His cell phone rings again.
He ignores it again, turns back into Claudette and tries to go back to sleep with his face in the sweet crook of her neck. Then his conscience gets the better of him and he looks at his phone.
It’s Russo. “Did you hear?”
“Hear what?” Malone asks.
“About Torres,” Russo says.
It sends a jolt through Malone. “What?”
“He ate his gun.”
Right out in the Manhattan North parking lot, Russo tells him. Two uniforms heard the shot, ran out and found him in his car. Motor running, AC on high, radio blasting salsa music and Torres’s brains sprayed over the back windshield.
No note.
No message.
No skid marks, the man just did it.
“Why the fuck would he do that?” Russo asks.
Malone knows why.
The feds pressed him. Become a rat or go to jail.
And Torres had an answer for them.
Brutal, mean, racist, lying, vicious motherfucker Raf Torres had an answer for them.
Fuck you. I go out like a man.
Malone gets out of bed.
“What’s up?” Claudette asks sleepily.
“I gotta go.”
“Already?”
“A cop killed himself.”
Malone bursts through the door, grabs O’Dell by the lapels, lifts him out of his chair and walks him into the wall.
“I’ve been trying to call you,” O’Dell says.
“Motherfuckers.”
Weintraub gets up and comes over to break it up but Malone turns and gives him the death stare, like if you really want in on this you’re going to get in on this, and Weintraub backs off. Says weakly, “Settle down, Malone.”
“What did you do?” Malone asks. “Try to flip him? Get him to wear a wire? Or else you were going to cuff him at the precinct house in front of his brother officers, make him do the perp walk out the door in front of the television cameras and a crowd of locals hooting ‘Pig!’ Talked to him about going to prison, what would happen to his family?”
“We did our job.”
“You killed a cop,” Malone says to O’Dell, his spit flicking into his face. “You’re a cop killer.”
“I tried to call you, the second I heard,” O’Dell says. “This is not on us, it’s not on you, it’s on him. He made his own choices, including this last one.”
“Maybe he made the right choice,” Malone says.
“No, he didn’t,” O’Dell says. “He didn’t have the guts to face up to what he’s done. You did, Malone. You’re making it right.”
“By killing a brother cop.”
“Torres took the coward’s way out,” Weintraub says.
Malone explodes off the chair, gets in his face. “Don’t you say that. Don’t you fucking ever say that. I saw that man go down the stairwells, I saw him go through the doors. Where were you, huh? Having a two-martini lunch? Safe in bed with your girlfriend?”
“You didn’t even like the guy.”
“That’s right, but he was a cop,” Malone says. “He was no coward.”
“All right.”
“Sit down, Denny,” O’Dell says.
“You sit down.”
“What are you, high?” O’Dell asks. “Are you jacked up on something?”
Just a half-dozen go-pills and a couple of lines of blow. “Test me. I piss hot, you can add it to the charges, how’s that?”
“Calm down.”
“How the fuck am I supposed to calm down?!” Malone yells. “You think it’s going to end here? You don’t think there aren’t going to be rumors? People aren’t going to start asking questions? Fucking IAB will be all over this!”
“We’ll take care of it.”
“Like you took care of Torres?”
“Torres was not my fault!” O’Dell says. “And if you call me a cop killer again, I’ll—”
“You’ll fucking what?!”
“You’re not innocent in this, Malone!”
Paz walks in. Looks at them and says, “When you girls are through with your hissy fits, maybe we can get down to work.”
Malone and O’Dell are glaring at each other, ready to go.
“Okay, neither of you has the biggest dick,” Paz says. “I do. So sit down, gentlemen.”
They sit down.
“A crooked cop took his own life,” Paz says. “Boo-fucking-hoo. Get over it. The issue now is damage control. Did Torres talk to anyone before he canceled his reservation? Tell anyone about the investigation? Find out what people are saying, Malone.”
“No.”
“‘No’?” Paz asks. “Are you filled with remorse now, papi? Irish Catholic guilt? You want to climb up on the cross and nail yourself to it? Fight off the impulse, Malone. I have you down more for the survivor type, anyway.”
“You mean the Judas type.”
“Don’t do it to yourself, Malone,” Paz says. “Hang in there. All I want to know is what your brother officers are saying about Torres. They’re going to talk about it anyway. They talk to you, you talk to us. It’s that simple. Is there a problem with this I’m not aware of?”
