Infamy (9 page)

8

T
HE OLD WOMAN WHO ANSWERED
the door of the brownstone in Manhattan's Washington Heights neighborhood smiled. “You must be Teddy's friend who called,” she said. “How nice of you to come visit him. Come in, come in!”

Opening the door wider, Mrs. Moore led the way inside the modest home. “You must be a special friend because he hasn't wanted to see anybody else. Just that one television crew and the reporter from the
Post.
They were so kind. Oh, and that nice black police detective who stopped by.”

“Do you know his name?”

“No, but I think he left a card with Teddy. They only talked for a couple of minutes. Isn't it nice that the television people
and newspapers are calling Teddy a hero for stopping that bad man in the park the other day!”

“Yeah, that's great,” Shaun Fitzsimmons said. “He's quite the hero, and I'm sure you're very proud.”

“Oh, we are,” she said, then her face looked troubled. “Of course, he's very upset about that poor man he shot. But that wasn't Teddy's fault. He was trying to protect people and stop the bad man.”

“Of course he was,” Fitzsimmons said, then thought to himself,
Too bad he fucked up and now has to pay for it.

Constantine had been livid about the “glitches.” Nothing had been going right with the master plan since the incident in Syria. Why in the hell that still-unidentified black ops team had chosen that particular night to go after al Taizi they didn't know, but it had screwed everything all up. They were lucky the boss had friends in high places who got wind of the raid or, as Constantine had said, “We'd have been sitting there holding our dicks, trying to explain what the fuck we were doing there.”

Constantine had pulled some serious strings to get the raiders intercepted in Saudi Arabia. Fitzsimmons didn't know everything about the MIRAGE plan, he wasn't going to be in the inner circle at the meeting, but he knew it was big and had to
do with black-market oil, the Russians, the Iranians, and those bloody bastards in ISIS. That alone said it was above his pay grade to know.

The plan had been FUBAR—fucked up beyond all recognition—ever since. It got worse when the files didn't get handed over to the spooks right away. Colonel Swindells somehow got wind of it all and started poking his nose in. Fitzsimmons had to act fast and find someone on the inside willing to grab the MIRAGE files, and that's when he'd located Mueller. Promised a couple million dollars, the soldier had been more than willing but got caught going through Swindells's office and court-­martialed out of the Army.

Swindells hadn't been able to break the code yet, or they'd have known about it. But it was only a matter of time, so after the unit transferred back to the States, Fitzsimmons leaned on Mueller to make it right. They'd come up with a plan for Mueller to shoot the colonel, and then they'd get him off on a mental illness defense. “Couple years in a nice hospital,” Fitzsimmons had assured him, “and you'll have four million waiting for you on the outside.”

Of course, they weren't going to take a chance on that and had arranged a little surprise for Mueller, but Moore messed up, too.

I told the boss it was too complicated, too many moving parts
,
Fitzsimmons thought as he'd driven over to Moore's house.
He just should have let some of my boys, who can be trusted to do the job right, take out Swindells. We could have made it look like a robbery.

They'd looked for an opportunity, but Swindells was cautious. He was a Ranger, and he also knew that something was up and didn't leave himself open until he decided to attend the picnic. That's when Constantine had come up with the idea of making Mueller fix the problem.

Only he didn't fix it
, Fitzsimmons thought as he followed the old woman into the house,
he only made it worse. I swear, between his ego and his writing everything down in those damn journals, the boss is going to get us all fried. Now it's my job to tie up the loose ends.

Walking into a dark and musty-smelling living room, Fitzsimmons looked around. The walls were covered with photographs of police officers. Some he recognized as Moore, others were the old man who was now sitting in an overstuffed chair drinking a Budweiser.

“Hello, young man,” the old geezer said, slurring his words. “Excuse me for not getting up. Thirty-five years on the force mixing it up with every Tom, Dick, and Harry who wanted to take a swing at me left me a little crippled up. The rheumatism's
acting up this morning.” He held up the beer can. “I'm working on a little painkiller.”

Fitzsimmons crossed the room and shook the man's hand. “Nothing wrong with that after a distinguished career fighting bad guys.”

