by Don Winslow
“He’s hurt,” Malone says. “It’s serious.”
Yolanda looks down at his shirt—he’d forgotten that it has Monty’s blood all over it. She stifles a cry, swallows it down and then straightens her neck. “Let me throw some clothes on.”
“There’s a sector car waiting for you,” Malone says. “I have to go notify Levin’s girlfriend.”
“Levin?”
“He’s gone.”
Monty’s oldest boy appears behind her.
Looks like a skinny version of his father.
Malone sees the fear in his eyes.
Yolanda turns to him. “Daddy’s been hurt. I’m going to the hospital and you need to look after your brothers until Grandma Janet gets here. I’ll call her on my way to the hospital.”
“Is Dad going to be all right?” the boy asks, his voice trembling.
“We don’t know yet,” Yolanda says. “We need to be strong for him now. We need to pray and be strong, baby.”
She turns back to Malone.
“Thank you for coming, Denny.”
All he can do is nod.
He starts speaking, he’ll start crying, and that’s not what she needs.
Amy thinks it’s another Bowling Night.
Comes to the door annoyed as shit, then sees that Malone’s by himself. “Where’s Dave?”
“Amy—”
“Where is he? Malone, where the fuck is he?”
“He’s gone, Amy.”
She doesn’t get it at first. “Gone? Where?”
“There was a shooting,” Malone says. “Dave got shot . . . He didn’t make it, Amy. I’m sorry.”
“Oh.”
How many people has he had to tell that their loved ones aren’t coming home. Some scream, or faint, others take it like this.
Stunned.
She repeats, “Oh.”
“I’ll drive you to the hospital,” Malone says.
“Why?” Amy asks. “He’s dead.”
“The ME has to do an autopsy,” Malone says, “in a homicide.”
“Got it.”
“You want to change real quick?”
“Right. Sure. Okay.”
“I’ll wait.”
“You have blood on you,” Amy says. “Is it—”
“No.”
Maybe some of it, but he ain’t going to tell her that. She changes quickly. Comes out in jeans and a light blue hoodie.
In the car she says, “You know why David transferred into your unit?”
“He wanted action.”
“He wanted to work with you,” Amy says. “You were his hero. You were all he talked about—Denny Malone this, Denny Malone that. I got sick of hearing about you. He’d come home talking about all the things he learned, all the things you taught him.”
“I didn’t teach him enough.”
“It was a macho thing,” Amy says. “He didn’t want anyone thinking he was just another college-educated jewboy.”
“Nobody thought that.”
“Sure they did,” Amy says. “He wanted so much to be one of you. A real cop. And now he’s dead. And it’s such a waste. I was perfectly happy with the college-educated jewboy.”
“Amy, you and Levin weren’t married,” Malone says, “so you don’t get his pension.”
“I work,” she says. “I’m good.”
“The Job will bury him.”
“Letting the irony of that statement slide for the time being,” she says. “I’ll tell his parents.”
“I’ll reach out to them,” Malone says.
“No, don’t. They’ll blame you.”
“So do I.”
Amy says, “Don’t look to me for sympathy. I blame you, too.”
She stares out the window.
At the life she knew passing by her.
The hospital is chaos.
Usually is this time of the morning in Harlem.
A young Puerto Rican mother holds a coughing baby. An old homeless man with bandaged swollen feet rocks back and forth. A psychotic man, young, holds an intense conversation with the people in his head. Then there are the broken arms, the cuts, the stomach pains, the sinus infections, the flu, the DTs.
Donna Russo sits with Yolanda Montague, holding her hand.
McGivern and Sykes stand in the corner of the room, by the door, quietly conferring. They got a lot to talk about, Malone knows. One detective dead, another on the fence. Just days after a third detective from the same unit killed himself.
Less than a year after another one, Billy O, was killed in a similar raid.
Two uniforms from the Three-Two stand behind them, blocking the door from the horde of media outside.