There are so many problems you’re not aware of, Malone thinks.
“And let’s look for alternative explanations for Torres’s suicide,” Paz says. She looks to Malone. “Was he a drinker? A druggie? Marital difficulties? Financial problems?”
“Not that I know of.”
Torres was making good money. He had a wife, three kids and at least three women he kept up in the Heights.
“Even if rumors start about the investigation,” Paz says, “this could work out for you, Malone. Your brother officers will think the rat is dead. He couldn’t stand the guilt and offed himself. It clears the way for you.”
“To do what?” Malone asks. “I gave you what you wanted.”
“We need a wider base under him,” Paz says. “We don’t want to show that he was only taking from one cop, but a whole stable. We want multiple charges. Was Torres kicking up?”
“Did you ask Torres?”
“He said he’d get back to us,” Weintraub says.
“I guess he did, huh?” Malone says.
The house is in turmoil.
When Malone gets to Manhattan North, the news trucks are already there. He pushes his way through the reporters with a curt “No comment” and goes in. The place is a bedlam of rumor, anger and fear. He makes his way through the knots of uniformed officers talking by the desk and feels eyes on his back as he goes upstairs to the Task Force.
He knows what they’re thinking—Malone knows something. Malone always knows something.
Everyone’s at his desk—Russo, Montague, Levin. They look up as he comes in.
“Where you been?” Russo asks.
Malone ignores the question. “Anyone get to the ME?”
“McGivern’s on it,” Russo says. He juts his chin at Sykes’s office, where the inspector stands watching Sykes on the phone.
“IAB?” Malone asks.
“They want to talk to every detective on the Task Force,” Montague says.
“We all got called in,” Levin says.
“Here’s what you say,” Malone says. “You don’t know shit. You don’t know about alcohol, drugs, money problems, troubles at home, nothing. Let his team talk about that if they want.”
He walks over, knocks on Sykes’s door and walks in without waiting for an answer.
McGivern puts a hand on his shoulder. “Jesus, Denny.”
“I know.”
“What the hell happened?”
Malone shrugs.
“It’s a shame,” McGivern says.
“You talk to the ME?”
“He’s leaving the door open as to accidental,” McGivern says.
“That’s the best thing you could have done for Torres, Inspector,” Malone says. “But it’s out in the media as a suicide?”
“It’s a shame,” McGivern repeats.
Sykes gets off the phone and looks at Malone. “Where have you been, Sergeant?”
“Asleep,” Malone says. “I guess I didn’t hear the phone.”
Sykes looks shaken. Malone doesn’t blame him—his smooth flight path of a career just hit major turmoil.
“What can you tell me about this?” Sykes asks.
“I just got here, Captain.”
“You didn’t see any signs of this?” Sykes asks. “Torres didn’t confide anything to you?”
“We weren’t exactly close, sir,” Malone says. “What does his team say? Gallina, Ortiz, Tenelli . . .”
“Nothing,” Sykes says.
Of course not, Malone thinks. And good.
“They’re still in shock,” McGivern says. “It’s bad enough when a brother officer falls to a felon’s bullet, but something like this . . .”
Christ, Malone thinks, he’s already writing his speech.
Sykes is staring at Malone. “There are rumors that IAB had Torres up. Do you know anything about that?”
Malone meets his stare. “No.”
“So you don’t know of any reason,” Sykes asks, “that IAB might have been investigating Torres?”
“No.”
“Or any detective on the Task Force?” Sykes asks.
“It’s your command, sir,” Malone says. The threat is clear—dig into this, you dig your own grave.
McGivern steps in. “We’re getting ahead of ourselves, gentlemen. Let’s allow Internal Affairs to do its job.”
“I expect you to give IAB your full cooperation,” Sykes says to Malone. “And that of your entire team.”
“That goes without saying.”
Sykes says, “Let’s get real, Malone. As you go, so goes the Task Force. The men will follow your lead. You set the tone.”
It’s a remarkable admission, no less for being true.
“We’re not going to cover up,” Sykes says. “We’re not going to put up the barricades, huddle behind them and pull in on ourselves.”
That’s exactly what we’re going to do, Malone thinks.
“We will be open and transparent,” Sykes says, “and let the investigation go where it goes.”
You do that, Malone thinks, it will go right up your ass. “Is that all, sir?”
