Serpe changed out of his bloody clothes and into the fresh ones in the backseat of Bob Healy’s car as they sped along the Grand Central Parkway in Queens towards the Jackie Robinson Parkway. As Joe changed, he explained to Healy and Blades about McCauly and Khouri Burgess.
“You were right about almost everything,” Serpe said, pulling a sweater over his head. “When you think about it, we were kinda dumb to think the Reverend James Burgess would throw some kid off a roof himself or be there when one of his minions did.”
“I guess,” Healy agreed. “So you think it was Khouri who showed up at Gigi’s apartment tonight, huh?”
“Yeah. I don’t know who else it could be.”
“And he got the pictures,” Blades said. “Shit.”
“He got the pictures, but he didn’t get these,” Joe said, reaching into his coat pocket and handing Detective Hines the white envelope. “He was in too much of a rush and I think Gigi might have wounded him. There was blood on the steps from her apartment.”
“Holy shit!”
“That’s right, partner. Holy shit.”
Raiza Hines popped on the dome light, opened the envelope, and held the strips of negatives up to the light.
“These are the real goods,” she said, carefulling replacing the negatives. “Edgerin Marsden caught the whole sequence of them tusseling and DeFrees going over the edge. It’s kinda tough to see on the negatives, but it looks like you’d be able to make out the faces of the two of them when they’re developed.”
“I’m sure that’s true, otherwise Burgess wouldn’t have paid anything beyond the first twenty grand.”
“Then what are we doing?” Blades asked, agitated. “We got the evidence right here about the DeFrees murder. You got McCauly to give up Edgerin Marsden’s killer. Chances are we’ll be able to track down who in his posse killed him. So, Joe, explain to me why are we breaking every rule in the book to go to Reverend Burgess’ headquarters and get ourselves jammed up or worse?”
“Because I wanna know who killed Rusty Monaco.”
“It was Khouri Burgess,” Blades said. “That’s pretty clear.”
“Maybe to you. You’re probably right that it was Khouri Burgess. Or maybe it was one of his daddy’s less savory business partners or maybe someone who owed him a favor. I mean, it was the Reverend Burgess who was under DOI investigation, not the son. It was the Rev who had the most to lose. It could have even been Finn McCauly, though I doubt it. I just don’t like getting half or most of the story.”
“Is it that important to find out exactly which one of the three actually put the bullets into Monaco? You already know why.”
“Blades, you and me, we don’t know each other real well, so I understand,” Joe said. “But I was never much for cutting corners on the job. You go back, you check my cases. None of the convictions built on my work were ever overturned on appeal. None. Never.”
“Not until the end, you mean,” Healy corrected. “Before your partner Ralphy started fucking up your cases and sabotaging your work to protect the scumbags who were paying him off and feeding his jones.”
Serpe relented. “Okay, not until the end, but it was Ralphy doing it. You know I didn’t do sloppy work. The one time in my career I cut corners and didn’t see things through; the one time I looked the other way and hoped for the best, I lost everything.”
“Ignoring what your partner was doing?” Blades asked.
“With Ralphy, yeah. I’m not gonna do that here. Not this time.”
“But why not let the NYPD and the Suffolk cops sort this shit out?” she asked. “The Burgesses ain’t going nowhere.”
“You know why, Blades?” Healy said. “Because the second they’re arrested, both father and son will lawyer up and shut up. The only murder that there’s any real evidence of is the DeFrees murder. On the Marsden kid’s homicide, all we got is McCauly’s word and he’s dead. Khouri Burgess, if that’s who really was at Gigi’s tonight, will claim that Finn McCauly fired at him first and it was self-defense. Hell, if Gigi really did wound him, he’ll say he had no way of knowing who was shooting at him.
“And a lawyer might not be able to talk a jury into believing that the Marsden pictures don’t show what they show, but he might. He’ll say DeFrees and Khouri were fighting and DeFrees went off the roof by accident. Khouri will say he wanted to turn himself in, but that Rusty Monaco wouldn’t let him because he knew he could blackmail his dad. There is proof of blackmail. Shit, Blades, I could half believe it and I know the truth.”
“But—”
“No buts,” Bob said. “At best, they’ll get Khouri Burgess for manslaughter and obstruction of justice in Brooklyn. He might get off on McCauly too. Even in Suffolk County, dirty, blackmailing cops aren’t real popular. The Reverend James Burgess will look like a sympathetic character here. Neither him or his kid is going to cop to four murder one counts on Long Island. They’ll claim it was McCauly turning on his partner in extortion who killed Rusty and murdered the other drivers to cover it up. No, we’ve gotta get to them first.”
Raiza Hines didn’t say another word about it.
“Look, Blades,” Serpe said. “The minute we get off on Pennsylvania Avenue, we’ll pull over and you can get out of the car. My reputation’s shot. Me and Healy here, our careers are over. You’ve got a big career ahead of you. You got the goods. When we pull over, you can walk away from this, no questions asked.”
“No questions asked,” Healy agreed.
“Both of you just keep quiet. Besides, without me, how you two old crackers gonna get anywhere near Burgess’s headquarters?”
