by Brad Parks
Yes. Ruthie would end up doing fine in this business.
“Okay, so what’d did they tell you?”
“Get this,” he said. “The guys selling red dot guns? They’re policemen.”
“What?” I said, and not because my hearing is bad.
“They’re policemen. That’s why the red dot is so sought after. There’s this group of cops that makes money on the side selling guns. Every gun they sell, they put a red dot on the handle. When you buy one of their guns, it comes with a promise: if you get caught with it later, they won’t bust you, as long as it has their special red dot. It’s like automatic amnesty. That’s why the corner boys only want red dot guns. It keeps them from getting arrested.”
I had certainly heard stories of cops shaking down criminals in exchange for looking the other way; or, certainly, cops who made arrests and somehow “forgot” to turn in all the cash they confiscated. It felt like we wrote that story every other year.
But cops selling guns? Arming the enemy? That was something new.
“You sure about this?” I asked. “I mean, why would these kids just tell you this? All for a Good Neighbors?”
“Well, it sounds like the cops keep driving up the price of the guns, and they’re getting tired of it. It’s basically extortion.”
“Okay,” I said. “But how do we know they’re not just making it up?”
Ruthie shrugged, but I saw Bernie nodding out of the corner of my eye and turned toward him. “You know about this, don’t you?” I said.
“I heard stories, yeah,” Bernie said. “I don’t bother with guns. They’re more trouble than they’re worth.”
“Cops dealing guns?” I asked, still feeling like I couldn’t quite believe it.
“What, you think it’s a quilting bee out there? It’s Newark,” Bernie said, jabbing his thumb in the direction of the street. “I told you some of those cops are involved in some funny business. Not many anymore. But a few.”
“Like who?”
“Eh,” he said, waving me away.
“No, seriously, could you ID individual cops who are involved in this thing?”
“It’s none of my business, kid,” Bernie said. “I don’t want any trouble.”
“You don’t want any trouble? Young black men are slaughtering each other on a daily basis in this city, and easy access to guns is what allows them to do it. But you don’t want any trouble?”
Uncle Bernie shook his head, like I didn’t get it. “Those kids are going to do what they’re going to do. They’re going to get guns one way or another—if not from the cops, then from someone else. What does it matter…”
“It matters because these people are sworn to uphold…” I began to say, then stopped myself. “Never mind.”
A guy who had his brother upstairs forging receipts so he could defraud consumer products companies into sending him new merchandise was not exactly worth engaging in a debate of this nature. His moral compass pointed to wherever the money was.
But this was … well, the word “abhorrent” came quickly to mind. I don’t want to get into a debate about the Second Amendment or what it means. And hey, if you need a gun to shoot yourself some dinner—or raise a well-ordered militia to stave off attacks from the French, or whatever—I have no problem with you. What I have a problem with is a gun being owned by a seventeen-year-old kid with no impulse control and this weird idea that in order to be a “man” he needs to possess a gun and settle disputes with it.
“So these corner boys,” I said, pivoting back toward Ruthie. “Will they go on the record?”
“Well, we sort of have a problem there. It’s not that they’re off the record. I just … I don’t know their real names, and they wouldn’t tell me.”
“Yeah, we have a problem.”
And that was not the only one. Even if they gave us their full Christian names, along with their dates of birth, their Social Security numbers, and their blood types, Brodie wasn’t going to let us run a story like this—with such a damning accusation—on the simple say-so of some corner drug dealers.
We needed something to substantiate it, something indisputable.
We needed to see it with our own eyes.
“Ruthie, you think your corner boys would let us watch them make a buy?”
He thought about it for a second. “Maybe,” he said. “We can at least go over there and ask.”
“All right. Let’s go. Uncle Bernie, it’s been a pleasure, as always,” I said, making my way toward the door. I was starting to feel a bit dirty hanging out there anyway.
But before I could get away, Bernie grabbed my shoulder with a grip that was surprisingly strong coming from such a wrinkled old hand.
“Listen, young fella. These cops, they’re not good men, you hear me?” he said. “You’d be better off leaving them alone, you ask me.”
“No offense, Uncle Bernie,” I replied, “but that’s why I’m not asking you.”
“Okay, okay,” he said, releasing me. “You got to do your little crusade, that’s fine. Just remember: most of the knights who went on those crusades to the Holy Land? They never made it back.”
Word of Black Mafia Family’s second failure reached Red Dot Enterprises quickly enough, causing discontent among the associates. Perhaps they shouldn’t have contracted out that job. If they had handled it themselves—with the certainty of men who were trained in the use of guns—Carter Ross would be as dead as Mike Fusco by now.
There was a movement within the ranks to end the effort against Ross. It was not out of any sudden sense of mercy. It was just practical: now that Fusco was out of the way—and his “confession” had been happily consumed by everyone from the Newark police high command to the greater New York media—it was entirely possible life would return to normal. Killing a newspaper reporter, even one who was getting as dangerously close as Ross, was too much of a risk.