“Set the tone, Sergeant.”
You got it, Malone thinks as he walks out. He signals Russo and Montague to come with him, goes back downstairs and walks up to the desk. “Sarge, can you get their attention for me?”
“Yo, listen up!”
It gets quiet.
“All right,” Malone says, “we’re all hurting about Torres. Thoughts and prayers to his family. But right now we have to handle our business. If you talk to the media, here’s what you say: ‘Sergeant Torres was a beloved and respected officer and he will be missed.’ That’s it. Be polite but keep moving. I don’t believe there’s anyone here like this, but if one of you thinks you’re going to become a TV or social media star behind this—I will have your ass.”
He pauses to let that set in and for Russo and Montague to back him up with their eyes. Then he says, “Look, there are going to be citizens on your beats celebrating. Do not respond. They’re going to try to goad you into getting stupid, but do not do it. I don’t want to see any of you get jammed up with a brutality beef. Stay cool, remember faces, and we’ll settle with them later—you have my word on that.
“If IAB questions you, cooperate. Tell them the truth—that you don’t know anything. And that is the truth. Thinking you know something and actually knowing it are two very different things. You give rats any cheese, they just keep coming back. We keep our house clean, they go away. Questions.”
There aren’t any.
“All right,” Malone says. “We’re the freaking N-Y-P-D. Let’s go out and do our jobs.”
It’s the talk the captain should have given but he didn’t. Malone goes back upstairs and sees Gallina, Torres’s partner, standing by his desk.
“Let’s take a walk,” Malone says.
They go out the back to avoid the media.
“What the fuck happened?” Malone asks. If Torres talked to anyone, it was Jorge Gallina. Him and Torres were tight.
“I don’t know,” Gallina says. He’s clearly shaken, afraid. “He was quiet yesterday. Something was wrong.”
“But he didn’t say what?”
“He phoned me from his car,” Gallina says, “and just said he wanted to say good-bye. I asked him, you know, ‘What the fuck, Raf?,’ and he said, ‘Nothing,’ and hung up.”
Guy’s going to end his life, Malone thinks, and he calls his partner, not his wife, to say good-bye.
Cops.
“Did IAB have him up?” Malone asks, feeling like a fucking creep.
“No,” Gallina says. “We’d have known. What are we going to do now, Malone?”
“Shut it down,” Malone says. “I mean not as much as a fixed parking ticket. Stonewall IAB and keep our noses clean. The Rat Squad starts to paint Raf dirty, we’ll get the media all over them.”
“Okay,” Gallina says.
“Where’s Torres’s money?”
“All over the place,” Gallina says. “I have about a hundred in a fund.”
“Gloria know that?” Last thing you want is a widow worrying about money on top of everything else.
“Yeah, but I’ll remind her.”
“How’s she doing?”
“She’s a mess,” Gallina says. “I mean, she was talking divorce, but she still loves him.”
“Get to his gumars,” Malone says. “Lay some cash on them, tell them to shut their mouths. And for Chrissakes make sure they know that coming to the funeral is not a smart idea.”
“Okay. Good.”
“You need to chill out, Jorge,” Malone says. “The rats smell fear like sharks smell blood.”
“I know. What if they want me to take a polygraph?”
“You call your delegate, he tells them to go fuck themselves,” Malone says. “You’re in grief, you’re in shock, you’re in no condition for that.”
But Gallina is scared. “You think IAB was on him, Malone? Jesus, you don’t think Raf was wearing a wire?”
“Torres?” Malone asks. “No fucking way.”
“Then why did he do it?” Gallina asks.
Because I gave him up, Malone thinks. Because I dropped him in the jackpot, put the gun in his hand.
“Who the fuck knows?” Malone says.
He goes back into the house. McGivern is waiting for him.
“This is bad, Denny,” McGivern says.
No shit, this is bad, Malone thinks. Worse maybe than he thought, because Bill McGivern, an NYPD police inspector with more connections than an alderman, looks scared.
Old, all of a sudden.
His pale skin looks like paper, his white hair like the top of an aspirin bottle, the ruddiness of his cheeks now looks like just broken veins.
McGivern says, “If IAB had Torres—”
“They didn’t.”
“But what if they did?” McGivern asks. “What did he tell them? What did he know? Did he know about me?”
“I’m the only one who brought you envelopes,” Malone says. For all Manhattan North.