More cops wait out there.
McGivern breaks away from Sykes and walks over to Malone. “A word with you, Sergeant?”
Malone follows McGivern down the hall.
Sykes walks after them. “One officer killed, another possibly dying. Five suspects, all minorities, dead. No backup, no support from Emergency Services, no operational plan, you don’t bother to notify or inform your captain—”
“Now?” Malone asks. “You’re going to start this now, with Monty lying in there—”
“You put him in there, Malone! And Levin—”
Malone goes for him.
McGivern gets between them. “Enough! This is a disgrace!”
Malone backs off.
“What happened, Denny?” McGivern asks. “There were no drugs in that warehouse. Just shooters geared out for combat.”
“The Dominicans wanted revenge for Pena,” Malone says. “They made threats on the Task Force. We followed them, it was a setup. I didn’t see it, it was my fault, this is on me.”
“The media are all over this,” Sykes says. “They’re already talking about out-of-control, trigger-happy cowboy cops. They’re already asking if the Task Force should be shut down. I have to give them some answers.”
McGivern stands up. “You think you can throw them Malone and they’ll stop at that? If you give the press any opening at all, they will eat us all alive. Here are the answers you’re going to give them: Four New York cops—hero cops—engaged a gang of killers in a desperate gun battle. One of those heroes was killed—he gave his life for this city—and another is fighting for his life. Those are the answers, and the only answers, that you will give. Do you understand me, Captain Sykes?”
Sykes walks away.
McGivern starts to say something and then hears a commotion in the lobby. The commissioner, the chief of detectives and the mayor are coming in through the crowd.
Cameras chatter.
Malone sees that Chief Neely is in full dress uniform. He must have taken time to climb into the costume before he came rushing over.
He beats the mayor over to Yolanda.
Bends over and says comforting things, Malone supposes. We’re all behind you. Keep a good thought. Thirty-eight thousand of us will be out looking for the men who did this to your husband, and we’ll get them.
Neely spots Malone and walks over.
Looks at McGivern, who finds somewhere else to be.
“Sergeant Malone,” Neely says.
“Sir.”
“Through this ordeal,” Neely says, “I will support you, praise you to the press and back you up one hundred and ten percent. But you’re finished on the Job. There’s no place for your cowboy bullshit anymore. You got one and maybe two good officers killed. Do yourself a favor, take a disability buyout. I’ll sign it.”
He pats Malone on the shoulder and walks away.
A doctor in scrubs comes in, Claudette behind him. He looks around the room and spots Yolanda. Donna helps her up and they walk over to him. Malone and Russo stand at the edge within earshot.
“Your husband is out of surgery,” the doctor says.
“Thank God,” Yolanda says.
The doctor says, “We’ve taken him to ICU. The flow of blood to his brain was cut off for a considerable period of time. Also, another bullet
nicked the cervical vertebrae and the spinal cord. At this point in time, we might have to consider lowering our expectations.”
Yolanda breaks down in Donna’s arms.
Donna walks her away.
The doctor goes back to the OR.
Malone approaches Claudette. “Translation?”
“It doesn’t look good,” Claudette says. “He has severe brain damage. Even if he makes it, you need to prepare yourself.”
“For what?”
“The man you knew is gone,” Claudette says. “If he lives, it will be at the most basic level.”
“Christ.”
“I’m sorry,” Claudette says. “And guilty. When the 10-13 came in, I was afraid it was you. Then I was relieved it wasn’t.”
He sees she’s clean.
Or at least not high on heroin.
Maybe her tame doc’s got her propped up so she can work.
She looks over his shoulder and sees Sheila, walking in straight for Malone. She knows this has to be the wife.
“You’d better go,” Claudette says.
Malone turns around, sees Sheila and walks over to her. She puts her arms around him.
“I have blood all over me,” Malone says.
“I don’t care,” she says. “Are you all right?”
