent every single day of the last two years demonstrating his commitment to the people of New York—and, ironically, for security reasons you will never know the full extent of the success we’ve had foiling plots against our great city—last night he showed strength, courage, and a willingness to lay it all on the line that was extraordinary even for him.”

  When Brock stepped to the microphone, A. J. half expected the reporters to start rhythmically chanting his name: Lar-ry, Lar-ry, Lar-ry. He made a brief statement and then took some questions. He didn’t put any meat on the bones of the story, and the questions were fairly straightforward and repetitive. A. J. never asked questions at these events. The daily reporters extracted the basic information, and he had no interest in asking anything that might reveal what he was thinking or how he was looking at a story.

  Brock probably hadn’t gotten any sleep after the shooting, and he looked wan and exhausted. His energy level, however, was still pretty high (adrenaline’s amazing), and he said all the right things. No one ever wants to shoot someone, he said, while maintaining continuous eye contact with the reporter who asked the question. Yes, he was scared. No, he didn’t regret his decision to go on the raid. Yes, he considered the danger to himself and the other cops. Yes, he discussed it beforehand with the mayor. And if he had it to do over again, he still wouldn’t risk the success of the operation by telling the Joint Terrorism Task Force or the head of New York’s FBI office. The wider the circle, the greater the chance of leaks.

  Brock also said the department was putting together background information on the dead men, and there’d be an update on the lone surviving suspect as soon as one was available from the doctors. As expected, Pennetta stayed in the background and responded in the most cursory way when a question was specifically directed to him.

  When it was over, A. J., Lucy, and Jerry walked out together.

  “I want him,” A. J. said outside on the street, with part of the Brooklyn Bridge visible over his shoulder. “I’d like to tell this story.”

  “You and a thousand other reporters,” Jerry said, lighting a cigarette and taking a long, deep drag. “We’re talking about 60 Minutes, Vanity Fair. Shit, who knows, O’Reilly, an Oprah special . . .”

  “Do me a favor, Jerry. Take another drag on the cigarette. Get some nicotine into your veins and get a little more blood flowing to your cerebral cortex and maybe your memory will start to come back. It’s not like I haven’t beaten all of them before.”

  “Whoa, down, boy,” Jerry said with a little laugh. “That’s true, but the mayor fucking hates you. He hasn’t talked to you in—what—three years?”

  “Four and a half, if you’re actually counting.”

  “Fine, four and a half. And, by the way, what story do you wanna tell? The story of New York’s fearless police commissioner? Lawrence Brock, superhero?”

  “It’s not compelling?”

  “Of course it is,” Jerry said, and then exhaled a long stream of smoke that prompted Lucy to cough with great exaggeration. “But it’s bullshit. He’s an ambitious opportunist. Maybe if you include the compromises, the bad behavior, the damage done to other people. Show his humanity. Or more accurately his inhumanity. And why would he let you do that? Especially now. You know, since even before Brock went all Jack Bauer on the terrorists, there’ve been whispers he might be up for Homeland Security. He’s gonna want a wet kiss and he’ll go with whoever he thinks will give it to him.”

  As the two men bantered back and forth, Lucy stood by quietly. She knew when not to talk. Yogi Berra once said, “You can observe a lot just by watching.” You can also hear a lot just by listening.

  “Don’t forget,” A. J. said, “Brock and I have a history. I wrote about him when he was still just a motorcycle cop, trying to start that foundation to get illegal guns off the street after his partner got shot, before anybody knew who the fuck he was. Or gave a shit.”

  “I guess it’s possible he might feel some allegiance to you. And it’s also possible that Lucy here is secretly madly in love with me. Possible, but highly unlikely. There’s just no reason for him to take the risk.”

  “When it comes to the vanity of public officials, stranger things have happened.”

  • • •

  Brock and Domenico took about twenty minutes after the press conference to do some quick one-on-one interviews for the cable news networks, the evening newscasts, and a few of the key papers. Then they took the five-minute walk to City Hall. Cars honked, drivers waved, people yelled encouragement out of their windows, and a few enthusiastic pedestrians came over to shake their hands and congratulate them.