But shit yes, Torres knew.
Everyone knows how it works.
“Do you think Torres was wearing a wire?” McGivern asks.
“Even if he was, you have nothing to worry about,” Malone says. “You didn’t talk business with him, did you?”
“No, that’s right.”
“Has IAB called you in?” Malone asks.
“They don’t have the nerve,” McGivern says. “But if someone talks . . .”
“They won’t.”
“The Task Force is solid, Denny? Stand-up guys?”
“Totally,” Malone says. At least I fuckin’ hope so.
“I hear rumors,” McGivern says, “that it isn’t IAB, it’s the feds.”
“Which feds?”
“Southern District,” McGivern says. “That Spanish bitch. She has ambitions, Denny.”
McGivern makes it sound dirty. Ambitions, like she has crabs. Like being ambitious makes her a whore.
Malone hates the buchiach, too, but not for that.
“She wants to hurt the Job,” McGivern says. “We can’t let her do that.”
“We don’t even know it’s her,” Malone says.
McGivern ain’t listening. He says, “I’m two years away from pulling the pin. Jeannie and I have a cabin up in Vermont.”
And a condo on Sanibel Island, Malone thinks.
“I want to spend time in that cabin,” McGivern says. “Not behind bars. Jeannie isn’t well, you know.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“She needs me,” McGivern says. “Whatever time we have left . . . I’m counting on you, Denny. I’m counting on you to shut this down. Do what you have to do.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I trust you, Denny,” McGivern says, putting his hand on Malone’s shoulder. “You’re a good man.”
Yeah, Malone thinks, walking away.
I’m a king.
It’s going to be brutal, Malone thinks, to keep this tied down.
For one thing, the street is going to be talking. Every half-ass low-level dope slinger Torres ever ripped or beat on is going to come forward to tell the story now that they don’t have to be afraid of him.
Then the guys he put away are going to start to chirp from their cells. Hey, Torres was a dirty cop. He lied on the stand. I want a retrial, no, I want my conviction tossed out.
It comes out that Torres was dirty, it’s full-employment act for the criminal defense bar. Those assholes will reopen every case Torres ever touched; shit, that the whole Task Force ever touched.
And it could come out. It takes only one guy to break. Gallina’s already shaken. If he goes, he’s not only going to flip on his own team, but on everyone.
The dominos tumble.
We have to shut it down.
Not we, motherfucker. You.
You started the ball rolling.
Malone’s the last on his team to go talk with IAB.
His guys did what they needed to do and Russo told him, “They got nothing. They know shit.”
“Who is it?”
“Buliosi and Henderson.”
Henderson, Malone thinks. We finally catch a break.
He goes into the room.
“Have a seat, Sergeant Malone,” Buliosi says.
Lieutenant Richard Buliosi is a typical IAB prick. Maybe it’s the acne scars that made him a rat, Malone thinks, but the guy definitely has a beef with the world to work out.
Malone sits down.
“What can you tell us,” Buliosi asks, “about the apparent suicide of Sergeant Torres?”
“Not much,” Malone says. “I didn’t know him all that well.”
Buliosi looks at him with a show of incredulity. “You were in the same unit.”
“Torres mostly worked the Heights and Inwood,” Malone says. “My team is mostly in Harlem.”
“Hardly worlds apart.”
“You’d be surprised,” Malone says. “That is, if you worked the streets.”
He regrets the dig instantly but Buliosi lets it go. “Was Torres depressed?”
“I guess so, huh.”
“I mean,” Buliosi says, starting to get irritated, “did he show signs of depression?”
“I’m not a shrink,” Malone answers, “but as far as I observed, Torres was his usual prick self.”
“You didn’t get along?”
“We got along fine,” Malone says. “One prick to another.”
You gonna get in on this, Henderson? Malone wonders, looking at him. I need to remind you you got skin in this game? Henderson gets the message. “My understanding is that Torres had a reputation as a hard-ass up here. Is that accurate, Malone?”
“If you don’t have a rep as a hard-ass ‘up here,’” Malone says, “you’re not going to last long ‘up here.’”
“Is it accurate to say,” Henderson asks, “that detectives were selected for the Task Force somewhat based on that quality?”
“I’d say that’s accurate, yes.”
“That’s the problem with the Task Force,” Buliosi says. “It’s almost designed for trouble.”
“Was that a question, sir?”
