The Force: A Novel

by Don Winslow

  “That’s enough,” O’Dell says. “Denny—”

  “Don’t open your mouth to me.”

  “I know how you’re feeling.”

  “No, you don’t.”

  Malone walks out of the room. His footsteps echo in the empty hallway.

  Jesus Christ, he thinks, you just did it.

  You hurt a brother cop.

  You can tell yourself you didn’t have a choice. You had to do it, right? For your family, for Claudette, for your partners. Yeah, you can tell yourself that and it’s all true, but none of it changes the fact that you just hurt a brother cop.

  Then the hallway starts tilting, his legs feel unsteady and all of a sudden he’s leaning against the wall, grabbing at it as if it can keep him from falling. Then he bends over and puts his face in his hands.

  For the first time since his brother died, he sobs.

  Chapter 18

  Claudette looks lovely.

  White on black.

  A tight sheath of a white dress shows off her figure and her dark skin. Gold hoop earrings, red lipstick, her hair up in a 1940s retro do with her white flower.

  Stunning.

  Heart-cracking, blood-heating, eye-popping beautiful.

  Malone falls in love with her anew.

  They’re having a real date.

  She was right, he decided. For whatever fucked-up reason, he’d been hiding her. Leaving her alone with her doubt and her addiction.

  Fuck everyone.

  If the rednecks on the Job don’t like it, fuck them. And if the brothuhs think it means he’s going to cut them some slack, they’ll learn quickly enough they’re wrong.

  And there’s something else.

  He needs her.

  After setting up a brother cop, even an asshole like Torres, he needs her.

  So he picked up the phone and called. Was a little surprised she didn’t just hang up on him when he said, “This is Sergeant Malone of Manhattan North.”

  There was a little pause before she said, “What can I do for you, Detective?”

  He could tell from her voice she was clean.

  “I know this is last minute,” he said, “but I have reservations tonight at Jean-Georges and no one merciful enough to have dinner with an insensitive, neglectful jerk like myself, and while I’m pretty sure a woman such as yourself already has plans, I thought I’d take a chance and ask if there’s any possibility you would have dinner with me.”

  He endured a long silence before she said, “A table at Jean-Georges is hard to get.”

  Fuckin’ A, he thought. He’d had to remind the maître d’ of a certain incident he’d quieted down before it made Page Six. “I just told them there was a chance—just a chance—that the most beautiful and charming lady in New York might grace their establishment, and they fell all over themselves.”

  “You’re laying it on thick.”

  “Subtlety is not my strong suit,” Malone said. “How about it?”

  Another long silence before she said, “I’d be delighted.”

  He takes her to Jean-Georges because she likes French things.

  Zagat rated, three Michelin stars, expensive, impossible to get a reservation unless you’re a celebrity detective. But it’s Malone, even though he’s dressed in a nice suit, who’s a little nervous in the fancy place, not Claudette.

  She looks like she was born there.

  The waiter thinks so, too, addresses most of his questions and comments to her, and she handles it like she’s been doing it her whole life. She quietly suggests wines and dishes and Malone goes with them.

  “How do you know all this?” he asks her, picking his way through the toasted egg yolk with caviar and herbs, which is actually a lot better than he’d thought it would be.

  “Believe it or not,” she says, “you’re not the first man I ever dated. I’ve been south of 110th, gosh, five or six times, maybe even seven.”

  He feels like a fucking idiot. “Go ahead, squeeze my shoes. I deserve it.”

  “Yes, you do,” she says. “But I’m having a wonderful time, baby. Thank you for bringing me here. It’s beautiful.”

  “You’re beautiful.”

  “See, you’re doing better already.”

  Malone picks the Maine lobster, Claudette the smoked squab.

  “Isn’t that a pigeon?” Malone asks.

  “It is a pigeon,” she says. “Didn’t you ever want revenge?”

