by J. B. Turner
Seventeen
The salty air was wafting in off the sea, and the early-evening sky above Sag Harbor burned orange, as Reznick and Greer headed onto the near-deserted beach after leaving the bar.
Reznick started the conversation. “So . . . tell me your story.”
“I used to be NYPD, as you know,” Greer said. “I got my full pension early. Very early.”
“You seem pretty young to be retired.”
“They said it was ill health.”
“You don’t seem very ill to me.”
“I’m not.”
“So what happened?”
Greer shook his head, staring down at the sand. “It was all fucked up, Jon. Politics.”
“Tell me about your role.”
“This is where it might get tricky for me.”
“Tell me what you know about the O’Keefe brothers—the two who are dead, and the other one, Todd, who’s alive. Enough of the bullshit.”
Greer shook his head. “I can’t.”
“Why the hell not?”
“My lawyer got me a great deal. And I had to sign a nondisclosure agreement with the NYPD.”
“I’m not interested in fucking agreements and deals. I want to know what you know. Do you understand? Otherwise, you’ll be accompanying me back to Manhattan, whether you want to or not.”
“I need to talk to my lawyer first.”
“Are you kidding me? Eight cops are dead outside Yankee Stadium, two more in the Financial District, and maybe more to come, and you want to talk about legal agreements?”
Greer shrugged. “It’s the way it is.”
Reznick sighed. “Fine, make the call.” He looked at his watch. “I’ve only got twenty-nine minutes. I want answers.”
Eighteen
Meyerstein and her team were in a conference room on the twenty-sixth floor of the FBI’s New York field office in lower Manhattan. She’d been glued to the live TV coverage of the sniper attacks. Now she pointed the remote control at the screen, replacing the news footage with a dead-eyed Department of Corrections photo of Todd O’Keefe.
She turned in her chair and looked around at the faces of the FBI analysts and agents at the table. Some with laptops, some taking notes, some sitting with piles of briefing notes in front of them on the huge mahogany table.
“This is a live situation which is rapidly getting out of control,” she said. “Now, I’ve been checking up on Todd O’Keefe’s FBI records, those of his brothers—the two deceased shooters—and also Charles Campbell.”
Meyerstein clicked the button on the remote. Black-and-white photos showed the two dead O’Keefe brothers. “The killers. Thankfully they were brought down by none other than Jon Reznick, who was with his daughter when the initial events unfolded.”
A young female behavioral analyst said, “Is he formally working for the FBI?”
Meyerstein detected a slightly arrogant tone in the young woman’s voice. “He’s working in an advisory capacity. It was fortunate that he was there.”
The young woman said, “Forgive me a moment, Assistant Director, and I hope you don’t think I’m speaking out of turn . . .”
“Speak your mind.”
“Might it not have been more helpful if Reznick had taken them alive?”
An awkward silence stretched around the table. “I beg your pardon?”
“Well, surely arresting the two men would have yielded far better intelligence on what was happening and how these O’Keefes were all linked.”
Meyerstein said, “Have you seen the footage where one of them points a rifle at Reznick outside a bodega? Or the other one, who aimed his rifle at innocent bystanders in a crowded subway station?”
“Yes, I have.”
“And you think Reznick should have tried harder to take them alive?”
“I’m saying, with respect, that it complicates matters to have two suspects dead instead of in custody, answering our questions. Reznick’s reaction was overkill.”
Meyerstein shook her head. “How long have you been with the FBI?”
The young analyst blushed. “Two years and seven months.”
“You’re barely in the door. Give it a little longer before you start second-guessing the reactions of a man trained to protect others. That man put his life on the line to take those men down. You seriously believe that neutralizing two psychopaths who killed eight cops, including two in a chopper, could have been handled differently? You’re wrong. And embarrassingly so.”
The room was silent.
Meyerstein felt incredibly defensive when it came to Jon Reznick. She understood better than anyone the problems, both legal and ethical, his involvement posed for the FBI. She had lost count of the number of times she had taken flak from the Director and other senior members of the FBI executive team over Reznick’s methods. She didn’t disagree that he was invariably a shoot-now-and-ask-questions-later kind of operative. But in part that was due to the nature of the investigations he worked on—which were almost always incredibly fast moving, highly stressful, and extremely dangerous.
It was easy to be critical. But without Reznick’s help, it was unlikely the FBI would have tackled those various threats in as direct or effective a manner. He got the job done. He was a patriot.
Meyerstein stared at the expressionless young analyst. She thought back to herself at that age. She had always listened to those far more experienced than her. Had been guided by what they knew. How they operated. What the hell was Quantico teaching its recruits these days?
She wasn’t going to take any lectures from know-it-all kids fresh out of college with no real-world experience. In fact, she had given numerous lectures at prestigious colleges across America. But the young woman’s comments reflected a new orthodoxy that Martha had noticed taking hold. It wasn’t about what was right and what was wrong. It wasn’t about the law. It was all about being sensitive.
She’d lost count of the number of softball approaches that seemed to be the preferred mode of law enforcement these days. “Redirection” was one—the idea of simply warning a person not to repeat their crime, and hoping they would reform. It was almost as if it wasn’t about cracking down on illegal acts, but about showing a more understanding approach to law enforcement.