It was time to go back underground, argued some of the associates. Things had gone too far as it was. This was supposed to be about making a little money on the side, selling guns to thugs who were going to find a way to get guns anyway. That’s how they had always rationalized it. If anything, many of them thought, it was a perverse kind of community policing, inasmuch as it gave them a working relationship with the criminal element—and allowed them to keep tabs on it.
The Kipps matter had been unfortunate, right from the start. Kipps had seen something he shouldn’t have. Had it been some other cop, maybe they could have convinced him to shut up about it. But, no, it had to be Kipps—the one guy they could never convince to look the other way, the guy who couldn’t just drop it, the guy who believed being sworn to uphold the law was more than just a way to make a decent paycheck.
Killing Kipps was the only way to ensure the mess was contained. And then once Fusco started nosing around, he had to be killed, too.
But Ross? Maybe they didn’t need to get rid of him. Or at least that’s what some of the associates were trying to argue when they got the worst possible news from the Black Mafia Family’s botched job: the idiots had somehow dropped their gun.
And Ross had not only found it but identified it by its red dot—and started asking questions. That quickly ended any and all debate within Red Dot Enterprises on the what-to-do-about-the-reporter question.
He needed to be dealt with. And quickly.
CHAPTER 8
The parking spot Ruthie happened to choose was around the corner from Gene and Bernie’s place, in plain sight of the Fourth Precinct. As we got into his car, I glanced at the building, curious as ever as to what exactly was going on inside all that brick and mortar. Staged suicides down in the locker rooms. Gun-selling cops in the squad rooms. A captain upstairs who seemed to be completely oblivious. It was a treasury of dysfunction.
“Okay, so here’s how it works with these guys,” Ruthie said, getting us underway. “There are usually five or six of them out there, but you don’t always see all of … you need to get that?”
“Yeah, hang on,” I said, then hit that little green button and announced, “Carter Ross.”
“Mr. Ross, it’s Mickey,” he said, with a medium-thick accent. Mickey is of Middle Eastern descent. I wasn’t sure why he called himself Mickey, though I guessed it had something to do with people like me mispronouncing his given name so badly he had given up and gone with Mickey.
“Hey, Mickey. How’s my hunk-a-junk doing?”
“Well, it’s bad. Very bad. I talk to your insurance for you. I give them the estimate, doing it the way the insurance tell me to do it. They say it’s totaled. They say they give you twenty-nine hundred for it.”
“Yeah, I sort of expected that,” I said, sighing.
“But I think I can still fix it for you,” he said, pronouncing “fix” like “feex.” Given the age and indeterminate mileage of my car, Mickey was always feexing things for me.
“What’s it going to set me back?” I asked.
“It depends. You want me to cut the corners?”
Mickey was also always asking me if he could cut the corners. It was his way of asking if he could use parts that weren’t a hundred percent new and methods that didn’t necessarily conform to factory standards.
“That’s fine.”
“Okay, I cut the corners. And you pay cash?”
This was another one of Mickey’s standard questions. “Sure.”
“Okay, you need new tire, new bumper. I have my body guy work on the dents, maybe touch up the paint a little. I give you new mirror. I do it for eight hundred.”
I thought about it and quickly decided getting the Malibu back on its feet, as it were, made more fiscal sense than making the massive outlay of cash to buy a new used Malibu. Sure, the way Mickey was proposing making the repairs, my car wasn’t going to be winning any beauty pageants. But it’s not like it was exactly in the running for a tiara before.
“That sounds fine,” I said, and was about ready to hang up when Mickey spoke again.
“Oh, but Mr. Ross? Your LoJack. It’s not so good. It’s busted up. And I can’t fix it. You need special tools and I’m not authorized dealer.”
“Mickey, I don’t have LoJack.”
“Yes, you do.”
“No I don’t.”
“Yes, sir, you do.”
“I’m quite sure I don’t,” I said. The guy I had bought the car from tried to sell me on a LoJack system. But I hadn’t gone for it because that was the whole point of buying a used Malibu: not even the most desperate car thief would steal it.
“Mr. Ross, I find the LoJack on the back corner of your car. It’s a little black box. Trust me, I know what it looks like. And your car has it.”
“Mickey, you’ve worked on that car … had you ever seen a LoJack there before?”
“No, sir.”
“So how did it magically…”
And then it dawned on me:
Someone LoJacked my car.
That’s how Black Mafia Family had been able to find me the second time. It’s why they weren’t waiting for me outside the medical examiner’s office. They didn’t know where I was—they just knew where my car was.
It was how they found me the first time as well. Mimi Kipps hadn’t set me up. My own car had done it. Did her pastor still have something to do with it? I couldn’t rule it out—after all, he did show up at her house mere minutes before BMF arrived, guns blazing. But Mimi? She now appeared to be just as ignorant as I was.
“Mickey, can you please just remove it?” I said.
“Yes, Mr. Ross.”
“Thanks. When will the car be finished?”
“A few days. Even cutting the corners, this one is going to take a while, Mr. Ross. It’s a mess.”
“I know, Mickey,” I said. “Thanks. I’ll be in touch.”
