The Good Cop (36 page)

I was so happy I didn’t mind when, seconds later, another wave of nausea slammed me and I vomited all over the sidewalk.

*   *   *

The next two hours or so were something of a muddle. I spent the first part of it lying contentedly on the sidewalk, enjoying the Newark night air, which had never tasted so sweet and clean. The action and commotion continued around me, but it now felt more like a pleasant distraction.

Slowly, the number of people being led from the gassy building diminished. There were perhaps thirty of us by the time it was done, all suffering a variety of unpleasant symptoms from whatever version of bug spray they had used.

After a while, I was unbound and led into a large tent that had been hastily erected as a kind of mobile command center. I was asked for identification but, of course, didn’t have any—my wallet was still stewing in the stink somewhere inside the Fourth Precinct. But when I told them I was Carter Ross,
Eagle-Examiner
investigative reporter, they seemed to accept it without question, almost like they knew they were going to find me inside somewhere.

There was just as much chaos inside the tent as outside. At one point, I overheard a guy in a suit telling a woman in a windbreaker that Captain Boswell had started spouting names and details just as soon as she had been able to get her nose to stop running. I didn’t know whether she’d get sanctioned for her inaction—the failure to report a crime has rather dire consequences for those in law enforcement—but if she was able to substantiate the threats made against her son, I was hoping the ATF would cut her a break. I doubted she’d be allowed to continue as precinct captain, but maybe she’d find a soft landing somewhere else until she got her twenty in.

As for the other cops, there would be no mercy. And it was only time until one of them—or, perhaps, all of them—started informing on one another. Cops will talk endlessly about the blue wall and brotherhood and solidarity and all that lovely stuff. But when lawful push came to legal shove, I’m sure they knew when they were defeated. They were going to do whatever they could to save their own hides. It was only a question of who would take the hardest fall. I was hoping for Hightower, the brutal bastard. I was also hoping his old man might be in on it, just for good measure.

I thought I’d have to wait my turn to be interviewed or interrogated, and given the number of people they had fished out of the building—and how low a priority I would be—I figured it might be a while.

Instead, the guy in the suit eventually came around, looked perplexed to see me there, then asked for, of all things, my phone number. After I gave it to him, he told me I’d be contacted in a few days and my cooperation would be greatly appreciated. In the meantime, I was free to go home.

Actually, that’s not quite accurate. It’s more like they were kicking me out. When I tried to ask a few questions—the journalistic instinct dies hard—I got a friendly smile and a hardy no comment. Then I got an escort to the perimeter that had been set up for the operation.

As I approached the barricade, I understood why: on the other side, there was a hungry horde of content providers the size of which you’d be unlikely to see anywhere except for perhaps Super Bowl media day. When I passed through the checkpoint, a good portion of them mobbed me.

Unfortunately for them, the
Eagle-Examiner
has rules about its reporters giving interviews (basically, we’re not allowed unless we have permission). So I held my tongue. From their questions, they seemed to think the raid had something to do with terrorism, because they have been trained to think
every
unexplained occurrence in the New York/New Jersey area has to do with terrorism. Eventually, when they realized they were only going to get two words out of me—“no” and “comment”—they left me alone. The gauntlet around me dissipated and waited for other fresh meat to emerge from the scene.

The only one who remained was Buster Hays. I never thought I would admit this, but I was actually happy to see the man.

“Blotches. Red dots. I think I understand why it matters now,” he said, allowing a knowing grin.

“I guess I shouldn’t be surprised, but how did you figure it out already? Everyone else around here seems to think Osama bin Laden got reincarnated and was cooped up in there.”

“You see a guy in a suit in there? Seemed to be running the show?”

“Yeah.”

“Let’s just say he owed me a favor or two,” Buster said, the grin growing a little wider. “Hey, before I forget, that girl from the library has called me four times since I’ve been out here. She wants to know if you’re okay.”

I smiled. I could get used to Kira worrying about me. For whatever happened between Tina and me—that would need to be sorted out—Kira and I seemed to have some kind of future.

“Oh,” he continued. “And Tina Thompson told me as soon as I laid eyeballs on you, I was supposed to tell you to give her a call.”

“Yeah, I might have to borrow your phone, mine is still in there,” I said, gesturing toward the battered-but-still-standing Fourth Precinct.

“Sure,” he said. “But it’s going to cost you a Good Neighbors.”

I drew breath to start my protest, then he grinned and handed me his phone.

Tina, naturally, wanted me to file a story immediately. In the coming days and weeks, there would be a lot more of the same. The thrilling first-person narrative. The hard-hitting follows. The put-all-the-pieces-together takeout. Ruthie and I were kept busy.

So was the justice system. It eventually came out that poor Darius Kipps, working late that Saturday night, had seen Hightower unloading guns from his trunk after a trip down south to purchase a load from a prearranged straw buyer. Kipps immediately confronted Hightower about what he had seen. Hightower had tried to bribe him, threaten him, whatever he could do to ensure Kipps’s silence. But Kipps, ever the good cop, wouldn’t back down. He called Internal Affairs and left a message that night. By the next night, he was dead.

In the end, there were charges filed against eight officers, all of whom had been active participants in the conspiracy, all of whom would wind up with multiple life sentences—and only because there is no death penalty in New Jersey. We tried taking another run at Pastor Al, but with his church still behind him in what he characterized as a smear campaign by the Great Satan newspaper, he found a way to survive the scandal. Guys like him always do. Darius Kipps and Mike Fusco were buried with full honors. Mimi had to put back together the pieces of her life, although at least she’d be doing it with the aid of widow’s benefits and a life insurance policy.