“See there, Martha, a man who understands. I'm Theodore Senior. My lady is Martha; she sometimes gives me a hard time about my beer.”

Still looking around the room, Fitzsimmons didn't see photographs of any other siblings. “Ted your only child?”

The couple looked at each other sadly. “Yes, Teddy was a difficult birth,” Martha replied. “He's been a real joy to us. We were so proud when he became a police officer like his father. Teddy's a good boy and saves his money and works a lot of overtime. He has a nice car and bought a boat this year. Now, if he'd only settle down with a nice girl and give us some grandchildren.”

“Some more boys to contribute to the thin blue line at the NYPD,” Theodore Sr. said.

“You two just talk for a minute,” Martha said. “I'll go up and make sure Teddy is awake. I told him you were coming over, but those painkillers make him sleepy.” She headed for the stairs, then turned back. “I'm sorry, I've forgotten your name?”

“It's, uh, William . . . William Besler.”

“That's right, William,” she said, and began her slow ascent. “Teddy, you have a visitor! William's here to see you.”

Fitzsimmons smiled. “Nice woman,” he said.

“One of a kind,” the old man agreed. “Been together almost forty-five years. Puts up with me . . . for the most part. So you on the force?”

“No,” Fitzsimmons said. “Former military.”

“Oh? I was in Nam,” the old man said. “An MP, then came back and got on with the NYPD, like my dad and his dad before him. Where were you stationed?”

“I did tours in Afghanistan and Iraq.”

“Ah, saw some fightin', did ya?”

“A little bit.”

“Yeah, I was in Huế during the Tet Offensive. Terrible time. Lost a lot of buddies.” The old man shook his head at the memories. “I was lucky to get back to the wife and kid. Of course, working the Three-Four Precinct was like being in a war zone sometimes, too. Crazy thing that happened in the park. I hear the shooter was ex-military and had a beef with the guy he shot.”

“Yeah, that's the story I got, too,” Fitzsimmons said. He hooked a thumb over his shoulder. “Think I'll go see Teddy. Wake him up and see if he's malingering.”

The old man chuckled. “Yeah, you do that. I've been shot a couple times myself. Can't keep a good man down.”

As Fitzsimmons walked up the stairs, he noted the photographs of Teddy Moore displayed along the length of the wall. As a child. As a teenaged baseball player. In his high school graduation cap and gown. And his police officer's uniform.

Fitzsimmons was met at the top of the stairs by Martha Moore. She had a funny look on her face. “What's the matter?” he asked.

“He says he doesn't know a William Besler. Is that the name you gave me when you called on the phone earlier?”

Fitzsimmons clapped his hand to his forehead. “Sorry, no, he knows me by my nickname, Fitz,” he said with a laugh.

“Oh, that's right,” the old woman replied. She started to turn back. “I'll let him know it's Fitz who's come to see him.”

“That's okay, Mrs. Moore,” he said, placing a big hand on her shoulder and moving past her. “I'll take it from here.”

Martha looked unsure for a moment, but then smiled. “Well, okay. I know he'll recognize the name Fitz. I'm just an overly protective mom.”

“Like a good mom should be,” Fitzsimmons replied. “I think your husband wanted another beer, so you go along and I'll visit with Teddy.”

Martha rolled her eyes. “Not another one. He's drinking too much, but who can blame him with the rheumatism and all.”

Watching to make sure the old woman continued on down the stairs, Fitzsimmons then turned and walked to the end of the hallway, where he opened a door. The room looked like it was still inhabited by a teenager—filled with even more photographs and memorabilia, trophies, model airplanes hanging from the ceiling and Yankees pennants on the walls. However, the patient lying in the bed was in his early forties.

“Hello, Teddy,” Fitzsimmons said. “How you feeling?”

Moore nodded. “I'm doing okay. I should be up and around in a week or so.”

“Yeah, so we heard.” Fitzsimmons walked quickly over to the bed, then suddenly pulled back the sheets and felt underneath the protesting Moore, picked up the pillow, looked, and then threw it back down.