As a result, the organization had become less muscular, less robust, and Meyerstein increasingly felt at odds with the culture. Her decision to continue to work with Reznick was viewed with disapproval in some quarters. She knew a few people were talking behind her back about why she sanctioned someone so unpredictable. She knew because those agents she trusted, people she called friends, had told her. She had even inadvertently overheard some watercooler talk between two younger male special agents who speculated that she was having an affair with Reznick.
The implication was that she wasn’t thinking straight. Letting emotion get in the way of her critical-thinking faculties. In fact, nothing was further from the truth.
Meyerstein saw exactly what Reznick brought to the table, time after time, in the most difficult and trying of investigations. And each and every time, Reznick, while crossing numerous lines, always seemed to rein things in, allowing an invaluable capability to be deployed as and when the FBI wanted it.
She looked around the table. “Let me be quite clear. If Reznick hadn’t gone after the snipers, we have no idea how many more people—cops or civilians—they would have killed. There are no elegant solutions in such circumstances. Sometimes, someone has to get down and dirty. And if any of you has a problem trying to figure out what the FBI is all about, and where its loyalties lie, it’s to the people of the United States of America.” Meyerstein looked across at the by now sheepish-looking female analyst. “Jon Reznick is, as we speak, out on Long Island, asking questions. Questions which have not been answered. He’s not killing people. He’s asking questions. And you know what those questions produced? It started me looking more closely at the files on the O’Keefes. Robert O’Keefe called the FBI three months ago to warn us of
a potential Aryan Brotherhood–inspired spectacle.”
The carefully blank expressions on the special agents’ and analysts’ faces told their own story. Someone had fucked up, and each person hoped it wasn’t them.
Meyerstein’s gaze wandered around the table once more. “Leon.”
Cortez’s face drained of color.
Meyerstein looked at him. “You mind explaining something to me, Leon?”
“I’m not entirely sure what you mean.”
“Really? Well, let me enlighten you. I have finally managed to get my hands on the details of Robert O’Keefe’s tip, which was filed incorrectly, not tagging the O’Keefes.”
“Apologies for that.”
Meyerstein stared at him long and hard. “And that’s that, right?”
Cortez shook his head. “Ma’am, it was an honest error.”
“Leon, do you know I had to get someone to trawl through numerous other files to retrieve it? I see there is a handwritten telephone interview note. It specifically uses the phrase Robert O’Keefe believes this is a credible threat from his brother, Todd. Which sounds pretty clear-cut if you ask me.”
Cortez nodded.
“Did you write that note?”
“Yes, I did, ma’am.”
“Yet you failed to follow up on it or to enter an official report, and egregiously misfiled your notes. Would you like to explain this discrepancy?”
“This is kinda awkward.” Cortez shifted in his seat. “I was informed that the DEA was handling the case, and they said an NYPD undercover cop was taken off a sensitive investigation.”
Meyerstein stared across the table. “You lost me. So the DEA got an NYPD operative taken off an investigation? What investigation?”
Cortez sighed. “The NYPD had several high-level sources to protect, that’s what the DEA said. They were concerned they would be compromised.”
Meyerstein looked around at the others, who were also staring at Cortez. “That doesn’t explain why you didn’t follow up on it or write a report. Do not try and deflect on this; it won’t work.”
Cortez went quiet for a few moments.
“What was the name of the person in the DEA you spoke to? You got a name for the file, surely.”
“Someone high up. I can’t remember.”
“You can’t remember. Well, that is interesting.”
Cortez shifted in his seat like a scolded schoolboy. “I can’t explain right at this moment what my reasoning was.”
Meyerstein looked around the table at the other analysts and special agents. “Can you give us a minute? I need to speak to Special Agent Cortez in private. Your job is to find Todd O’Keefe. Before he kills anyone else. Now! Get to it!”
The others hurriedly gathered up their papers and laptops, leaving Meyerstein and Cortez at opposite sides of the conference table.
Meyerstein looked at Cortez. She felt anger, not sympathy. This didn’t look good from where she stood.
She got up and walked to the windows overlooking lower Manhattan. She saw the Freedom Tower glistening in the early-evening sun. “You need to tell me now what the hell has been going on. I’m not buying what you just told me. And your actions, from what you’ve said, don’t match your story.” She turned to face Cortez. “Well?”
Cortez leaned back in his seat and shook his head. “What I said about the DEA is true.”
“Are we supposed to take your word for it? We have no file, no notes.”
“That’s correct. I was told to just leave it alone, and that was that.”
Meyerstein began to pick through this revelation. It was beyond belief that this was only now being unearthed. “Leon, I don’t think you understand the gravity of today’s events. Eight cops died this morning, two this afternoon. Ten cops dead! In your city!”
Cortez sighed, staring at his notes.
“Chopper blown out of the sky. You were warned about the serious threat posed by the O’Keefes. You spoke to Robert O’Keefe. Do you understand the optics of this? How it will look? It’s really bad!”
“I don’t know . . . I don’t think I’ve been thinking straight for a while.”
