“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.”