“I’m fine,” Malone says. “Levin’s dead, Monty’s in bad shape.”
“Is he going to make it?”
“Maybe he shouldn’t,” Malone says.
She sees Claudette and knows right the fuck away. “Is that her? She’s pretty, Denny. I can see what you see in her.”
“Not here, Sheila.”
“Don’t worry,” Sheila says. “I’m not going to cause a scene, not in front of Yolanda, what she’s going through.”
She walks over to Claudette. “I’m Sheila Malone.”
“I figured. I’m sorry about your friend.”
“I just came over to tell you,” Sheila says, “you want my husband, you can have him. Good luck with him, honey.”
Sheila goes over to Yolanda and throws her arms around her.
There’s nothing an Irish Catholic police inspector loves more than death and tragedy. McGivern’s worse than an old lady for that stuff; several times Malone has walked into his office and caught him reading the obituaries.
Now he finds McGivern in the hospital chapel, clutching his rosary beads.
“Denny . . . I was just saying a prayer.”
Malone lowers his voice. “If Homicide starts looking into motive, if they pick up Castillo, it might all come out.”
“What all might come out?”
Don’t you fucking play the innocent with me, Malone thinks. “The Pena thing.”
“Oh, I don’t know anything about that.”
“Where do you think your fat envelopes came from?” Malone asks. “We went in together on a lottery ticket, that was your share? It was just coincidence after the Pena bust your monthly went up like an insider stock?”
“You never told me anything about the Pena bust,” McGivern says, his voice getting tight, “except what was in your report.”
“You didn’t want to know.”
“And I still don’t.” McGivern gets up. “Excuse me, Sergeant. I have a gravely wounded officer to look in on.”
Malone doesn’t get out of the pew. “If they get Castillo, he might start telling stories about how many kilos were really in that room. If he does, that goes on me and on my partners, including the gravely wounded officer you’re so concerned about.”
“But you’re going to stand up, aren’t you?” McGivern says. “I know you, Denny. I know the man your father raised would never inform on a brother officer.”
“I could go to prison.”
“Your family will be taken care of,” McGivern says.
“That’s what mob guys say.”
“We’re different,” McGivern says. “We mean it.”
“You and my old man,” Malone says, “were you on the pad together way back in the day?”
“We took care of our families,” McGivern says. “You and your brother never went without. Your father saw to that.”
“Like father like son.”
“You’re like a son to me, Denny,” McGivern says. “Your father, may our Lord bless and keep him, made me promise that I’d look after you. Help you in your career, make sure you did the right thing. You’re going to do the right thing now, aren’t you? Tell me you’re going to do the right thing.”
“Which is to keep my mouth shut.”
“That is the right thing to do.”
Malone looks at his face. Sees the fear. “Then I’m going to do the right thing, Inspector.”
He gets up and edges out of the pew.
McGivern steps into the aisle, faces the altar and crosses himself. Then he turns to Malone. “You’re a good boy, Denny.”
Yeah, Malone thinks.
I’m your good boy.
He don’t cross himself.
What’s the point?
They’ve moved Monty to Intensive Care.
When Malone goes up to ICU, a nurse blocks him in the hall outside Monty’s room. “Immediate family only, sir.”
“I’m immediate family,” Malone says, showing her his badge as he moves around her. “But I appreciate you looking out.”
Monty is still in a coma and unresponsive. He had a “coronary incident” but they managed to stabilize him. What the fuck for, Malone thinks, feeling guilty as he thinks it, that it would have been better if they’d just let him go.
Yolanda is slumped in a chair, dozing. Machines hum and beep, their tubes running into Monty’s mouth, nose and arms. His eyes are closed; what Malone can see of his face where it isn’t bandaged is purple and swollen.
He puts his hand on Monty’s.
Leans over and whispers, “Big Man, I’m so sorry. I’m so goddamn sorry for everything.”