As they got off the Jackie Robinson Parkway and onto Pennsylvania Avenue, Blades stayed silent. When they were a block away from the converted brownstone on Utica Avenue that Burgess used as his headquarters, Serpe told Healy to park. They each pulled out their cell phones and made a call or two. No one on the other end of the lines seemed too terribly pleased, but the three of them had already plunged so far into the deep end of the shit that they were beyond caring. When they were done with the calls, Hines, Healy and Serpe got out of the car and walked.
Out front of the beautifully restored brownstone—footscrapers, wrought iron gate and fence, faux gas lamps, et al—stood two men, one at either side of the steps like the lions in front of the New York Public Library. They were escapees from the NFL, more mountains than men, really. Both had necks, arms, and legs like telephone poles and torsos like concrete bunkers. They had ear pieces and mics clipped to the collars of their black leather dusters. Although their matching overcoats were just loose enough to conceal a holster and sidearm, it was safe to assume they were carrying. But none of that was nearly as intimidating as their don’t-even-fuck-with-me-I-will-kill you demeanor.
Blades and Healy already had their shields out as they approached. Serpe just acted the part. The twin mountains were unimpressed and unintimidated. The one on the left held up his right hand. It was as big as the rest of him. Good thing he didn’t hold it up high enough to blot out the moon.
“Where y’all goin’?” he asked, in a calm, sweet voice.
Hines did the talking. “Up those stairs.”
His partner reached up his hand and leaned his head over to talk into his mic.
“Don’t do that!” Healy said. He put his hand back down.
“You got an invitation or a warrant? ‘Cause if you don’t, y’all ain’t goin’ up them steps,” said Sweet Voice.
“See this?” Hines flicked the shield clipped to her lapel. “This is my invitation.”
“Nah, it ain’t neither,” the other mountain chimed in. “That there is a few ounces of gold plated metal and ceramics. That ain’t no warrant neither. Come on back next Thanksgiving when the Reverend give out free turkeys. Maybe he’ll talk to you then.”
“Enough,” Hines barked, putting her face up close to Mountain Number Two. “Did Khouri Burgess enter these premises this evening? ‘Cause he murdered an NYPD detective earlier this evening. I don’t need no fuckin’ warrant.”
The distant wail of approaching sirens could just be heard above the street noise. The timing couldn’t have been better. The guards were unmoved.
“How we know—”
Hines had reached her limit. “Look, you motherfuckas, this ain’t no bullshit. Now let us in there or I’m gonna arrest both of you. Where’s Burgess at inside?”
“Probably in what he call his war room up on the top floor,” said Sweet Voice, his voice less calm.
“When did the son get here?”
“ ‘Bout five minutes before y’all.”
“Okay, come on. Show us. And keep your hands off those mic buttons.”
They heard the shouting before they were fully inside the brownstone. And when they reached the top of the stairs, they heard the first shot. Now they all broke into a run, but not even Superman on his best day could’ve gotten there before the second and third shots. They did get there just in time to see Khouri Burgess put the muzzle of his hand cannon under his chin and blow off the top of his head.
James Burgess was still alive, barely. He had been hit once in the liver and once above the heart. The sirens were loud outside the window, so Sweet Voice put down the telephone. Calling 911 suddenly seemed beside the point. Blades and Healy pressed their hands against the reverend’s wounds, but his eyes were glassy; the pupils wide and unseeing. The blood that had already poured out of his body made a huge wet stain in the cream-colored carpet.
“Fool … didn’t … even … get the … neg …, a …, tives. That … boy … has always … been … a … dis … a … pointment to … me. Always … a … dis …” Such were the last words spoken on this earth by the once mighty Reverend James Burgess.
Joe Serpe attended to Khouri; what was left of him, anyway. When he opened the dead man’s coat, Serpe saw that the younger Burgess had only expedited the inevitable. Either Gigi or McCauly had hit him. He’d been gut shot and had tried to stem the flow of blood with a bunch of sanitary napkins taped over the wound. He’d either scooped up the pads and tape from Gigi’s apartment or picked them up at a convenience store on the way into Brooklyn. But like everything else about the dance between the Burgesses, Rusty Monaco, and Finnbar McCauly, the patch was futile and soaked with blood.
Serpe stood up and looked at the photos that lined the walls. They were pictures of the Reverend James Burgess with some of the most powerful men and women in New York City, New York State, the country, and the world. He was pictured with senators and congressmen, presidents and popes, prize fighters and a princess. Healy noticed Joe Serpe staring at the walls.
“Look at Burgess’ desk,” he told his partner.
Serpe walked over and saw the blackmail photos laid out in sequence across the desk, Khouri Burgess’ freckled skin apparent in every picture.
“Amazing, huh?” Healy said.
“What?”
“All those pictures of the rich and famous and powerful.”
“Big fucking deal,” Serpe said. “In the end, all of his connections couldn’t do a thing to save his ass. None of the pictures on the walls mean a fucking thing in the face of the pictures on his desk.”
“All the kings horses and all the kings men.”
Serpe opened his mouth to answer, but half the uniforms in New York City came rushing through the door.