“I’ll tell you what the questions are, Sergeant,” Buliosi says.
You think so, Malone thinks, but right now we’re talking about what I want to talk about, aren’t we?
Buliosi asks, “Do you know if Torres was doing anything that might have caused him concern for his job or his future?”
“That’s more your business, isn’t it?”
“We’re asking you.”
“Like I said,” Malone says, “I don’t know what Torres was doing or what he wasn’t doing.”
“You haven’t heard rumors,” Buliosi asks, “around the house?”
“No.”
“Was he taking money?”
“I don’t know.”
“Ripping drug dealers?”
“I don’t know.”
Buliosi asks, “Are you?”
“No.”
“You sure about that?”
“I think I’d know,” Malone says, meeting his stare.
“You’re aware,” Buliosi says, “of the consequences of lying to IAB in the course of an investigation.”
Malone says, “That would involve intradepartmental discipline, potential dismissal from the job as well as possible criminal charges for obstructing justice.”
“That’s right,” Buliosi says. “Sadly, Torres is dead. You don’t have to protect him.”
Malone feels his temper coming up out of his gut. Like he wants to smash this motherfucker’s face in for him, shut his smarmy fucking mouth. “Are you sad about it, Lieutenant? Because I don’t read that on your face.”
“As you said, you’re not a shrink.”
“Yeah, but reading assholes’ faces is kind of my job.”
Henderson jumps in. “That’s enough, Malone. I know you’re hurting about the loss of a brother officer, but—”
“The next time I see an IAB guy eat his gun will be the first time,” Malone says. “You don’t do that, lawyers don’t, wiseguys don’t. You know who does? Cops. Only cops. Real cops, that is.”
Henderson says, “I think that will be all for now, Sergeant. Why don’t you take a little personal time, get yourself together.”
“We reserve the right to reinterview,” Buliosi says.
Malone gets up. “Let me tell you both something. I don’t know why Torres did what he did. I didn’t even like the guy. But he was a cop. The Job takes a toll. Sometimes it’s sudden, a skel tosses a lucky shot at you and that’s it. Other times it’s slow, builds so slow you don’t even notice it, but then one day you wake up and you can’t take it anymore. Torres didn’t kill himself—one way or the other, the Job killed him.”
“Do you need to see a departmental shrink?” Buliosi asks. “I can arrange an appointment for you.”
“No,” Malone says. “What I need is to go back to work.”
He meets Henderson in Riverside Park by the softball fields.
“Thanks for all your help in the room,” Malone says.
“You didn’t help with your attitude,” Henderson says. “Now Buliosi has a hard-on for you.”
“Like IAB didn’t before,” Malone says. “You guys have wood for every real cop.”
“Gee, thanks, Denny.”
Malone looks across the river at Jersey. Only good thing about living there, he thinks, is you have a view of New York. “Did you guys have Torres up?”
“No.”
“You sure?”
“To quote the immortal Denny Malone,” Henderson says, “‘I think I would have known.’ It wasn’t us. Maybe it was the feds. Southern District has it out for the commissioner.”
Jesus, Malone thinks. Fucking radar. “Well, IAB’s on it now. How much is it going to cost?”
“It’s headline news, Denny,” Henderson says. “The News, the Post, even the Times. On top of this fucking Bennett thing—”
“All the more reason for shutting it down,” Malone says. “You really think the commissioner wants you digging up skeletons in Torres’s closet? Scandals don’t last, but the boys at One P do. And they have long memories. They’ll wait for this to die down and then they’ll fuck you. You’ll retire the same rank you are now, if you even make it that far.”
“You’re right.”
“I already know that,” Malone says. “What I want to know is how much?”
“I’ll have to take it to Buliosi.”
“Then why are you still standing here?” Malone asks.
“Jesus, Malone, if I swing and miss, I go to jail.”
“Where do you think you’ll go if Gallina flips?” Malone asks. “Larry, I’m telling you—we go, you go with us.”
He walks away and leaves Henderson standing there looking at New Jersey.
“Oh, this is beautiful,” Paz says. “Are you seriously telling us that IAB is on the pad? You were tossing bones to the watchdogs?”
“Not all of them,” Malone says.
“What do they do for you?” O’Dell asks.
“Tip us off,” Malone says. Then he adds, “You wanted cops.”
“A thing of beauty,” Paz says. “On a certain sick level, it’s almost admirable—he’s going to rat out the Rat Squad.”
