Beck and Ciro quickly tied up Eric Jackson, pulled a garbage bag over his head, and dumped him into the cargo section of the Escalade. Since Jackson didn’t scream in pain and Beck didn’t see any blood leaking from his ears, he assumed he’d survived Ciro’s intervention with a six-thousand-pound vehicle without suffering any life-threatening injuries.
They emptied Jackson’s gun, tossed it into the Range Rover, and left the vehicle in the middle of the street where the police couldn’t miss it.
They were halfway to the entrance of the Cross Bronx Expressway with their captive when the first police car flew past them heading toward Harrod Avenue.
Ciro and Beck drove to Sedgwick Avenue, where Jonas and Ricky Bolo were waiting parked under the cover of a viaduct. They quickly transferred Jackson into their van. Ciro confirmed with Jonas where they were to take Jackson—a motel outside the Lincoln Tunnel where he’d already stashed Edward Remsen. In less than two minutes, the Bolos were heading for Jersey while Beck and Ciro continued driving south toward Manhattan.
Beck checked his watch. A few minutes after eleven. He asked Ciro, “So we’re set, right? Alex’s information was accurate?”
“Yeah. Noon.”
“He answered your call?”
“No. I had to leave a message telling him either he calls me, or I’ll show up at his apartment on Arden Street. He called back ten minutes later.”
“Did he need much convincing?”
“Not really. He picked a restaurant on Broadway and 103rd Street.”
Beck checked his watch. “We have time to look around. Make sure he didn’t do anything stupid like call in the troops so they could arrest me.”
Ciro nodded and then lapsed into silence. After a few moments, he turned to Beck and said, “You sure you want to do this, James?”
Beck nodded.
“This ain’t some Bronx pimp, Jimmy. There’s going to be a hell of a lot of heat over it.”
“Ciro, I know what can happen. I’ll do what I can to make sure nothing blows back on you guys. I know I might have to disappear. I know what this means. I know it all, Ciro.”
Ciro nodded. Saying nothing because there was nothing more to say.
When they arrived at Broadway and 103rd, Ciro circled the surrounding streets until he was sure there were no cops lying in wait to arrest Beck. He pulled up across the street from the restaurant and told Beck, “I’ll wait here. If the cops show, I’ll drive this fucking tank into the restaurant if I have to, and get you out of there.”
“The cops won’t show. This is too far from his precinct. And he thinks there’s already a plan in place to arrest us. He sure as hell won’t try it by himself. Not in a restaurant filled with Upper West Side yuppies and their kids.”
“All right. Be careful.”
Beck dodged traffic getting across Broadway, entered the restaurant, and took a seat at a table for two adjacent to the outside seating area. He ordered coffee to revive himself, and watched the patrons at the other tables while keeping an eye out for Raymond Ippolito.
His phone signaled a text message had come in. It was from Phineas: Starting our 2nd meet with Levitt, Wilson. Higher-ups involved now.
Beck slipped the phone into his pocket. The timing seemed to be working.
He noticed a few people looking at him surreptitiously. The swelling under his eye and on his forehead had subsided, but the bruises were very visible. There was no hiding the fact that he’d been in some sort of fight.
He was about to order a second cup of coffee when Raymond Ippolito appeared at the restaurant doorway. Beck immediately pegged him for the cop. He wore his shirt hanging out of his slacks to cover the gun at his hip, a pair of too-shiny loafers that looked like Gucci knockoffs, and too much gel on his slicked-back hair. He walked directly to Beck’s table, stood over him, and said, “I almost didn’t match you with your mug shot. Looks like you took a beating.”
“Ippolito.”
“Yeah, what’s this all about? You got some balls setting up a meet with me.”
Beck looked up at Ippolito, calculating the precise angle and point of impact necessary to break his nose with a short right hook. The expression on Beck’s battered face made Ippolito sit.
Beck said, “Did you ask me what this is all about?”
“Yeah.”
“Murder, conspiracy, perjury, aiding and abetting known felons, prostitution, exploitation of minors, torture, rape, money laundering, tax evasion, and whether or not you and your career are going to survive the next twenty-four hours.”
Ippolito shot back, “What the hell are you talking about?” But beneath the bravado, Beck saw fear flickering in Ippolito’s eyes.
“Do us both a favor and drop the act. You know exactly what I’m talking about.”
The waiter appeared. Ippolito faked a smile and ordered a Bloody Mary. He turned to Beck, trying to keep up the façade.
“Yeah, well, whatever the hell you’re talking about, it sounds like you’re threatening an NYPD detective.”
“Sounds like? This isn’t like threatening you, Ippolito. I am threatening you. You’ve aided and abetted in enough crimes to send you to prison. Now keep your mouth shut and listen to my proof.”
Beck began a careful, concise explanation of the evidence that proved John Palmer had killed Paco Johnson and had planted the murder weapon to frame Derrick Watkins for that murder. Beck told Ippolito he knew the witnesses claiming he shot Derrick Watkins were phony, and that they would fold when Eric Jackson went down, which he assured Ippolito was going to happen soon.