This time he can’t stop the tears. They pour down his face, drip onto Monty’s hand.
“Don’t blame yourself, Denny.” Yolanda has woken up. “It’s not your fault.”
“I was in command. It was my fault.”
“Monty’s a grown man,” Yolanda says. “He knew the risks.”
“He’s strong. He’s going to make it.”
“Even if he does,” Yolanda says, “he’s going to be a vegetable. I’m going to have my husband in my apartment drooling in a wheelchair. His disability insurance isn’t going to pay for all he needs, not to mention three sons. I don’t know what we’re going to do.”
Malone looks at her. “Yolanda, did Monty ever talk to you about the money?”
She looks confused.
“The extra money.”
“From the moonlighting jobs? Sure, but—”
Shit, Malone thinks.
She doesn’t know.
Malone bends down, puts his arms around her, says quietly, “Monty has over a million dollars stored away. Some in cash, some in investments. He didn’t tell you?”
“I always thought we lived off his salary.”
“You did,” Malone says. “I guess he was saving the rest.”
“Where—”
“You don’t need to know,” Malone says. “Phil knows where it is, how to access it. But talk to him tonight, Yo. Tonight.”
She looks into his eyes. “The Job, it doesn’t leave you anything, does it?”
He squeezes her hand and walks out.
Russo sits in the little lounge outside ICU, leafing through an old copy of Sports Illustrated.
“We gotta talk,” Malone says.
“Okay.”
“Not here. Outside.”
They walk through the hospital to a back door out by the service entrance. Dumpsters overflow with garbage, cigarette butts are grouped on the asphalt in little arcs where the chain smokers stood.
Malone sits on the stoop, puts his head in his hands.
Russo leans against a Dumpster. “Jesus Christ, who knew something like this wo
uld happen?”
“We did,” Malone says.
“We didn’t kill that kid, and we didn’t shoot Monty,” Russo says. “The Domos did.”
“The hell we didn’t,” Malone says. “Let’s at least be honest with each other. This thing has been no good since Billy died. Sometimes I think that was God punishing us for what we did. This ends tonight.”
“The fuck it does,” Russo said. “Our partner’s dying in there. We have to respond.”
“It’s over,” Malone says.
“You think this is just going to go away now?” Russo asks. “A shooting board? IAB? Homicide will be all over this and they’ll be looking for a motive. It could open up the whole Pena thing.”
“We’re finished,” Malone says.
“The only people who can give up anything about Pena are right here,” Russo says. “As long as we stick with each other, they can’t touch us. It’s just you and me now, that’s it.”
Malone starts to sob.
Russo steps over, puts his hands on Malone’s shoulders. “It’s okay, Denny, it’s okay.”
“It’s not okay.” Red-faced, his cheeks streaked with tears, he looks up at Russo. “It was me, Phil.”
“It’s not your fault. It could have happened—”
“Phil, it wasn’t Levin. It was me.”
Russo stares at him for a second, then he understands.
“Oh, fuck, Denny.” He sits down beside him. Sits quiet for a long time, like he’s stunned, like he got hit with something. Then he asks, “How did they get to you?”
“It was stupid shit,” Malone says. “Piccone.”
“Jesus Christ, Denny,” Russo says, “you couldn’t do four years?”
“I would have. I kept you out of it,” Malone says. “Then Savino flipped. The feds threatened Sheila. Said they’d put her away for tax evasion, receiving stolen property. I couldn’t . . .”
“What about our wives?” Russo asks. “Our families?”
“They promised to keep all our families out of it if I gave you up,” Malone says.
Russo arches his back. Looks up at the sky. Then he asks, “What did you give them?”
“Everything,” Malone says. “Except killing Pena. It would go down as a felony murder for the three of us. And I got you on tape, talking about the bust, the money . . .”
“So I’m looking at what, twenty to life?” Russo says. “What’s your deal? What did you get for flipping on us?”