Meyerstein looked at Cortez. His skin seemed waxy with sweat. She sensed something was wrong. Not only with the procedures he hadn’t followed, but also with his demeanor. “What are you talking about?”
Cortez cleared his throat and reached for the glass of water in front of him. He took a couple of sips. “I’ve been sick. I think the pressure has been building up. I can’t stand it anymore. I swear to God, I want out!”
Meyerstein walked over to the young agent, pulled up a chair, and sat down next to him. She looked into his eyes. They were bloodshot, pupils like pinpricks. Beads of sweat were forming on his forehead.
“I feel sick. I think I need to see a doctor.”
Meyerstein could see with her own eyes that Cortez was genuinely not well. Was it a fever?
“Sick, what I’ve done. What I’ve become. I’m not thinking straight. I’ve got constant pain and cramps.”
“Leon, what the hell are you talking about? You sound like a hypochondriac all of a sudden.”
“I’ve worked surveillance. I put in a lot of hours. I don’t know whether I’m coming or going half the time. And I can’t seem to relax. I’m in pain. All the time.”
“Pain? You keep saying you’re in pain. You mean mental pain? Pain from what?”
Cortez picked up the glass of water with a shaking hand. He took a couple of gulps. He returned the glass to the table. His tremor was clearly noticeable.
“Leon, be very clear with me now: you either talk to me or I will be compelled to speak to the FBI’s Office of Professional Responsibility. You know what they do, right?”
Cortez rubbed his eyes.
“They’ll investigate your conduct. It’s serious stuff. They do not mess around. And if they find that your misconduct was serious enough, or intentional, you could be charged with a crime. So, do you want to tell me what the hell is going on? Or do you want to speak to a lawyer?”
Cortez closed his eyes in anguish.
“Don’t make it harder for yourself, Leon. If you want a full-blown investigation into every aspect of your work and your life, fine, that can be arranged. My advice? Talk to me.”
“I want to be open.”
Meyerstein shrugged.
“I need to talk about this. I’ve been holding all this in. Christ, I’m in so much pain.”
“Talk to me about this pain. How did it start?”
Cortez buried his head in his hands.
“How did this, whatever this is, begin?”
“It began . . . I was on a Joint Task Force, investigating gangs, cross-border trafficking, with the NYPD. We were investigating the O’Keefes. And that’s when it began, about a year ago.”
“When what began?”
“I was on a stakeout. It was dark. And I tripped and fell down some stairs. I was put on some goddamn prescription painkillers because I had injured my arm.”
Meyerstein recognized in a split second what the problem was and why he was in pain. “You’re addicted to painkillers?”
Cortez closed his eyes. “I feel so ashamed.”
“Leon, if you have medical issues, we can help you with that. We’ll get you better. But first, we need to establish the facts about Robert O’Keefe’s call. Do you understand?”
“I feel like I’ve become another person. I was working undercover a lot. I wasn’t sleeping. I seemed to be working morning, noon, and night. That’s how it all started with the O’Keefes, how I got drawn into their orbit.”
“Slow down, Leon.”
“I got to know what they were up to. But I had no idea they were going to do this. I feel sick. And I feel guilty. Guilty for what’s happened. Guilty for what I’ve put people through. I’m responsible.”
“Responsible for what? What exactly are you getting at?”
Cortez’s eyes were filling with tears. He took off his jacket and r
olled up his sleeves. His arms were covered in track marks, some scabbed over. “It’s not just painkillers. Do you see what I’m saying?”
Meyerstein stared at the scabs and the marks where the needles had been. “How long?”
“A few months. I started off using the painkillers. I quickly became addicted to them. And then I stole some heroin from an evidence safe.”
Meyerstein felt sick and shaken up at his revelations. She wondered where this confession was going to end up.
“But when that H ran out, I needed more.”
Meyerstein felt a terrible emptiness within her. She was struggling to take it all in.
“No easier mark than a junkie cop, is there? I started getting followed. And then I was approached.”
“Approached by who?”
“People who knew who I was. They didn’t identify themselves, but there were tattoos on their necks. MS-13. They showed me photographs of me snorting lines at a dealer’s house in Queens. They assured me they could get me a never-ending supply. But they wanted something in return.”
“Are you kidding me? You’re an FBI agent. You should know how we deal with such things.”
Cortez shook his head. “It’s not that simple.”
“How is it not that simple?”
“There weren’t threats. Just quietly spoken, carefully chosen phrases. They said it would be best for me and my family if I could ensure the O’Keefe brothers were left alone. ‘They’re our friends,’ they said.”
Meyerstein began to see some connections. “And so, when Robert O’Keefe contacted you with his serious concerns about his psychotic brothers, you took the statement, but then you buried it.”
Cortez nodded. “I know it sounds bad.”
“You’re damn right it sounds bad. What else?”
“The Aryan Brotherhood, despite their race affiliations, has a loose alliance with MS-13. The Mexican Mafia.”
“Tell me something I don’t know. I want the full, unvarnished story. Who else knows about these threats? What about your fiancée?”
“Camila is innocent. She’s trying to get me off the drugs.”
“Leon, I’d like you to hand over your gun for safekeeping until this matter is resolved.”