Beck continued on, trying to keep his rage in check as he described the depth and breadth of the criminal enterprises run by Eric Jackson. Without going into details about Remsen’s prostitution ring, Beck explained the evidence he had that would allow the FBI and NYPD to send Jackson and Bondurant away, most likely for the rest of their lives.
Ippolito tried one last attempt at bluster. “So what’s all that got to do with me?”
“I told you to keep your mouth shut.” Beck continued. “All the evidence on Palmer is being presented to Assistant District Attorney Frederick Wilson, your supervisor, Lieutenant James Levitt, and other police bosses as we speak. It will go right up the line to the chief of detectives, and all the other brass who have been lied to by John Palmer. The FBI will be reviewing evidence against Jackson starting at two o’clock today.”
Beck’s speech had taken five minutes. Ippolito’s Bloody Mary had arrived and remained untouched the entire time.
Ippolito blurted out, “Hey, I swear, I didn’t know anything about Palmer shooting that guy. I would have…”
Beck held up a hand. “If I thought you did, I’d have already killed you. I wouldn’t be offering you a way out.”
Ippolito tried to say something, but Beck said, “Stop. Don’t say anything that might make me change my mind. The time for bullshit is over. You and I both know what’s going to happen now.
“The NYPD is going to go after you and Palmer. They’ll never get Palmer for murdering my friend, but they’ll know he did it, so they’ll go after you and Palmer on everything they can. When Eric Jackson starts singing to save his ass, they’ll have enough to charge both of you with witness tampering, perjury, falsifying records, colluding with a known felon, aiding and abetting. We both know it’ll be a long list.
“You’ll hang tough and deny it. But what do you think Palmer will do? Daddy isn’t going to let his golden boy’s career go down in flames. He’ll tell John Junior to turn on you. It’ll be all your fault. You’re the senior guy. You’re the one with all the connections. Palmer will play innocent and blame you. By the time he and Daddy are done, little Johnny will be a hero and you’ll lose everything, and end up in prison. You’re going to talk the fall, Ippolito. You know, and I know it.”
Ippolito picked up his untouched Bloody Mary and nearly drained it. He gripped the glass, thinking it through. A sick, sour feeling formed in the pit of his stomach.
Beck said, “So, Detective, time to decide. You want to save yourself, or take the hit for John Palmer?”
Ippolito couldn’t look Beck in the eye. Head down, he cleared his throat and said, “What are you going to do?”
“You know goddam well what I’m going to do. Are you in, or not?”
With his head still bowed, Ippolito muttered, “Yes.”
“Yes, what?”
Ippolito looked up. “Yes. I’m in.”
Beck nodded. “I’m assuming Palmer is home now.”
“Yeah. He’s home. He worked almost two days straight.”
“What’s his next move?”
“He has to be at One Police Plaza today at three to finalize everything for the arrests early Monday morning.”
“Are you in that meeting?”
“No. They were done with me yesterday.”
“Why?”
“I’m out. I put in my retirement papers weeks ago. My last day is Friday.”
“If you want to make it to Friday, you’ll do exactly what I tell you.”
Ippolito poked at the bloody-looking ice cubes in his glass with the wilted stick of celery.
“What do you want me to do?”
Beck checked his watch. It was 12:40 P.M.
“I assume you’ve been to Palmer’s apartment.”
“Sure. A few times.”
“I had his building checked out. His intercom has a camera. If you ring him, what does he do?”
“Checks the camera, usually says hi or something and rings me in.”
“Does he leave his apartment door open for you, or make you wait for him to open it when you get up to his place?”
“Usually leaves it open.”
“We’re going over to Palmer’s place. You’re going to buzz him, and tell him you have to talk to him about the meeting at One PP.”
“Then what?”
“Then that’s it. He buzzes you in, you walk away with one of my associates. You wait with him until I tell him to let you go.”
“Let me go, or put a bullet in my head?”
“No, Mr. Ippolito. You do what I’ve said, and you won’t die today.”
“What do you mean, today?”
“If you don’t keep your mouth shut, if you don’t play this out to the end, you get a bullet right between your fucking eyes.”
Ippolito stared across the table at Beck. The dangerous, grim reality of what was happening robbed Raymond Ippolito of all expression. He looked as if he’d aged ten years since he’d walked into the restaurant. He opened his mouth, tried to say something, stopped, and then forced out the words.
“You’ll never get away with it, Beck. He’s a cop for chrissake. You know who is father is? They’ll turn over heaven and earth…”
Beck pitched forward and snarled. “And I’ll turn over heaven and hell if I have to. He pays for killing my friend, for trying to put my friends back in jail, for conspiring with criminals who torture and prostitute women and girls. You’ve got one chance to pay for your part in this. Stand up, walk out of here, and take it.”