  They don’t talk about the smack, her “slip,” her jonesing. She’s feeling better now, looking better. He thinks maybe she’s over it. For dessert they take a sampling of chocolate “tastings,” during which Claudette says, “So this is our first real date in a long time.”

  “The key word there is ‘first.’”

  “With our schedules,” Claudette says, “it’s hard to find time.”

  “I might start working a little less,” Malone says. “Take a little more time off.”

  “I’d like that.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Very much,” she says. “But we don’t have to always do, you know, this.”

  “It’s nice, doing this.”

  “I just want time with you, baby,” Claudette says.

  Malone gets up to use the men’s, but instead he goes to the woman at the hostess stand and tells her he wants a real bill, bust-out retail because there are some things you get comped for, other things you pay for.

  You take your girl out, you pay for it.

  The hostess says, “The manager said—”

  “I know,” Malone says, “and I appreciate it, but I’d like a real bill.”

  The real bill arrives. He pays it, leaves a nice tip and pulls the chair out for Claudette. “I thought you might like to go to Smoke. Lea DeLaria is there tonight.”

  Malone doesn’t know who that is, just that she’s a singer. He went to the website and looked it up.

  “I’d love that,” Claudette says. “I love her. But you don’t like jazz.”

  “This is your night.”

  The Smoke Jazz and Supper Club is up on 106th and Broadway, back on Malone’s turf. It’s small, only about fifty seats, but Malone already called to reserve a spot in case she wanted to go.

  They get a table for two.

  DeLaria sings standards in front of a bass, drums, piano and saxophone quartet. Claudette feigns astonishment. “A white woman who can sing. My, my.”

  “Racist.”

  “Just keeping it real, baby.”

  Between songs, DeLaria looks down at Claudette and asks, “Is he nice to you, darlin’?”

  Claudette nods. “Very nice.”

  DeLaria looks at Malone. “You’d better be. She’s so beautiful. I might just take her away from you.”

  Then she launches into “Come Rain or Come Shine.”

  I’m gonna love you, like nobody’s loved you,

  Come rain or come shine

  Happy together, unhappy together

  Come rain or come shine . . .

  There’s a little stir in the crowd as Tre comes in with a posse. DeLaria gives him a nod of acknowledgment as Tre goes to his table, then the hip-hop mogul spots Malone and then Claudette and gives Malone a nod of respect.

  Malone nods back.

  “Do you know him?” Claudette asks.

  “I do some work for him from time to time,” Malone says. And now the word will be out everywhere that badass Denny Malone is dating a sister.

  “Do you want to meet him?” Malone asks.

  “Not really,” Claudette says. “I’m not so much into hip-hop.”

  Malone knows what’s going to happen next and it does. A bottle of Cristal arrives at the table courtesy of Tre.

  “What kind of work do you do for him?” Claudette asks.

  “Security.”

  DeLaria changes over to “You Don’t Know What Love Is.”

  “Billie Holiday,” Claudette says.

  She gets lost in it.

  Malone looks over at Tre, who’s loo
king back at him, reevaluating him, trying to figure out who the guy is that he’s seeing now.

  I get it, Malone thinks. I’m trying to do the same thing.

  The white dress slides off her like rain flowing down obsidian.

  Her lips are full and warm, her neck musky.

  After they make love and she falls asleep, he lies awake and looks out her window and remembers the words of the song—

  Until you’ve faced each dawn with sleepless eyes,

  You don’t know what love is . . .

  Chapter 19

  His cell phone rings again.

  He ignores it again, turns back into Claudette and tries to go back to sleep with his face in the sweet crook of her neck. Then his conscience gets the better of him and he looks at his phone.

  It’s Russo. “Did you hear?”

  “Hear what?” Malone asks.

  “About Torres,” Russo says.

  It sends a jolt through Malone. “What?”

  “He ate his gun.”

  Right out in the Manhattan North parking lot, Russo tells him. Two uniforms heard the shot, ran out and found him in his car. Motor running, AC on high, radio blasting salsa music and Torres’s brains sprayed over the back windshield.