“Jesus, what the fuck are you doing?” Moore demanded.

Fitzsimmons put a finger to his mouth. He went around the room, looking in the closet, under the desk, and along the bookshelf. Seeing a business card lying on a nightstand, he picked it up.

“Looking for a wire, Teddy,” Fitzsimmons said. “You wired?”

“Fuck no,” Moore replied.

Fitzsimmons held up the card. “Detective Clay Fulton with
the New York District Attorney's Office visited? What did you tell him?”

“Nothing much. Said I was just out for a Sunday stroll when I saw this guy go after the colonel. I shot but hit that asshole hero-type, which got me shot by Mueller. That's it.”

“What did Fulton want?”

“Just said they were putting the case together against Mueller and wanted to ask some questions,” Moore said. “Nothing unusual about that, especially in a police-involved shooting.”

Fitzsimmons stood looking at him for a moment with his eyes narrowed. “Yeah, I suppose not.”

“So tell your boss, whoever he is, that I'm sorry, but I couldn't do anything about the guy who got in the way, poor schmuck,” Moore said.

“Sorry ain't going to cut it, Teddy.”

Moore frowned. “What do you mean? It wasn't my fault the plan got screwed up. I've done plenty of odd jobs for you in the past, and I just took a bullet for your guy. What more does he want? You don't have to pay me the money.”

“That's not enough,” Fitzsimmons said. “You fucked up and now you're a loose end.” He walked over to where Moore's handgun hung in its holster on the closet door. Grabbing a tissue from a box on the desk, he removed the gun and brought it back
to the bed, tossing it on Moore's lap. “You're going to take one for the team.”

Moore's eyes grew wide, and then his face got angry and red. “Fuck you, Fitz. And fuck your boss! I ain't eating no bullet for either of you! You crazy asshole.”

Fitzsimmons shrugged. “Okay, let me tell you how it's going to go. You know my boss has a lot of money, right? Very powerful man, lots of connections. Well, first thing that happens is the press is going to get a large file about a certain Detective Ted Moore and some of his extracurricular activities, including his connection to several murders and other rough stuff. I think the DAO and the brass at the NYPD will get the same file.”

“I'll let 'em know who put me up to it!”

“Yeah, really? Who, Teddy? I'm a ghost. I'll be sipping margaritas in Mexico when you're indicted. And you don't know who the boss is, or what strings he's going to pull.”

“I don't care,” Moore said, though his face was now ashen. “I'm not going to do it.”

“You didn't let me finish,” Fitzsimmons said. “Imagine your poor parents, the media camped out on their front lawn. Only it's not to talk to the ‘hero' Ted Moore, but the dirty cop. The embarrassment alone will probably kill them. Because you're a fuckup Teddy, a real fuckup. But it gets worse. One night
some black monkeys from Harlem, friends of that activist you shot in the alley, they're going to show up here. They're going to beat the fuck out of your old man and then make him watch while they gang-rape your mom.”

“You're filth, Fitzsimmons!”

“I been called worse.” Fitzsimmons pointed to the gun. “It's up to you. Die a hero who couldn't get over shooting an innocent civilian while trying to stop a killer. Or throw your parents to the wolves, and then, believe me, you won't last a day in prison anyway.”

Fitzsimmons stood looking down at Moore, who started to cry. “There, there, Teddy,” he said. “It will all be over before you know it.”

Walking out of the room and down the stairs, Fitzsimmons found Martha waiting for him. “Is everything all right?” she asked anxiously. “I heard some raised voices.”

“Everything's fine,” Fitzsimmons assured her. “He's just ­really upset about that accidental victim he shot, and I had to talk some sense into him. I hope the department will get him some counseling, he's pretty despondent.”

“I know,” the old woman said. “I worry about him so. He's such a good boy.”

“Yeah,” Fitzsimmons said as he walked to the front door. “A
real champ. You have a nice day, Mrs. Moore, and say goodbye to Mr. Moore for me.”

Fitzsimmons had walked a block to his car when he heard the shot. He paused for a moment, then heard the woman's scream, and he smiled.
One less loose end
, he thought, and got in the car.

