They both know this is enough to bring down the administration, ruin careers and aspirations, including hers. But she’s got no choice now, and she guts it out. “Who in the Cimino family did you meet with to arrange these payoffs?”
“Lou Savino,” he says, staring at her. He waits a second, and then adds, “And Steven Bruno.”
“You met with Mr. Bruno personally.”
“On several occasions.”
He makes up some likely dates and locations.
“Let’s be clear,” Paz says. “Are you saying that on several occasions, as noted, Steven Bruno gave you money and instructed you to deliver it to city officials for the purpose of rigging construction bids?”
“That’s exactly what I’m saying.”
“This is unbelievable,” Weintraub says.
“Perhaps literally,” Paz says.
She’s a slick piece of shit, Malone thinks. She’s trying to have it both ways, preserving her options until she figures out her play, sees how the chips fall.
Weintraub sees it, tries to pin her down. “Are you saying you don’t find him credible?”
“I’m saying I don’t know,” Paz says. “Malone is a demonstrated liar.”
“You really want to open that door?” Weintraub asks.
“I want to see my family,” Malone says.
“Not yet,” Paz says. “Is that it, Sergeant Malone? Obstructing justice? Bribing public officials?”
“That’s it,” Malone says.
I’m not going to tell you about the drug connection.
Or Pena.
Right now it’s four to eight.
Pena’s the death penalty.
Paz says, “You just confessed to a handful of felonies not included in our original agreement, which is now, of course, voided.”
Malone can almost smell her brain burning, she’s working so hard. He presses, “You going to arrest me or not?”
“Not now,” she says. “Not yet. I want to confer with my colleagues.”
“Confer,” Malone says. “Maybe you can confer about the rat in your operation.”
“It’s not safe for you on the street,” O’Dell says.
Malone laughs. “Now you worry about that? I’ve been shot, stabbed—I’ve been down a hundred stairways and alleys, through a thousand doors with God knows what on the other side, and now you’re worried about me? After you just almost got me killed? Fuck you all.”
He walks out.
“We whack them all now,” Russo says. “Bruno, Savino, Sciollo, all the fucking Ciminos if we have to.”
“We can’t do that,” Malone says.
They’re in the co-op.
“It’s out on the street already,” Monty says. “Denny Malone had an armed confrontation with three wiseguys in a known mob hangout. It’s only a matter of time before IAB comes asking what you were doing there.”
“You don’t think I fucking know that?”
Monty asks, “Why did they want to meet?”
“They heard Torres’s bullshit,” Malone said. “I guess they believed it, I dunno.”
“Why didn’t you call us for backup?” Russo asks.
“I thought I could handle it,” Malone says. “I did handle it.”
“If we had been there,” Monty says, “there would have been no confrontation. No noise on the street, no IAB. Then you go off the radar for three hours. That, considered with what Torres’s people have been saying—”
“What are you saying, Monty?”
“Simply this,” Monty says. “In less than sixty days now I’m leaving the Job. I’m taking my family and leaving the city. And I am not going to let anything, or anyone, get in the way of that. So if there’s something we need to take care of, Denny, then let’s take care of it.”
Malone walks down to his car and gets in.
A wire loop comes over his neck.
The wire pulls back and tightens.
Reflexively, Malone grabs at the cord but it’s too tight against his throat and he can’t rip it off or even dig his fingers in to create any breathing space. He reaches for the gun he set on the passenger seat but his hand can’t grip the handle and then drops it.
Malone flings his elbows back, trying to strike his assailant, but he can’t twist enough to get any leverage. His lungs ache for air, he feels himself blacking out, his legs start to kick out spasmodically, what awareness he has left tells him he’s dying and in his mind his voice starts to chant a childhood prayer—
Oh my God, I am heartily sorry for having offended Thee.
And I detest all my sins . . .
He hears his throat croaking.
The pain is awful.
And I detest all my sins . . .
And I detest all my sins . . .
all my sins . . .
my sins . . .
sins . . .
And then he’s dead and there is no blinding white light only darkness and there’s no music just shouting and he sees Russo and wonders if Phil is dead, too; they say you see everyone you love in heaven but he doesn’t see Liam or his dad only Russo grabbing him by the shoulder, grabbing him and throwing him onto the hard asphalt of the street and then he’s coughing and gagging and spitting as Russo picks him up and walks him toward another car and then Malone is in the passenger seat with Russo behind the wheel where he belongs in this land of the living and not of the dead and the car pulls out.
“My car,” Malone croaks.
“Monty has it,” Russo says. “He’s behind us.”
“Where are we going?”
“Somewhere we can have a private chat with the backseat driver.”
They go up the West Side Highway and pull off into Fort Washington Park, near the GW Bridge.
Malone gets out. His legs feel unsteady under him as he sees Monty drag the guy out of the car onto an island of grass between two branches of the Hudson River Greenway.
Staggering over, Malone looks down at him.
The guy is already beat up, half-conscious. His head looks like the butt of a .38 smashed into it—hair mixed with caked blood. He’s maybe in his midthirties, black hair, olive skin. He could be Italian or Puerto Rican or, shit, Dominican.
Malone kicks him in the ribs. “Who are you?”
The guy shakes his head.
“Who sent you?” Malone asks.
Guy shakes his head again.
Monty grabs the guy’s arm and lays his hand in the car door. “The man asked you a question.”
He kicks the door shut.
The guy screams.
Monty opens the door and pulls him out.
The guy’s fingers are shattered, pointing off in all directions, bones poking through the skin. He holds his wrist with his other hand and stares, then howls again and looks up at Monty.
“Now we do the other hand,” Monty says. “Or you can tell us who you are and who sent you.”
“Los Trinitarios.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know,” the guy says. “They just told me . . . be in the car . . . if you came out . . .”
“What?” Malone asks.
“Do you. Bring them your head. For Castillo.”
Russo asks, “Where’s Castillo now?”
“I don’t know,” the guy says. “I didn’t meet with him. I just got orders.”
“Put your other hand in the door,” Monty says.
“Please . . .”
Monty pulls his .38 and points it at his head. “Put your other hand in the door.”
Crying, the guy sets his hand in the door.
He’s shaking from head to toe.
“Where’s Castillo?” Monty asks.
“I have a family.”
“I don’t?” Malone asks. “Where is he?”
Monty starts to kick the door.
“Park Terrace! The penthouse!”
“What do we do with this guy?” Monty asks.
“The Hudson’s right there,” says Russo.