“How high up in IAB does it go?” Weintraub asks.
“I pay a lieutenant,” Malone says. “What he does with the money after that, I have no idea.”
“You can get this on camera?” Weintraub asks. “An IAB lieutenant taking a bribe.”
“What did I just say?”
They all look at Paz.
She nods.
“No,” Malone says. “I want to hear you say it, boss lady. ‘Sergeant Malone, go after Internal Affairs.’”
“You have my authorization.”
Good, Malone thinks.
Turn the rats against each other, let them chew each other’s rat faces off.
Weintraub asks him, “Do you think your guy can move Buliosi?”
“He’s not my guy.”
“Sure he is,” Weintraub says. “You own him.”
“I don’t know.”
“We need to shut down IAB,” Paz says. “A premature disclosure would threaten our investigation.”
“You mean steal your thunder,” Malone says.
“I mean,” Paz says, “that if IAB is dirty, it will suppress the evidence and seal its leaks. We’ll be left with just Henderson.”
Right, Malone thinks. What they’re really afraid of is the commissioner will beat the mayor to the punch, announce the corruption, own it, and come out a hero.
“This fucking Torres,” Paz says. “Who knew he was such a pussy?”
“So you’re not going to move on IAB?” Malone asks.
“The hell we’re not, just not yet,” Paz says. She walks over to Malone, her perfume reaching him before she does. “Sergeant Malone, you beautiful dirty cop, you may have single-handedly brought down corruption in the defense bar, the prosecutor’s office, IAB and the entire NYPD.”
“It’s bigger than Serpico,” Weintraub says, “Bob Leuci, Michael Dowd, Eppolito, any of those guys.”
Malone’s phone rings.
O’Dell nods for him to take it.
It’s Henderson.
He has an answer.
A hundred thousand dollars buys Buliosi.
“It could be a countersting,” O’Dell says.
“The fuck do I have to lose?” Malone asks.
“Our entire investigation,” Weintraub says. “If you pay Buliosi and he’s playing you, IAB will take down the Task Force and then we’re fucked.”
“And you’ll give us up, won’t you?” Paz asks.
“In a heartbeat.”
“Maybe it’s time,” O’Dell says, “we coordinated with IAB. If they are clean, our investigations are going to start tripping over each other, anyway.”
“Are you out of your fucking mind?” Paz asks. “They’re about to sell the Torres investigation.”
“Or not,” O’Dell says.
“If we bring them in now,” Weintraub says, “they just throw Henderson under the bus and shut it down. They’re not going to do anything beyond that to embarrass the commissioner.”
“They’ll just circle the wagons,” Paz says. “Shut us down.”
“And then the mayor doesn’t get to be governor,” Malone says, “and you don’t get to be mayor. That’s what this is about. Spare me the song-and-dance about stopping the corruption. You are the corruption.”
“And you’re white as snow,” Paz says.
“New York snow,” Malone says.
Dirty, gritty, hard.
Paz turns back to O’Dell. “We pay Buliosi.”
O’Dell asks, “Do we even have a hundred thousand? In cash?”
No one answers.
“It’s okay,” Malone says. “I got it.”
And I got you.
I might even have a way out of this.
“You’re famous, Sergeant Malone,” Rubenstein says.
They’re sitting upstairs at the Landmark Tavern.
“Nah,” Malone says.
Malone can’t tell if Rubenstein’s gay or not, like Russo thought, but Russo thinks all journalists are gay, even the women. One thing Malone can tell about Rubenstein is that he’s dangerous. A predator always recognizes another predator.
“No, come on,” Rubenstein says. “The biggest drug bust in history—you’re as close to a celebrity cop as this city has.”
“Don’t tell my captain that, okay?” Malone says.
“The word on the street is that you run Manhattan North,” Rubenstein says, smiling.
Dangerous.
“Don’t write that or we’re done,” Malone says. “Look, all this needs to be on . . . what do you guys call it . . .”
Malone knows full well what they call it.
“Deep background,” Rubenstein says.
“That’s it,” Malone says. “No one can know I’m giving you information. I’m trusting you here.”
“You can.”
Yeah, right I can. You trust a reporter like you trust a dog. You got a bone in your hand, you’re feeding him, you’re good. Your hand’s empty, don’t turn your back. You either feed the media or it eats you.