9

T
HE YOUNG ASSISTANT
U.S.
ATTORNEY
in Manhattan's Southern District glanced down at his lap, where his cell phone was open to his Facebook page. He frowned at a message from his fiancée: “Can't wait to see u 2nite, pookums. Remember we have dinner date w/parents @ 6.” It was already 4:00 p.m. and the arraignment hadn't even started yet. And now the judge was taking his time reading through some documents on another case.

Looking up briefly to make sure the judge didn't see him, he texted back: “Hung up in court. But should still be there on time, snookie.” He winced when the response was a frowny-face emoji and the words “u better.”

The thought that “snookie” would be angry if he was so much as
a minute late for this meeting with her mom and dad, and withhold her sexual favors for God knew how long, threw him into a near panic. He turned toward the defense table, where the defendant—a strikingly beautiful middle-aged woman in a gray prisoner jumpsuit—sat with her attorney, Irving Mendlebaum, a well-known and highly respected criminal defense lawyer in Gotham. She didn't look dangerous; in fact, she had a body and a face that even snookie would have envied. He wondered what she had done to be facing federal terrorism charges. He hadn't been told much, just to get the arraignment done as quietly as possible on the down-low and that someone higher up would take over the case later.
Probably another lonely housewife who helped some towel-head buy a gun
, he thought.
What's taking this idiot judge so long?

The defendant, one Nadya Malovo, felt his gaze and turned her head toward him. The thought came to him that now he knew what a bird must feel when transfixed by a snake's eyes—a lovely snake with alluring green eyes—shortly before it struck. She smiled as if she knew what he'd been thinking when he checked out her body, and damn if he was unable to resist smiling back. He covered his discomfiture by looking toward the back of the courtroom.

Two men in dark suits and dark glasses had been sitting in the last row when Malovo had entered the courtroom through a side
door leading from the holding area. He figured they must be federal agents; their square-jawed, unsmiling faces sent a chill through him. But as he looked at them, they stood up and left the courtroom.

“All right, counsel, I'm ready to proceed,” Judge John Keegan announced. “I understand the matter before the court is the arraignment of the defendant Nadya Malovo on terrorism charges.”

The assistant U.S. attorney stood and nodded. “That's right, Your Honor, we . . .”

The federal prosecutor stopped talking, and all heads turned when the doors at the back of the courtroom suddenly opened and two other men walked in. Both were middle-aged, one white, with a lean, athletic frame; the other a large, powerful-looking black man with a menacing scowl on his face.

Defense Attorney Mendlebaum seemed to have been expecting them, as he now rose and addressed the judge. “Your Honor, may we approach the bench with these two gentlemen?”

The judge's eyes scanned the two men entering the courtroom and then glanced at both the prosecutor and defense counsel, as well as the defendant, who sat with an amused smile on her face. “Please come forward, gentlemen,” Judge Keegan said warmly.

Malovo sat calmly as the four men gathered at the judge's sidebar, the assistant U.S. attorney looking perplexed and won
dering how this was going to affect his evening plans. The judge smiled and greeted the newcomers. “Gentlemen, I'm certain that you are about to let me know why your presence is necessary for this routine arraignment.”

A legendary prosecutor and brilliant trial lawyer before he received his lifetime appointment to the federal bench, Keegan had prosecuted several cases where Mendlebaum had represented the accused. The two trial lawyers epitomized the professionalism, integrity, and expertise admired by the New York Bar and beyond. Keegan, of course, was familiar with S. P. Jaxon when he was an ADA in the Manhattan DAO and also admired the work of Detective Clay Fulton.

“Good afternoon, Your Honor. As you know, I'm now with a counterterrorism federal security agency, the name of which appears on this card,” Jaxon said as he handed it to Judge Keegan. “Due to the sensitive nature of this particular agency, I ask that it not be repeated for the record but kept in the court's confidential file. For the record, with me is New York Police Department Detective Clay Fulton, who leads the NYPD detective unit assigned to the New York District Attorney's Office.”