  No note.

  No message.

  No skid marks, the man just did it.

  “Why the fuck would he do that?” Russo asks.

  Malone knows why.

  The feds pressed him. Become a rat or go to jail.

  And Torres had an answer for them.

  Brutal, mean, racist, lying, vicious motherfucker Raf Torres had an answer for them.

  Fuck you. I go out like a man.

  Malone gets out of bed.

  “What’s up?” Claudette asks sleepily.

  “I gotta go.”

  “Already?”

  “A cop killed himself.”

  Malone bursts through the door, grabs O’Dell by the lapels, lifts him out of his chair and walks him into the wall.

  “I’ve been trying to call you,” O’Dell says.

  “Motherfuckers.”

  Weintraub gets up and comes over to break it up but Malone turns and gives him the death stare, like if you really want in on this you’re going to get in on this, and Weintraub backs off. Says weakly, “Settle down, Malone.”

  “What did you do?” Malone asks. “Try to flip him? Get him to wear a wire? Or else you were going to cuff him at the precinct house in front of his brother officers, make him do the perp walk out the door in front of the television cameras and a crowd of locals hooting ‘Pig!’ Talked to him about going to prison, what would happen to his family?”

  “We did our job.”

  “You killed a cop,” Malone says to O’Dell, his spit flicking into his face. “You’re a cop killer.”

  “I tried to call you, the second I heard,” O’Dell says. “This is not on us, it’s not on you, it’s on him. He made his own choices, including this last one.”

  “Maybe he made the right choice,” Malone says.

  “No, he didn’t,” O’Dell says. “He didn’t have the guts to face up to what he’s done. You did, Malone. You’re making it right.”

  “By killing a brother cop.”

  “Torres took the coward’s way out,” Weintraub says.

  Malone explodes off the chair, gets in his face. “Don’t you say that. Don’t you fucking ever say that. I saw that man go down the stairwells, I saw him go through the doors. Where were you, huh? Having a two-martini lunch? Safe in bed with your girlfriend?”

  “You didn’t even like the guy.”

  “That’s right, but he was a cop,” Malone says. “He was no coward.”

  “All right.”

  “Sit down, Denny,” O’Dell says.

  “You sit down.”

  “What are you, high?” O’Dell asks. “Are you jacked up on something?”

  Just a half-dozen go-pills and a couple of lines of blow. “Test me. I piss hot, you can add it to the charges, how’s that?”

  “Calm down.”

  “How the fuck am I supposed to calm down?!” Malone yells. “You think it’s going to end here? You don’t think there aren’t going to be rumors? People aren’t going to start asking questions? Fucking IAB will be all over this!”

  “We’ll take care of it.”

  “Like you took care of Torres?”

  “Torres was not my fault!” O’Dell says. “And if you call me a cop killer again, I’ll—”

  “You’ll fucking what?!”

  “You’re not innocent in this, Malone!”

  Paz walks in. Looks at them and says, “When you girls are through with your hissy fits, maybe we can get down to work.”

  Malone and O’Dell are glaring at each other, ready to go.

  “Okay, neither of you has the biggest dick,” Paz says. “I do. So sit down, gentlemen.”

  They sit down.

  “A crooked cop took his own life,” Paz says. “Boo-fucking-hoo. Get over it. The issue now is damage control. Did Torres talk to anyone before he canceled his reservation? Tell anyone about the investigation? Find out what people are saying, Malone.”

  “No.”

  “‘No’?” Paz asks. “Are you filled with remorse now, papi? Irish Catholic guilt? You want to climb up on the cross and nail yourself to it? Fight off the impulse, Malone. I have you down more for the survivor type, anyway.”

  “You mean the Judas type.”

  “Don’t do it to yourself, Malone,” Paz says. “Hang in there. All I want to know is what your brother officers are saying about Torres. They’re going to talk about it anyway. They talk to you, you talk to us. It’s that simple. Is there a problem with this I’m not aware of?”