“You had a case against Pena before, didn’t you?” Rubenstein asks.
Jesus fuck, who’s this guy been talking to? “That’s right.”
“Did that affect the way you handled it?” Rubenstein asks.
“Do you know about Irish Alzheimer’s?” Malone asks.
“No.”
“You forget everything but the grudges,” Malone says. “Look, we didn’t know what we were going to come up against when we went into that building. As it happened, bad guys with guns wanted to slug it out. One of them was Pena. Am I glad that we won and they didn’t? Yes. Do I enjoy killing people? No.”
“But it must have an effect on you.”
“‘The tortured cop,’” Malone says. “That’s a stereotype. I sleep fine, thanks for your concern.”
“How do you think the inner-city community views police these days?” Rubenstein asks.
“With mistrust,” Malone says. “Look, there has been a long history of racism and brutality in the NYPD. No serious person could deny that. But things have changed. People don’t want to believe that, but it’s true.”
“The Michael Bennett shooting would seem to indicate otherwise.”
“Why don’t we wait until the facts are in?” Malone says.
“Why does it take so long to complete an investigation?”
“Ask the grand jury.”
“I’m asking you,” Rubenstein says. “You’ve been involved in a number of shooting incidents.”
“And each one has been determined to have been justified,” Malone says.
“Maybe that’s my point.”
“I didn’t come here to debate,” Malone says.
“What did you come here for?” Rubenstein asks.
“Rafael Torres,” Malone says. “There’s been a lot of speculation in the media . . .”
“That he was a crooked cop,” Rubenstein says. “Protecting drug dealers.”
“It’s bullshit.”
“You have to agree,” Rubenstein says, “that it’s not an outrageous idea. I mean, there’s ample precedent.”
“The ‘Dirty Thirty,’ Michael Dowd,” Malone says. “Ancient history.”
“Is it?”
“No one wants heroin off the streets more than cops do,” Malone says. “We deal with the violence, the crime, the suffering, the overdoses, the bodies. We go to the morgues. We go tell the families. Not the New York Times.”
“This seems to make you angry, Sergeant.”
“Goddamn right it makes me angry,” Malone says, pissed for letting himself get taunted. “People throwing around careless accusations. Who have you guys been talking to?”
“Do you give up your sources, Sergeant?” Rubenstein asks.
“All right, that’s fair,” Malone says. “Look, I came here to tell you the real reason Torres killed himself.”
He slides an envelope across the table, material that his tame doctor on the West Side provided after complaining that it was medical malpractice.
Rubenstein opens it and looks at the X-ray and doctor’s report. “Pancreatic cancer?”
“He didn’t want to go out that way.”
“Why didn’t he leave a note?” Rubenstein asks.
“Raf wasn’t that kind of guy.”
“And he wasn’t the dirty cop kind of guy either?”
Fuck you, Rubenstein. “Look, would Torres take a free cup of coffee, a sandwich? Okay, sure. But that’s as far as it went.”
“I heard on the street he was practically DeVon Carter’s bodyguard.”
“I hear all kinds of shit on the street,” Malone says. “Did you know Jack Kennedy is managing an Applebee’s on Mars? Trump is the love child of reptilians who live under Madison Square Garden? In the current environment, the ‘community’ will believe anything bad about cops, and repeat it, and it becomes ‘truth.’”
“Here’s the funny thing,” Rubenstein says. “People in ‘the community’ were talking to me about Torres, and then they stopped. They don’t return my calls, they walk away from me. It’s almost like someone put some pressure on them.”
“You guys are fuckin’ unbelievable,” Malone says. “I just gave you the real reason Torres took Exit 38, but you want to get on the grassy knoll anyway. I guess it makes a better story, huh?”
“The truth makes the best story, Sergeant.”
“And now you have it.”
“Did your bosses send you?”
“You see me on a bicycle?” Malone says. “I came here on my own to protect a brother officer’s reputation.”
“And the Task Force’s.”
“Yeah, that too.”
“Why’d you come to me?” Rubenstein asks. “The Post will usually whore for the department.”
“I read your heroin articles,” Malone says. “They were good, you got it right. And you’re the fuckin’ Times.”
Rubenstein thinks for a few seconds and then says, “What if I write that a confidential but reliable source revealed that Torres was suffering from a painful and terminal illness.”
“You’d have my gratitude.”