“Actually, I know Mr. Fulton from my years with the DA's Office,” Keegan said. “How are you, Clay?”

“I'm well, thank you, Your Honor,” Fulton replied. “I'd heard
you were appointed as one of the eleven FISA judges handling sensitive national terrorism issues.”

“Yes, it's been quite an eye-opener,” Keegan said.

“Your Honor,” Jaxon said, pulling a document from the inside of his suit coat, which he handed to the confused assistant U.S. attorney, “the United States Justice Department is suspending and holding in suspense the federal indictment against the defendant, Nadya Malovo, at this time. It's relinquishing custody to Mr. Fulton and the New York District Attorney's Office.”

Fulton pulled out his own documents and handed them to Keegan. “The prisoner has been indicted on six counts of murder in New York County. At this time, I will be escorting her across the street to the offices of the District Attorney.”

The judge looked over the indictments and then at the assistant U.S. attorney. “I take it you didn't know about this?”

The young man, suddenly hopeful that his evening might turn out well after all, shrugged. “No, but that doesn't mean anything. I was mostly just a warm body assigned to handle the arraignment and wouldn't have been the prosecutor at her trial. If the papers are in order, I'm good with it. Sounds like she'll have enough to worry about over at the DAO.”

The judge turned his attention to the defense attorney. “Mr. Mendlebaum, you seemed to be aware that these two gentlemen
might be making an appearance. Care to elaborate?”

“We have been in discussions with both Mr. Jaxon and New York District Attorney Roger Karp, and we've agreed not to contest this jurisdictional change,” Mendlebaum said.

The judge looked at the four men and then over them at the defendant, who held his gaze without expression. He shook his head. “Something's in the air, but who am I to question why,” he said, and banged his gavel.
“
This case
is hereby placed on the suspense calendar and may be recalled at the pleasure of the U.S. attorney for good cause.
Detective Fulton, the pri­soner is now yours.”

The young assistant U.S. attorney hurriedly shoved his papers into a briefcase and hustled out of the courtroom, smiling and texting on his phone as he walked.

“Ms. Malovo, shall I accompany you across the street with these gentlemen?” Mendlebaum asked.

“That won't be necessary, Irving,” she said coyly. “I'll call you if I have further need of your assistance. Thank you for all you've done for me, and perhaps we might renew our acquaintance someday under more congenial circumstances.”

“I'd be delighted.” Mendlebaum beamed like a schoolboy. “Until then, if you're sure—”

“Yes, quite,” Malovo said, cutting him off, “I'm sure that I will
be in good hands with Monsieurs Fulton and Jaxon.
Au revoir.
”

Mendlebaum did a little bow. “I bid you
adieu
, then.”

As the attorney walked away, Fulton rolled his eyes. “Oh, brother,” he said as he looked at Malovo. “Okay, let's go.”

“Are these necessary?” Malovo held up her handcuffed wrists.

Fulton scowled. “I still have a scar in one of my legs where you shot me,” he said. “And the memory of a lot of good men, and a busload of children, dying because of you. The cuffs stay on until we get into the DAO, though I wouldn't mind at all if you tried to escape.”

Malovo smiled and batted her eyes at him. “It's not good to hold grudges, Detective,” she said in her husky, heavily accented voice. “It's unhealthy and might prevent you from making new friends. People change over time; maybe I am not the same person you remember.”

“I'd believe that a snake could change before you would,” Fulton replied. “No matter how many times you shed your skin, no amount of ‘change' atones for murdered children. Now get your butt up. The boss wants to see you.”

An expression that might have passed for pain flitted across Malovo's face before it disappeared and was replaced by a smirk as she stood. “So grumpy, Detective, but maybe you're not getting enough exercise,” she scoffed. “From the looks of you, I
don't think you could catch a cold, much less me.”

“You're in jail, facing murder charges,” Fulton noted. “Apparently you're not as fast as you think.”

“Maybe I wanted to get caught. Did you ever think of that?”

“Yeah, and maybe you're getting old, a little long in the tooth.”

