Buried Anger
The controversy surrounding a commander under fire, and now a probable suicide, has spilled out of the brick and concrete bunker on W. 82nd that houses the Two-Oh and rattled some windows a few miles south at One Police Plaza. NYPD toppers have reportedly balked at a Full Honors memorial service for the dead captain, leaving some in the ranks of The Finest angered by the lack of wisdom—and compassion—in a decision to dishonor a long career tarnished at its end, but preceded by decades of bravery, spotless service, and sacrifice.
Angry cops recognize the obvious. The climate of upheaval is not solving any cases. One source summarized it this way. “Whoever killed Father Graf is still out there. In an election year I sure wouldn’t want to have to explain to the citizens of New York City why killers roam free while the brass picks fights over the size of a fallen veteran’s funeral.” Evidence points to one thing that’s certain. The NYPD has one problem that cannot be buried.
Nikki started to pace. “This is not good, this is not going to help.”
Rook said, “Last I checked the Ledger wasn’t so much about helping anything except newspaper sales. Seems fine to me. OK, her writing’s a little on the tabloidy side, but that’s not so much a flaw as an editorial policy.”
She mulled the tone Rook had used for “her writing.” Nikki’s antenna was already up about Tam Svejda, but she had refused to play the role of current girlfriend jealous of the ex. So then, Heat asked herself, why was she obsessing?
“I don’t see the problem,” continued Rook. “Yellow prose aside, it hits the mark, doesn’t it?”
“That is the problem. She never names sources but clearly someone in the precinct is feeding her.” And then she stopped pacing and nibbled her lower lip. “They’re going to think it’s me, you know.”
“Who is?”
“1PP. The timing of this couldn’t be worse after I lost it with Zach Hamner and threatened to go public.”
“Did you?”
“No, of course not.”
“Then don’t worry.”
“I guess,” she said. And then read the article again.
Heat’s money was on Sharon Hinesburg as the leak. When Nikki got there the next morning for the start of shift, bull pen chatter was all about the Ledger piece, and when she scanned the faces of her squad, the only one she could picture blabbing to the media was the only detective who wasn’t in on the conversation . . . because she was over at her desk on a personal call.
One thing was clear under the volcano cloud of negativity. Nobody in that building had mixed feelings about Montrose’s funeral. Roach had already opened an account at a local bank for donations, and everyone said they’d kick in. “Fuck ’em,” said Ochoa. “If downtown won’t give Skip a send-off, we will.”
Nikki called the squad to the Murder Board to change the channel from gossip to work. “Detective Ochoa, where are we on Mrs. Borelli’s nephew?”
“Paid a visit to Paulie Borelli yesterday in Bensonhurst, where he’s a part-time chef at Legendary Luigi’s Pizza.”
“Luigi’s Original?” asked Rhymer.
“No, Legendary. Luigi’s Original is actually a copy.”
“What about Paulie?” asked Heat.
“He says he never even met Father Graf. FYI, Paulie B. doesn’t strike me as much of a churchgoer. He did cop to being a semi-reg at Pleasure Bound, but not the night of the priest’s murder. He alibis out at an establishment in the Alley known as . . . ,” Ochoa flipped a page in his pad and recited, “The Strung and the Restless.”