“You leaked my 302 to the Ciminos,” Malone says. “Don’t bother to deny it, I already know it, I don’t even much care anymore.”
“So now you’re going to kill me?” She’s trying to sound tough, but she’s scared, her voice is quivering.
“Only a few lunch bucket lawyers and cops get it in the neck, right?” Malone says. “The trust fund babies get a walk. A cop takes a bribe, he’s a criminal; a city official does it and it’s just business as usual.”
“What do you want?”
“I already got what I want,” Malone says. “The guy with the view of the park agreed to it. I just came to tell you how it’s going to work. I walk. All charges. No jail time. I resign from the force, I go away.”
“We can’t put you in the program unless you testify,” Paz says.
“I don’t want the program,” Malone says. “I can take care of myself, my family.”
“How?”
Malone says, “You don’t need to worry about how. You’re right—it isn’t your problem.”
“What else?”
“My partners,” Malone says, “keep their jobs, their badges, their pensions.”
“Are you telling me that your partners are complicit?” Paz asks.
“I’m telling you that if you try to hurt them,” Malone says, “I’ll pull this whole city down on top of you. But I don’t see certain people letting that happen.”
Paz stops running and turns to look at him. “I underestimated you.”
“Yeah, you did,” Malone says. “But no hard feelings.”
He peels off and goes to kill Lou Savino.
Savino’s car isn’t in his driveway up in Scarsdale.
Malone watches the house for a few minutes, then drives back to the city, to Savino’s gumar’s apartment on 113th, a second-floor walk-up.
Putting his 9 mm behind his back, Malone rings the bell.
He hears footsteps inside, then a woman’s voice saying, “Lou, what, did you lose your key again?”
Malone holds his badge up to the peephole. “Ms. Grinelli? NYPD. I’d like to talk with you.”
She opens the door a chain width. “Is it Lou? Is he okay?”
“When did you last see him?”
“Oh my God.” Then she remembers who she is, where she lives. “I don’t talk to cops.”
“Is he inside, Ms. Grinelli?”
“No.”
“May I come in and look?” Malone asks.
“Do you have a warrant?”
He kicks the door open and goes in. Savino’s gumar holds her face. “I’m bleeding, you asshole!”
His gun ready, Malone walks through the living room, then checks the bathroom and the bedroom, the bedroom closet, the kitchen. The bedroom window is closed. He walks back into the living room.
“When did you last see Lou?” Malone asks.
“Fuck you.”
Malone sticks the gun in her face. “I’m not playing with you. When did you last see him?”
She’s trembling. “Couple of days ago. He came over for a booty call and left. He was supposed to come over last night but he didn’t show. Didn’t even call, the asshole. Now this. Please . . . don’t shoot me . . . please . . .”
Mike Sciollo is just getting home.
He’s taking the keys out of his jeans pocket and opening the door to his building when Malone hits him in the back of the head with the pistol butt and pushes him inside, into the little foyer.
Malone shoves him against the mailboxes and sticks the pistol barrel behind his ear. “Where’s your boss?”
“I don’t know.”
“Say good night, Mike.”
“I haven’t seen him!”
“Since when?”
“This morning,” Sciollo says. “We had coffee, checked in, I haven’t seen him since.”
“You call him?”
“He don’t pick up.”
“You tellin’ me the truth, Mike?” Malone asks. “Or are you helping Lou fly under the radar? If you’re lying to me, your neighbors are going to find pieces of you on their electric bills.”
“I don’t know where he is.”
“Then what are you still doing out on the street?” Malone asks. “If Bruno had Lou whacked, you’re next on the endangered species list.”
“I was just picking up a few things,” Sciollo says. “Then I’m headed out.”
“I fucking see you again, Mikey,” Malone says, “I’m going to assume hostile intent and act accordingly. Capisce?”
He shoves Sciollo into the wall and walks back to his car.
Lou Savino ain’t comin’ back, Malone thinks as he drives uptown. Savino is in the river, or a landfill. They’ll find his car out at Kennedy as if he took off somewhere, but he never left New York and never will.
Bruno will bury the 302.
Paz will bury the rest.
Anderson will see to it.
I’ll take care of Castillo.
He goes home to get some sleep.
It’s over.
You beat them.
Chapter 27
He’s sound asleep when the door comes in.
Hands push his face against the wall.
More hands take his weapons.
His arms are twisted behind him, his wrists cuffed.
“You’re under arrest,” O’Dell says. “Malfeasance of duty, bribery, extortion, obstruction of justice—”
He’s confused, disoriented. “You got this wrong, O’Dell! Talk to Paz.”
“She’s not in charge anymore,” O’Dell says. “In fact, she’s under indictment. So is Anderson. It was a nice play, Malone. Nice try. You’re also under arrest for possession of narcotics with intent to sell, conspiracy to sell and/or distribute narcotics, and armed robbery.”
“The fuck you talking about?” Malone asks.
O’Dell grabs him and turns him around.
“Savino turned himself in, Denny,” O’Dell says. “He flipped. He told us all about Pena, about the smack you ripped and sold to him.”
“I want a lawyer,” Malone says.
“We’ll even call him for you,” O’Dell says. “What’s his name?”
“Gerard Berger,” Malone says.
Maybe there is a God, Malone thinks.
And maybe there’s a hell.
But there’s sure as shit no Easter Bunny.
Part 3
Fourth of July, the Fire This Time
But I will send a fire on the wall of Tyrus, which shall devour the palaces thereof.
—Amos 1:10
Let freedom ring, let the white dove sing, Let the whole world know that today Is a day of reckoning.
—Gretchen Peters, “Independence Day”
Chapter 28
Gerard Berger interlocks his fingers, lays his hands on the table and says, “Of all the many thousands of phone calls that might have awoken me from sleep this morning, I must say that the last I expected was from you.”
They’re sitting in an interview room at the FBI offices at 26 Federal Plaza.
“So why did you come?” Malone asks.
“Given the source, I’ll accept that as an expression of gratitude,” Berger says. “And to answer the question, I suppose that I was intrigued. Not surprised, mind you; I knew that your more unfortunate dispositions would eventually land you in deep, scalding water, but I am surprised that it was me you would call to throw you a life preserver.”
“I need the best,” Malone says.
“My God, what it must have cost you to say that,” Berger says, smiling. “Which brings up our first and most important topic of substance—do you have the funds to pay my fees? That is a threshold question—without a satisfactory answer we do not walk through the door together.”
“How much do you charge?” Malone asks.