I ended the call, and Ruthie immediately relaunched his gang tutorial. But I shushed him. I needed a moment to think. A lot of things had just started to make sense. It was like I had been spending time in an idiot box and was finally crawling out.
Because I knew: LoJack is the stolen car recovery system used by the police. Only cops have access to the equipment that tracks the radio signals an activated LoJack device emits.
Which meant it was the police who told Black Mafia Family where to find me; which meant it was the police who slapped that LoJack on my car, perhaps while I was inside their precinct chatting with their captain—which meant it was the police who hired BMF to kill me.
Yes, life outside the idiot box was making a lot of sense. And it would make even more if I could get Buster Hays to confirm one simple detail, something that had seemed so insignificant when he first said it. I called his desk and he picked up after one ring.
“Hays.”
“Buster, it’s Carter.”
“You know, Ivy, I—”
“Save it, Buster. I need you to look back on your notes from the conversation you had with that IA guy.”
Buster didn’t reply immediately, but I could tell from the way he grunted that he was reaching for something, like a notebook. “Yeah, okay, what’s up?”
“You said Kipps called the IA guy and left a message about ‘seeing blotches.’ Did you really mean red dots? Was he calling with something related to red dots?”
“Hang on,” Buster said, then after a few seconds came back with: “Yeah, here it is. Yeah. Blotches. Dots. I guess it was dots. Red dots. Same difference. Does it matter?”
“Oh, trust me, it matters.”
* * *
I got off the phone with Buster before he forced me to explain why it mattered. I couldn’t risk telling Buster yet. He had cop sources all over the place, yes. But, without knowing how widespread the gun-selling was—and how much of the Newark Police Department was involved—I didn’t want Buster unwittingly tipping off someone that we were circling in.
But it was all clear now. Darius Kipps had somehow discovered red dot guns and planned to tell all. Maybe he had been part of it and finally decided to flip, figuring if he was the first to tell, he might be able to avoid jail time. Maybe he had a confidential informant who told him what was happening. Either way, he left a message with a trusted friend in Internal Affairs and planned to spill. Except before his call was returned, he was grabbed by the red dot guys, who took him somewhere, tied him to a chair, and poured bourbon down his throat until he was blackout drunk and vomiting all over himself.
Then they dragged him into the precinct, where anyone not involved would see him as just another cop on a bender, being nobly aided by his fellow officers. They guided him down to the locker room, turned on the shower, and blew his brains out—with the water nicely washing away much of the evidence that would have proven it was not a suicide.
Enter Mike Fusco, the loyal sometimes-partner. He knew Kipps hadn’t killed himself—knew it because of the drunkenness and the bourbon. And he had decided to dig in and get to the bottom of whatever happened. Maybe he was just driving that big truck of his around, leading people to think he was on to something, maybe he was making real headway.
Whatever it was, it had gotten him killed, too, in yet another faked suicide. The cops who were trying to keep their gun-selling operation alive had been able to smuggle his service weapon out of the precinct—because, as Pritch said, anyone with a uniform could get access to the precinct’s gun locker.
Then they snuck into his house and literally caught him sleeping. They forced him to call Captain Boswell and confess to killing Kipps. They shot him, then placed the gun in his dead hand and made him pull the trigger, so there would be gunshot residue. From there, they must have hoped that no one was going to want to look too hard at another cop suicide. And Boswell, under pressure from her superiors to stanch t
he flow of embarrassing news, played right into their hands by taking the confession and running with it.
There was still the issue of Fusco’s affair with Mimi. But seen in a different light—one in which he was a victim, not a perpetrator—I supposed it was possible their fling had started after Darius had been killed. Mimi Kipps would hardly be the first widow to turn quickly to the comfort of another man in a time of grief. And who was Mike Fusco to deny her? Their relationship didn’t have anything to do with either death. It was just something that I had allowed to mislead me.
So, finally, I had it mostly figured out. The what. The when. The how. The why.
All I lacked was the who. But with young Ruthie Ginsburg acting as my guide, perhaps his corner boys could help us fill in that final blank.
There was a small voice in one of my ears—one that I probably should have heeded—that told me perhaps it was time to pull back, return to the office, and lay it all out for Tina and Brodie. They would immediately hand it over to the authorities (to folks who didn’t have “Newark Police Department” on their badges), then write some big, four-thousand-word feature (a “takeout,” in newspaper parlance) in a couple of months, once all the arrests had been made.
Except that small voice was almost immediately shouted down by a more boisterous one that reminded me this was potentially a career story. Exposing a ring of murderous, gun-dealing cops? Pulitzer prizes had been won on less, especially in this day and age, when newspapers barely have the resources—that damn word, again?—to do real reporting.
“Sorry about that,” I said. “Please continue. You said there were five or six guys?”
“Yeah. But you might not actually see all of them. I haven’t quite figured out their system yet. It seems like they got one guy sitting on the stash, one guy handling the money, one guy talking to the customers, a couple guys acting as lookouts.”
“Doesn’t really matter, as long as they’re cool with you being there.”
“Yeah, they’re cool,” he assured me. “So how are we going to play this?”
