McNeal understood why he was doing it. Buckley said that he wanted the Internal Affairs Bureau to have a higher profile in the city. It would attract more resources. More favorable headlines. That was all probably true. Buckley was also leading a “reorientation” of the Internal Affairs Bureau. He seemed to be talking more about the Internal Affairs Bureau “becoming a force for good.”
It grated on McNeal and the other officers in the Bureau. McNeal always thought the point of the Internal Affairs Bureau was really simple: establish criminality among officers alleged to have committed crimes and then punish them, whether by disciplining them or firing them.
McNeal didn’t have any problem reaching out to minorities to attract the best candidates to work in the Internal Affairs Bureau. None at all. He wanted the best investigators. Who could argue with that? But McNeal and other officers, some he would call old-school cops, believed Buckley was also using his agenda for his own political aims. It was clear that was the purpose of the “reorientation.” It was all about currying favor. His face was known throughout the city, more than any of his predecessors.
The New York Post and New York Times had both speculated that Buckley was a favorite to become the next commissioner. It seemed like every week he was having lunch with the mayor at Cipriani Downtown, hanging around city hall, or pressing the flesh at business breakfasts and luncheons with “influencers.” Which was all fine. But it seemed to be taking precedence over the record number of cases, cutbacks, and low-level disgruntlement in the ranks of Internal Affairs.
McNeal looked at Franzen enviously. “So, when are you headed down to Florida, Dave?”
“Three weeks, three days. Can’t wait.”
Franzen and his wife, Nicola, an ICU nurse, were both retiring to Boca Raton. They had already sold their house in Queens and were renting a property in Brooklyn. “You’re not going to miss us?”
“You kidding? Twenty years, ten in Internal Affairs, is enough for any man.”
“What about the weather? You’re going to miss that for sure, right?”
Franzen laughed. “Yeah, right. My car wouldn’t start this morning. Had to call a tow truck.”
McNeal’s cell phone rang, and he winced. He looked over at the phone and checked the caller ID. “Speak of the devil. Have to take this.”
“You headed for a drink after work?”
“Not tonight. I’m saving myself for your retirement party.”
Franzen laughed. “You better show up, man.”
“Scout’s honor.”
“Catch you later.”
McNeal picked up his cell phone.
“Jack, how did it go with that animal?” The voice of Bob Buckley.
McNeal leaned back in his seat. “Says he can’t remember.”
“Bullshit.”
“I know. But we’ve got him where we want him. Where are you now?”
“Commissioner’s office.”
McNeal smiled. “Tell him from me that we need more resources.”
“I know, Jack. But I can’t go rushing in, demanding the earth. It’s all politics.”
“That’s all I keep hearing. We need some help down here. You saw my backlog?”
“I’m working on it. You remember your appointment this afternoon?”
McNeal closed his eyes for a moment. He had forgotten all about it.
“Did you hear what I said?”
“Gimme a break, Bob. I’ve got a mountain of paperwork to get through on this case. I’m not going to allow this slimeball’s attorney to get this fucker off on a technicality.”
“Paperwork will still be there in the morning. This appointment is important.”
McNeal resented having to take an hour out of his day just because his boss “insisted.”
“Jack, do you hear me?”
“I don’t understand why I have to go. It’s bullshit. I need to do my job.”
“We’ve had this discussion before. You need to go.”
“And if I don’t?”
“It’s nonnegotiable. Don’t be late.”
Two
It was nearly dark.
Jack McNeal walked along East Tenth Street, cold rain slashing at his face. He headed toward a classic prewar building at the corner of University Place, prime Greenwich Village. It was home to a smattering of wealthy New Yorkers. An A-list actor, a record producer who had worked on a Rolling Stones album back in the day, a sci-fi author, a celebrity chef, the ex-wife of a billionaire hedge fund exec, an entertainment attorney who represented some hip-hop guys, and a few other newsworthy celebrities. The building dated from 1928, but it had been redeveloped in 2009 to stunning, high-end specifications. A world-famous interior designer had been flown in from Marseille to oversee the transformation. It boasted a twenty-four-hour doorman to go with ultra-tight security. It reeked of money. And privilege.