Infamy Read online

  “I’m not asking you to,” Karp replied. “At least not now. I just want to try to get a handle on what went on and why.”

  “Okay. Where do you want to start?”

  “From the beginning.”

  “I went there to talk to Mick about some information I’d received. Do you remember this past winter about a raid in which an ISIS leader named Ghareeb al Taizi was killed?”

  “Yeah, the administration made a big deal about it,” Karp said. “How the president had given the go-ahead and then waited all night in the White House war room for word that it had been a success. There weren’t a lot of details, as I recall.”

  “Well, it might not have gone down quite the way the White House press office described it,” Stupenagel said. “In fact, there were more players killed during that raid—representing a sort of compendium of bad guys in the region, such as Syria, Russia, and Iran—that maybe the administration didn’t want anybody to know about.”

  “You mean,” Karp said, “they’re meeting with ISIS? So much for the coalition against terrorism.”

  “Yeah, that’s exactly what I mean,” Stupenagel replied. “Anyway, after these guys got killed by a certain counterterrorism team of good guys, if you know what I mean, some documents and computer files were seized before they hightailed it out of there. They didn’t get much of a chance to look the stuff over because when they got back to base, they were met by an Army unit and were forced on orders from ‘high up,’ and I mean really high up, to turn over the documents and files, as well as a prisoner.”

  Stupenagel looked expectantly at Karp. “Aren’t you going to ask me the identity of the prisoner?”

  “Okay, I’ll play along. What was the identity of the prisoner?” Karp said.

  “Nadya Malovo.”

  Karp’s face tightened. “Why does that not surprise me,” he said with a sigh. “Where is she now?”

  “Well, the feds had her at the maximum-security prison in Colorado,” Stupenagel said. “But a mutual friend of ours got her transferred to the Varick Center across the street.”

  “Okay, what does this have to do with the murder of Colonel Swindells?”

  “Well, for one thing, Colonel Swindells was in command of the battalion this unit belonged to, though apparently they operate on orders from higher up, and he wasn’t present when the documents and Malovo were seized,” Stupenagel said.

  “And?”

  “And apparently, the little bird who told me about some of this said the counterterrorism team was aware that Swindells was looking into one file in particular that lies at the bottom of all of this.”

  “What file would that be?”

  “It’s called ‘Sarab,’ ” Stupenagel replied.

  “Sarab? What’s that?”

  “I don’t know exactly. I wasn’t told all of the details, but it’s an Arabic word that means ‘mirage.’ ”

  Karp felt the hair on the back of his neck stand up at the same time Fulton sat up straight. She had their full attention. “You said ‘mirage,’ right?” Karp said, looking at the detective and back to the journalist.

  Stupenagel narrowed her eyes. “I smell another part of this story. What’s up, Karp?”

  At first Karp hesitated, but then he thought he owed her this much. “This is off the record for now. You can’t use it.”

  “Yeah, yeah. I got dibs on it when it’s time, but what’s going on? Why are you and Clay suddenly acting like cats in a lightning storm?”

  “The shooter, Mueller.”

  “Yeah, what about him?”

  “He said this had to do with a black ops raid in Syria this past winter,” Karp said, “and a file called MIRAGE.”

  Stupenagel whistled. “When I asked Mick about the raid and Ghareeb al Taizi, he played dumb, said he didn’t know anything about it. But when I mentioned MIRAGE, he told me to forget about it, that I was swimming in shark-infested waters. In fact, he said not to contact him again.”

  A look of anger took over her face. “Now my friend’s dead, and I’m smelling a rat. Have you tried talking to Mick’s daughter, Sasha? Maybe he told her something.”

  Karp looked at Fulton. “Clay tried this morning.”

  “She’s obviously distraught and she pretty much slammed the door in my face,” Fulton said. “There was a moment, however, when I thought she might say something.”

  “Mind if I reach out to her?” Stupenagel asked. “I was going to anyway, just as a friend of her dad. But I could see if she’ll talk to me.”

  “Be my guest,” Karp said. “Anything else?”

  “Nothing,” Stupenagel said, then seemingly changed the subject. “Isn’t Lucy home visiting?”

  “Yeah, why? And what’s this got to do with . . . ?” A look of understanding crossed Karp’s face.

  “I think it’s time for one of those good old-fashioned father-daughter talks,” Stupenagel said.

  8

  THE 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.”