  There are so many problems you’re not aware of, Malone thinks.

  “And let’s look for alternative explanations for Torres’s suicide,” Paz says. She looks to Malone. “Was he a drinker? A druggie? Marital difficulties? Financial problems?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  Torres was making good money. He had a wife, three kids and at least three women he kept up in the Heights.

  “Even if rumors start about the investigation,” Paz says, “this could work out for you, Malone. Your brother officers will think the rat is dead. He couldn’t stand the guilt and offed himself. It clears the way for you.”

  “To do what?” Malone asks. “I gave you what you wanted.”

  “We need a wider base under him,” Paz says. “We don’t want to show that he was only taking from one cop, but a whole stable. We want multiple charges. Was Torres kicking up?”

  “Did you ask Torres?”

  “He said he’d get back to us,” Weintraub says.

  “I guess he did, huh?” Malone says.

  The house is in turmoil.

  When Malone gets to Manhattan North, the news trucks are already there. He pushes his way through the reporters with a curt “No comment” and goes in. The place is a bedlam of rumor, anger and fear. He makes his way through the knots of uniformed officers talking by the desk and feels eyes on his back as he goes upstairs to the Task Force.

  He knows what they’re thinking—Malone knows something. Malone always knows something.

  Everyone’s at his desk—Russo, Montague, Levin. They look up as he comes in.

  “Where you been?” Russo asks.

  Malone ignores the question. “Anyone get to the ME?”

  “McGivern’s on it,” Russo says. He juts his chin at Sykes’s office, where the inspector stands watching Sykes on the phone.

  “IAB?” Malone asks.

  “They want to talk to every detective on the Task Force,” Montague says.

  “We all got called in,” Levin says.

  “Here’s what you say,” Malone says. “You don’t know shit. You don’t know about alcohol, drugs, money problems, troubles at home, nothing. Let his team talk about that if they want.”

  He walks over, knocks on Sykes’s door and walks in
without waiting for an answer.

  McGivern puts a hand on his shoulder. “Jesus, Denny.”

  “I know.”

  “What the hell happened?”

  Malone shrugs.

  “It’s a shame,” McGivern says.

  “You talk to the ME?”

  “He’s leaving the door open as to accidental,” McGivern says.

  “That’s the best thing you could have done for Torres, Inspector,” Malone says. “But it’s out in the media as a suicide?”

  “It’s a shame,” McGivern repeats.

  Sykes gets off the phone and looks at Malone. “Where have you been, Sergeant?”

  “Asleep,” Malone says. “I guess I didn’t hear the phone.”

  Sykes looks shaken. Malone doesn’t blame him—his smooth flight path of a career just hit major turmoil.

  “What can you tell me about this?” Sykes asks.

  “I just got here, Captain.”

  “You didn’t see any signs of this?” Sykes asks. “Torres didn’t confide anything to you?”

  “We weren’t exactly close, sir,” Malone says. “What does his team say? Gallina, Ortiz, Tenelli . . .”

  “Nothing,” Sykes says.

  Of course not, Malone thinks. And good.

  “They’re still in shock,” McGivern says. “It’s bad enough when a brother officer falls to a felon’s bullet, but something like this . . .”

  Christ, Malone thinks, he’s already writing his speech.

  Sykes is staring at Malone. “There are rumors that IAB had Torres up. Do you know anything about that?”

  Malone meets his stare. “No.”

  “So you don’t know of any reason,” Sykes asks, “that IAB might have been investigating Torres?”

  “No.”

  “Or any detective on the Task Force?” Sykes asks.

  “It’s your command, sir,” Malone says. The threat is clear—dig into this, you dig your own grave.

  McGivern steps in. “We’re getting ahead of ourselves, gentlemen. Let’s allow Internal Affairs to do its job.”

  “I expect you to give IAB your full cooperation,” Sykes says to Malone. “And that of your entire team.”

  “That goes without saying.”