Brian Rooney was sweating. That was clear.
What he hoped was less clear were the pains in his chest and left arm. He wanted to finish his testimony. To get the ordeal over with, once and for all. It would be a nightmare to collapse in front of everyone. To have the paramedics run in and cart him off to the hospital, only to have to come back to do it all over again. He gripped the brass rail that ran around the top of the witness box with both hands, took a breath, and focused on the lawyer’s words. On the sound of them. Not the image they conjured in his head. Each syllable he pictured as a bloodhound, racing unerringly through the forest of his lies to drag the damning truth out of its fragile, shallow grave.
Let me get away with this and I swear I’ll be good…
Steven Bruce, counsel for the defense, winked. He shot Rooney a sly smile. He knew. He was waiting to bring the hammer down. Drawing out the agony. The sadistic shyster.
“Detective Rooney, you described the events that followed your entry into my clients’ apartment on the evening of September 22. But you didn’t tell the court what prompted you to smash down their door in the first place. In fact, you seemed to deliberately skirt around the issue. Would you care to enlighten us now?”
I didn’t tell the court about the bags of cash we removed and sent to the lieutenant’s brother for laundering, either, Rooney thought. “We were acting on an anonymous tip.” He could feel a steel band tightening around his chest. Bruce was closing in…
“How was this alleged tip received? Via carrier pigeon? Did someone hire a skywriter?”
The asshole was circling. It wouldn’t be long now. “The tip came in by phone, to 911.” Normally Rooney would have invited the lawyer to check the 911 recordings, but there was a problem. The idiot they’d paid to drop the dime had done it late. They should have waited for the call to come through from dispatch before taking the door, but they heard glass smashing. They guessed that the pimps were going for the fire escape. The operation wasn’t sanctioned, so they had no backup. Money was at stake—a lot—so they figured they’d go for it and fudge the timing in the report. But, as Brian Rooney senior used to say, once the fuck-up fairy comes to stay, there’s no getting rid of her. A stray bullet went through the wall into an adjoining apartment and took out the neighbor’s clock. The guy was a gadget freak, and this was no garden-variety timepiece. It was an exact replica of the first atomic clock. Precisely accurate, and worth around four thousand bucks. The guy made a statement so he could put in a claim on his insurance. Compare that with the 911 log, and it was game over. One more question and the case would collapse. Then the rat squad would come crawling, and the whole house of cards would collapse.
Bruce tipped his head and pursed his lips. The question was coming. The final nail…
Let me get away with this and I’ll quit the job. I’ll put my papers in this afternoon. Live on my pension. Quietly. Never allow myself to be led down the garden path again. I swear!
Someone must have been listening.
Bruce twitched like he was coming out of a trance. “I’m sorry, I lost my train of thought there for a second. So the call was made to 911. Why was it that your unit was the one to respond?”
Rooney’s mind was whirling, looking for the angle. Why wasn’t Bruce asking about the time of the call? Setting him up to reveal the discrepancy, while his jugular was exposed? “We responded because we were the closest to the suspects’ address when the call came in.”
“That’s not what I meant.” Bruce paused, cranking up the pressure on Rooney’s heart. “Given the nature of the crimes my clients are charged with, wouldn’t it have been more appropriate for the vice squad to have been involved?”
“We didn’t initially know the category of crimes that were being committed.” Rooney was struggling to control his breathing. “The call we received only referred to a child being in distress. When we entered the premises and realized the kind of activities your clients were indulging in and the sort of matériel in their possession, we informed our lieutenant. He called his opposite number in vice, which is the proper procedure. When the vice detectives arrived, we left. This is all recorded in the log maintained by a uniformed officer at the scene.”
“Thank you, Detective. We may need to examine that log in due course. Until then, no further questions.”
Rooney’s retirement racket was a muted affair. Not all of the detectives from the squad showed up. The lieutenant only stayed for the first half hour or so. There was no one from his time at the academy. No one from his days in uniform. No one from any of his old precincts. When it was nearly time for the bar to close he was barely buzzed. He told himself to look on the bright side. One lousy evening was better than a lousy rest of his life. Especially if all that was left of it had to be spent in administrative segregation.
Rooney decided to cut his losses and head home, but as he approached the door he spotted a familiar face at a table in the shadows. It was Steven Bruce. He was sitting on his own, and he waved for Rooney to join him.
“Come, sit for a minute,” Bruce said. “I have an idea how you could put this damp squib of a party behind you. Put retirement on hold for a while. Start a new chapter of your life. The best you’ve ever known.”
Rooney’s first thought was to tell Bruce to stick his idea, whatever it was. Then he reconsidered. He was a civilian now. It was OK to fraternize with shysters—or lawyers, as he’d have to try to think of them. Especially if by best they meant most lucrative.