All that was to come. But at that point, standing outside the Fourth Precinct, I needed to figure out how to get back to the newsroom—and then, eventually, to my empty home and lonely cat—without the aid of my car, which was still in the custody of Mickey the mechanic. I was starting to look around for someone to give me a ride when, of all people, Gene and Uncle Bernie shuffled up to me.

“I told you they were bad men, but did you listen? Noooo, of course not,” Bernie said, doing a dismissive shooing wave. “You had to be Clint Eastwood, huh? You’re lucky Gene had that Best Buy receipt to do. Otherwise, we might have gone home and you’d be kaput.”

“That’s Yiddish for—” Gene started

“Yeah, yeah, I don’t need the translation this time. Thanks, Gene,” I said. “So, wait,
you guys
are the one who called this in?”

“I was doing the receipt,” Gene said. “Bernie was watching the camera and—”

“Tut, tut, tut, he doesn’t need all the details,” Bernie interrupted. “Geez, Gene, someone asks you for directions and you pave a damn road for them.”

“But,” I stammered, “but how do you guys know ATF agents?”

“How many times do I have to tell you, kid: in this business, you gotta know
everyone
,” Bernie said.

“I don’t know what to … I mean, thank you.”

I reached my hand out and clapped Bernie’s shoulder. “You’re lucky you had the Ginsburg boy with you,” he said. “If it’s just you, a goy? Well, maybe I call, maybe I don’t. But nobody messes with a member of the tribe on my watch.”

“We would have called anyway,” Gene assured me.

“Anyhow, enough of that,” Bernie said, then fixed me with a look of genuine concern. “You chilly? You look chilly, scuffling around without a coat on. You’ll catch the death of you from cold. Lucky for you, I got coats. I got in a London Fog the other day—just your size, too. Forty-two long, am I right? What do you say? London Fog makes a good coat, you know, and Uncle Bernie gives you only the best. The best, I tell you.”

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I am forever mystified by authors who whine. They whine about how hard it is to write a book, about how hard it is to sell a book, about their publishers, their publicists, their critics, their manicurists, their dog trainers, and everyone else who apparently thwarts them in this world.

Not me. I have a great life. The best. I get to write books for a living and I love it unabashedly. (Maybe it helps that I don’t have a dog and don’t get manicures.)

But I am constantly aware that I wouldn’t have that life were it not for the support of many hard-working people.

That starts with my terrific editor, Kelley Ragland; her undaunted assistant, Elizabeth Lacks; and everyone else at St. Martin’s Press/Minotaur Books, including—but not limited to—Hector DeJean, Jeanne-Marie Hudson, Kymberlee Giacoppe, Matt Baldacci, and Talia Sherer. Thanks also to Andy Martin, Matthew Shear, and Sally Richardson. I’m proud to be one of your authors and am deeply grateful for all your efforts on my behalf.

I’m also fortunate to have the kind and thoughtful counsel of Dan Conaway of Writers House, who is a big part of the reason I don’t have anything to whine about.

And I can’t tell you how happy I am to have the energy and passion of my publicist/secret weapon, Becky Kraemer, back with me after a brief hiatus. I missed you, Becky. Don’t have any more kids, okay?

Thanks are also due:

To all the library scientists who keep pushing my books, including Bess Haile of the Essex Public Library and her friends-group president, Hannah Overton (I will always be your Knight in Shining Armor).

To bookstore owners like Marilyn Thiele of Moonstone Mystery Books, who succeeds in this difficult modern bookselling environment the old-fashioned way: by offering first-rate customer service and great books.

To Tony Cicatiello, James Lum, Jorge Motoshige, Leslie Jennings, and all people who offer aid and comfort to me while I’m on tour.

To Lucinda Surber and Stan Ulrich, Toby and Bill Gottfried, Janet Rudolph and everyone else at Left Coast Crime who went along with this crazy idea to make me their 2014 Toastmaster.

To Lindsy Gardner, for all her help. (I’m going to stop there, mostly to keep her patrons guessing.)

To Miss Teresa, Miss Denise, Keshia, Zabrina, and everyone else at my local Hardees who make my favorite writing haunt—yes, I really write at a Hardees—feel like a second home.

To Kieran O’Brien Kern, who first suggested that an absinthe-sucking librarian could make a great character; to Janie, Allan, Zach, and Lexi Links, who know all about the inspiration for Uncle Bernie; and to all the other readers out there. Like I said, I have the best job in the world, but I am mindful that I’ll get fired if I can’t keep you entertained. So it’s my fervent hope you enjoy reading this stuff as much as I do writing it.

And, most important, to my family. I mentioned my parents, Marilyn and Bob, in the dedication, and I would say that means they’ve gotten enough ink for one book, except I know I can never thank them enough for all their sacrifices. I’m also grateful to my brother, Greg, who will be my first phone call if I ever get arrested; my in-laws, Joan and Allan Blakely, without whom so much would not be possible; and to my son and daughter, who brighten my daily existence with their joy and wonder.

Last, I need to thank the one person who, more than anyone else, enables this dream life of mine. I love you, Melissa. I know there are times when we feel like we can’t keep up. But the fact is, as long as we have each other, we’ll always be well ahead.

ALSO BY BRAD PARKS

The Girl Next Door

Eyes of the Innocent

Faces of the Gone

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Brad Parks is the first author to win both the Shamus Award and the Nero Award for Best American Mystery for his debut novel,
Faces of the Gone.
A former reporter for
The Washington Post
and
The
[Newark]
Star-Ledger
, he lives in Virginia, and this is his fourth novel. Visit him online at
www.BradParks.com
.