  Once they reached City Hall, the two men went to the mayor’s office in the basement. The mayor had two offices at City Hall. There was one on the second floor, which was his official office. It was an elegant, formal setting where he signed bills, received dignitaries, gave important visitors a little face time, and staged photo ops. His real office, the place where he did his work, was in the basement. It was here, in this scruffy, windowless room, that Domenico lived up to his reputation as a mean-spirited, thin-skinned, vindictive politician. This was where he worked the phones, plotted strategy, made his deals, and badgered the weak. It was also the place where he kicked back with a cigar, a bottle of wine, and a little Puccini or Verdi booming on the stereo.

  Domenico took off his jacket and loosened his tie as soon as he walked in. He hung his jacket carefully on the coatrack, then he sat down heavily in his leather chair, an indication—given his audible sigh—of annoyance rather than fatigue. “I thought that went pretty well,” Brock said tentatively as he took a seat on the couch. “How about you?”

  The mayor was silent for a while before responding. Finally he leaned across the desk, which made his oversize head look even bigger. “You think I give a shit about a bunch of annoying reporters?” Domenico said with controlled fury, keeping his voice barely above a whisper. “We go back a long way, Larry. You know how I feel about you. But you fucked up. I run things. I’m the mayor and you work for me. My name and my accomplishments and my fucking picture are what I wanna see in the papers. Not yours. Not ever, unless I say so.”

  Domenico stood up and leaned his hands on the desk. Brock could see a little white saliva bubbling at the corners of the mayor’s mouth. He braced himself. “You hit the apartment without fucking telling me,” Domenico said, his voice rising at the end of the sentence like it was a question.

  “Are you nuts? What the fuck were you thinking? You forget who gave you this job? That I made you? Jesus fucking Christ. Every wonder why I chose you? Of all the people who wanted to work for me, to play a role, ever wonder why you? You were like this huge mound of shapeless clay. No real edges, no defining features. Except that you wanted it so bad. Make no mistake, there were plenty of others who wanted it. But none like you. You had this desperate, feral quality. I could smell it on you. I knew you’d do whatever had to be done, anything, and never look back or think twice,” the mayor said, standing up straight now.

  “When you stand at the edge of the abyss looking at nothing but darkness and fear, who’s willing to step off the edge? Who’s not only ready but eager to go forward into the black unknown? I never had any doubts about you. Till now. I call the shots here. If anybody’s ass is gonna be kissed for his bravery, his tactical genius, and his devotion to the people of this city, it’s gonna be mine, not yours. If anybody’s gonna be anointed a goddamned American fuckin’ hero, it’s gonna be me. You get one mulligan. Fuck me again and you’re gone. I don’t care how far back we go.”

  Brock looked visibly shaken. All the color had drained from his face. The two men had been together for nearly eleven years, before Domenico had been elected mayor, and they had come to know each other in a way few friends
ever do. They were demonstrative, even physical with one another, hugging and kissing with abandon. This was the first real breach between them.

  “Look, boss—”

  “Save it,” Domenico said with a disgusted wave of his hand. “I’m not interested. You get another shot, which is one more than I would’ve given anyone else. So shut up and be grateful. You know how I feel, now let’s move forward. What’s with the suspect in the hospital?”

  “The doctors are optimistic, but this weekend’s critical. If he lasts till Monday, they believe he’ll survive.”

  “I’m gonna assume there’s nothing here I need to be concerned about. That you have everything under control. That the shoot was clean, and if it wasn’t, whatever has to be taken care of will be. Discreetly.”

  “I’m on top of it,” Brock said.

  “You better be. Did you speak to the White House?”

  “A secretary called earlier this morning to say the personnel director’s gonna call today or tomorrow. They have my cell and all my other numbers.”

  “Good,” Domenico said, beginning to look a little distracted, like he was ready to move on to other matters. “Don’t make me sorry I set that in motion. I convinced them you’re the guy for that spot. Anything else? No? Then we’re done here. Keep me up to date.”

  “Absolutely, boss.”

  The two men shook hands and at the same time half hugged each other with their left arms.

  Outside, on the top step of City Hall, Brock stood for a moment and looked out at the wide plaza that unfolded in front of the historic building. The cool air was bracing. He was exhausted, physically and emotionally. His shoulders and his legs ached. His head hurt. And his right hand felt like it was starting to cramp. But he was relieved. Brock knew how close he’d come to screwing everything up. He knew he’d just about pushed things too far. But he’d gotten away with it. He slowly began to smile. His plan was still on track.