Malovo laughed, a surprisingly girlish sound. “Touché, Detective! Well played. Attacking a woman's vanity as she approaches her . . . um . . . young middle age. But you couldn't keep up with me if I hopped on one leg.”

“I wouldn't have to,” Fulton replied. Now the tight smile he'd plastered to his big brown face disappeared. “Even you can't outrun a bullet. Now move!”

The two men escorted their prisoner through a side door. “That was easier than I thought it might be,” Fulton said to Jaxon. “When we saw those two spooks go into the courtroom earlier, I thought we might have a problem. Glad to see them leave.”

Jaxon smiled as they stepped onto an elevator taking them to the basement. “As if you wouldn't welcome throwing a punch or two at federal agents, present company excluded, I hope.”

“Yeah, you get a pass.” Fulton grinned. “Anybody you recognized?”

“Nope. But I don't know every spook passing through town.”

“They're here to kill me,” Malovo said as they stepped off the
elevator.

The men exchanged looks. “What makes you think that?” Jaxon said.

“Same reason Butch went through all of this trouble to get me out of their hands,” Malovo said. “If you hadn't been there today, there would have been a small story in the
New York Times
about a female prisoner hanging herself in her cell. Or who was a notorious terrorist who somehow managed to secrete a cyanide capsule in a hollow tooth. Or was shot while trying to escape.”

In the basement of the building, Jaxon quickly escorted Malovo to a small room, where he picked up a long coat that he placed around her, buttoning it up over her handcuffed wrists. He pointed to a pair of winter boots. “Hop into those.”

“They're not very attractive,” Malovo complained.

“You want to still be here when those two goons come looking for you?” Jaxon asked. “I don't think we have much time before they realize the ‘arraignment' should have been over by now.”

“If you're going to put it that way.” Malovo slipped her feet into the boots. “Let's go.”

The two men escorted their prisoner through a door and out into the parking garage beneath the federal center. Jaxon flashed his badge at the security guards at the entrance.

Reaching the street, Fulton nodded to a uniformed police
sergeant standing at the curb. The sergeant blew a whistle and other uniformed officers stepped out in traffic, blowing whistles and holding up their hands to stop the vehicles, creating an opening.

Fulton and Jaxon hurried Malovo through to the other side and then hustled her to the Leonard Street side of the Criminal Courts Building. Just as they were about to turn the corner, they heard a shout. Looking behind, they saw the two federal agents who'd been in the courtroom trying to make their way through the now flowing traffic.

“Can't I just this once?” Fulton said, looking at Jaxon.

The agent laughed. “As much as I'd like to see that, I think we better get her upstairs to your boss.”

“Yes,” Malovo added. “My hands are cuffed, so I'd rather avoid any unpleasantness, though on some other occasion, I'd be happy to help.”

“Don't need your damn help,” Fulton growled as they went to the Leonard Street side entrance that had a secured private elevator reserved for judges and the district attorney.

A minute later, the elevator door opened into the offices of the district attorney. Karp stood there waiting in the anteroom. “Was looking out the window and saw the parting of the yellow taxi sea, and apparently a couple of Egyptians who weren't so happy
about your exodus,” he said. “Let's go into the conference room.”

When they were all seated, Karp looked across his desk at Malovo. “It's been a while.”

“Too long, darling,” Malovo replied.

Karp smiled as he shook his head. “Clay, please take off Nadya's coat and cuffs,” he said, hoping that his face and voice weren't exhibiting the usual male reaction to the femme fatale's presence. He reminded himself that she was a cold-blooded killer, as heartless and murderous as any serial killer he'd ever put away.
And she's drop-dead gorgeous.

“Let's get down to business,” Karp said. “I believe you've been informed that you're under indictment on six counts of murder in New York County.”

“Is that all?”

Karp hesitated. “If you'd like to confess to more, I'd be happy to add to the number.”

“That will do for now.”

“The offer stands if you reconsider,” Karp said. “In the meantime, you've agreed to talk to me today, and you understand I will not be offering you any deals or dropping any charges.”

“I understand,” Malovo said. “I made only one request. Is that still on the table?”