Badge of Evil by Bill Stanton Page A

nail this motherfuckin’ terrorist and move on.”
    â€œBut what if . . .” Bishop hesitated for a moment and then continued. “What if he’s not a terrorist? What if he’s—”
    â€œSee, that’s the kind of subversive shit I’m talking about,” the chief said, clearly angry now. “Nobody wants to hear that. Why would you even say that? Jee-sus , man. What the hell was he doin’ in that apartment, then? Pickin’ fuckin’ wallpaper? Commissioner Brock was almost killed that night and your guy was right in the middle of the action. What more do you need?”
    â€œLook, if this is as clear-cut as you and everybody else seem to think, then there’s no problem. I’ll do my investigation and the scumbag’ll end up gettin’ fried.”
    â€œOkay,” the chief said finally, “let’s get outta here.”
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    Bishop paid the check and the two men headed for the parking lot. Walking toward his car, Fitzgerald looked back over his shoulder and asked, “Is Anthony Pennetta on your interview list?”
    Bishop, about to open his car door, asked, “The ESU commander?”
    â€œI guess that’s a no. Just as well. Zito’d never talk to you anyway. He barely talks to anyone in the department unless he has to.”
    With that, the chief got into his unmarked police sedan with his detective driver. As the car started to pull out of the lot, he put the window down. “Watch your back on this, Frank,” he said. “I’d hate to have to find a new sucker to hustle at the range.”
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    The two men spoke by cell this time and it was a shorter conversation. No pleasantries and no effort to make small talk. It was strictly business.
    â€œHave you made any progress on the project we talked about?” one of the men asked to begin the conversation.
    â€œIndeed, I have,” came the response. “I am quite gratified to say that I believe I have come up with the perfect solution. I think you’ll be very pleased with the results. It will eliminate our problem and be untraceable.”
    â€œSecurity at the hospital won’t be an issue?”
    â€œNone whatsoever.”
    â€œTimetable?”
    â€œResolution will be achieved within the next seventy-two hours. No need to give this any more thought. Consider it done.”
    â€œI knew my faith in you would be rewarded. Thank you, my friend. I’ll talk to you soon.”

7
    AS BISHOP BEGAN the drive back to Manhattan he had a soft, relaxed smile on his face. It was a look of satisfaction. Just when he thought that maybe he’d gone too far and the chief was really pissed at him, the old guy tossed him a batting-practice fastball right down the center of the plate. ESU commander Anthony Pennetta. “Shit,” Bishop said out loud in the car, “how the fuck could I have missed that?” He was relieved that the chief was still in his corner, but he was really annoyed with himself. He knew Pennetta should’ve been near the top of his interview list. The guy was in the goddamned hallway when the shooting started, and he was in the apartment only seconds after it stopped. And anyone with even a half-assed connection to the upper level of the police department and its factional, Iraqi-style politics knew Pennetta and Brock couldn’t stand each other.
    Nevertheless, Pennetta wasn’t even on Bishop’s list, and Bishop knew he’d fucked up. He’d gotten distracted by all the bullshit surrounding the case. Though Bishop seemed, to people who knew him only casually (which was most people), far more interested in getting drunk and getting laid than he was in getting the job done, he was in fact almost manic about his work.
    He had no illusions. He was aware that people often thought of him as little more than a party boy, someone to hang out with.