Bronx Requiem(124)

Beck said, “Did you ask me what this is all about?”

“Yeah.”

“Murder, conspiracy, perjury, aiding and abetting known felons, prostitution, exploitation of minors, torture, rape, money laundering, tax evasion, and whether or not you and your career are going to survive the next twenty-four hours.”

Ippolito shot back, “What the hell are you talking about?” But beneath the bravado, Beck saw fear flickering in Ippolito’s eyes.

“Do us both a favor and drop the act. You know exactly what I’m talking about.”

The waiter appeared. Ippolito faked a smile and ordered a Bloody Mary. He turned to Beck, trying to keep up the fa?ade.

“Yeah, well, whatever the hell you’re talking about, it sounds like you’re threatening an NYPD detective.”

“Sounds like? This isn’t like threatening you, Ippolito. I am threatening you. You’ve aided and abetted in enough crimes to send you to prison. Now keep your mouth shut and listen to my proof.”

Beck began a careful, concise explanation of the evidence that proved John Palmer had killed Paco Johnson and had planted the murder weapon to frame Derrick Watkins for that murder. Beck told Ippolito he knew the witnesses claiming he shot Derrick Watkins were phony, and that they would fold when Eric Jackson went down, which he assured Ippolito was going to happen soon.

Beck continued on, trying to keep his rage in check as he described the depth and breadth of the criminal enterprises run by Eric Jackson. Without going into details about Remsen’s prostitution ring, Beck explained the evidence he had that would allow the FBI and NYPD to send Jackson and Bondurant away, most likely for the rest of their lives.

Ippolito tried one last attempt at bluster. “So what’s all that got to do with me?”

“I told you to keep your mouth shut.” Beck continued. “All the evidence on Palmer is being presented to Assistant District Attorney Frederick Wilson, your supervisor, Lieutenant James Levitt, and other police bosses as we speak. It will go right up the line to the chief of detectives, and all the other brass who have been lied to by John Palmer. The FBI will be reviewing evidence against Jackson starting at two o’clock today.”

Beck’s speech had taken five minutes. Ippolito’s Bloody Mary had arrived and remained untouched the entire time.

Ippolito blurted out, “Hey, I swear, I didn’t know anything about Palmer shooting that guy. I would have…”

Beck held up a hand. “If I thought you did, I’d have already killed you. I wouldn’t be offering you a way out.”

Ippolito tried to say something, but Beck said, “Stop. Don’t say anything that might make me change my mind. The time for bullshit is over. You and I both know what’s going to happen now.

“The NYPD is going to go after you and Palmer. They’ll never get Palmer for murdering my friend, but they’ll know he did it, so they’ll go after you and Palmer on everything they can. When Eric Jackson starts singing to save his ass, they’ll have enough to charge both of you with witness tampering, perjury, falsifying records, colluding with a known felon, aiding and abetting. We both know it’ll be a long list.

“You’ll hang tough and deny it. But what do you think Palmer will do? Daddy isn’t going to let his golden boy’s career go down in flames. He’ll tell John Junior to turn on you. It’ll be all your fault. You’re the senior guy. You’re the one with all the connections. Palmer will play innocent and blame you. By the time he and Daddy are done, little Johnny will be a hero and you’ll lose everything, and end up in prison. You’re going to talk the fall, Ippolito. You know, and I know it.”

Ippolito picked up his untouched Bloody Mary and nearly drained it. He gripped the glass, thinking it through. A sick, sour feeling formed in the pit of his stomach.

Beck said, “So, Detective, time to decide. You want to save yourself, or take the hit for John Palmer?”

Ippolito couldn’t look Beck in the eye. Head down, he cleared his throat and said, “What are you going to do?”

“You know goddam well what I’m going to do. Are you in, or not?”

With his head still bowed, Ippolito muttered, “Yes.”

“Yes, what?”

Ippolito looked up. “Yes. I’m in.”

Beck nodded. “I’m assuming Palmer is home now.”

“Yeah. He’s home. He worked almost two days straight.”

“What’s his next move?”

“He has to be at One Police Plaza today at three to finalize everything for the arrests early Monday morning.”

“Are you in that meeting?”

“No. They were done with me yesterday.”

“Why?”

“I’m out. I put in my retirement papers weeks ago. My last day is Friday.”

“If you want to make it to Friday, you’ll do exactly what I tell you.”

Ippolito poked at the bloody-looking ice cubes in his glass with the wilted stick of celery.

“What do you want me to do?”

Beck checked his watch. It was 12:40 P.M.

“I assume you’ve been to Palmer’s apartment.”

“Sure. A few times.”

“I had his building checked out. His intercom has a camera. If you ring him, what does he do?”