“What does that get me?”
Malone gets up. “I don’t fuck on the first date. Dinner, maybe a movie, we’ll see what happens.”
“You have my number.”
Yeah, I do, Malone thinks, walking out onto the street.
I got your number.
He meets Russo and Monty at the co-op.
Where they usually go to relax, chill out, but nothing’s chill in there now. The air is close and tight, and Russo and Monty, two tough sons of bitches, are rattled. Russo doesn’t have that smile on his face, Monty looks positively grim, the cigar in his mouth cold and out.
And Levin’s not even there.
“Where’s the newbie?” Malone asks.
“He went home,” Russo says.
“He okay?”
“He’s shook, but he’s okay,” Russo says. He gets up from the sofa and paces around the room. Looks out the window and then back to Malone. “Jesus Christ. You think Torres gave us up?”
“If he did, we’d be in cuffs already,” Monty says. “Raf Torres was a lot of things, but he wasn’t a rat.”
It goes into Malone like a blade.
Because Big Monty’s right. Raf Torres was a drug slinger, a whoremonger and a woman beater, Malone thinks, but he wasn’t me. He wasn’t a rat and he didn’t look his partners in the eye and lie to them, like I’m about to do.
“Still, the fucking heat’s coming down,” Russo says.
“It wasn’t IAB,” Malone says, feeling like shit. “At least not as far as Henderson knows. He’s moving to shut them down on it. It’s going to cost us a hundred K from the slush fund.”
“The cost of doing business,” Monty says.
“So it’s who, the feds?” Russo asks.
“We don’t know,” Malone says. “Could be nobody. For all we know, Torres just got tired of being a worthless piece of shit and put an end to it. I put out a cover story he was sick.”
A silence as Monty and Russo look at each other. They’d been talking to each other before he got there, and Malone wants to know what they have on their minds. Fuck, are they wondering about me?
“What?” Malone asks, his fucking heart stopped.
Russo starts, “Denny, we’ve been talking . . .”
“Jesus Christ, just say it,” Malone says. “You got something on your mind, let it come out your fucking mouth.”
Russo says, “We think it’s time to move the Pena smack.”
“Now?” Malone asks. “With all this heat?”
“Because of all this heat,” Russo says. “What if we need to take off, or money for lawyers? If we wait, we might be in a situation we can’t lay it off.”
Malone looks to Monty. “Where are you with this?”
Monty rolls his cigar, carefully lighting it. “I’m just not getting any younger, and Yolanda’s been on me to spend more time with the family.”
“You talking about leaving Da Force?” Malone asks.
“The Job,” Monty says. “I have my twenty coming up in a few months. I’m not so sure I don’t want to finish out at some desk in the outer boroughs, pull the pin, take my pension and move the family to North Carolina.”
“If that’s what you want to do, Monty,” Malone says, “you should do it.”
“North Carolina,” Russo says. “You don’t want to stay in the city?”
“The boys,” Monty says, “especially the two older ones, are getting to that mouthy age. They don’t want to do what they’re told, they want to talk back. The truth of it is, I don’t want them talking smack to the wrong cop and getting shot.”
“The fuck, Monty?” Russo says.
So this is what it’s come to, Malone thinks—a black cop is afraid another cop is going to shoot his kid.
“It’s not something the two of you have to think about,” Monty says. “Your kids are white, but it’s something Yo and I have to think about. Scares her half to death; if it isn’t a cop, it’s some banger.”
“Black kids get shot in the South,” Malone says.
“Not like up here,” Monty says. “Do you think I want to leave? Shit, I don’t even like getting a meal outside of New York. But Yo has family down near Durham, there are good schools, I can get a good position at one of the colleges . . . Look, we’ve had a good run. But everything comes to an end. Maybe this whole Torres thing is trying to tell us to walk away with the house money. So, yes, I think I want to cash out.”
“Yeah, okay,” Malone says. “I’m thinking Savino. He’ll take it up to New England somewhere. Keep it off our turf.”
Russo says, “So we’ll meet with him.”
“Not us,” Malone says. “Me.”
“The fuck?”
So if it comes to it, I can swear into a polygraph you weren’t there, Malone thinks. “The fewer of us the better.”
“He’s right,” Monty says.
“All right, let’s get Raf in the dirt, and then I’ll set it up,” Malone says. “In the meantime, let’s all chill, let this blow over.”