CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

Ortiz had picked out the spot where he would wait to see if "White Mike" showed up. He had one pistol in a holster under his armpit and another tucked into the front of his waistband. The location of the second pistol was once known to law enforcement officers across the country as a "New York reload". It was a common habit among NYPD detectives to carry two pistols instead of one because their service revolver only held six bullets. In a shootout, it was far easier to drop one pistol and grab the second one than it was to attempt reloading the first one.

Jimmy couldn't believe it. One of the street dealers that Sweet B had sent to the Bronx had actually gotten busted and delivered the fake story and pager code to the Bronx narcotics detectives. He had been told to stay away from the case but curiosity was tempting him; he just had to know which detective had taken the bait.

Jimmy decided to head over to the Bronx to see who it was. Upon arriving near the location he had scouted out for the set-up he exited the car and slipped from shadow to shadow. He followed a route that he had chosen during daylight hours to a vantage point overlooking the empty lot between the two abandoned buildings. He paused for a moment, knelt down, and just stared out into the darkness across the street. After a few minutes his eyes had adjusted to the darkness. But nobody was in sight. Even while using a digital camera with night vision mode there was just nothing to see in that empty lot tonight.

Meanwhile, Ortiz glanced at his watch, noticing that just over an hour had gone by, and nobody had shown up yet. Either word had gotten back to "White Mike" or the whole thing actually was bullshit. He was trying to decide whether or not to wait any longer. There was a sourness in his stomach as he began to shuffle his feet and glance at his watch every few seconds. Finally, after only a few more minutes, he couldn't sit still any longer. He shifted the pistol in the front of his waistband around to the back, slowly came out of the shadows, and began to walk down the street towards the empty lot.

Jimmy flinched, startled by the sudden movement of someone on the street. He had been here for almost an hour and was ready to give up when he saw a lone figure emerge from the shadows of one of the abandoned buildings. He hit the record button on the camera, checked the light level and the zoom, and then placed the camera on a brick to keep the focus steady. The sight of the lone figure moving further into the empty lot caused Jimmy's arms and legs to start tingling with adrenaline.

It could just be a homeless person that was sleeping beside the building or it could be a Bronx narcotics detective. Then Jimmy's military training kicked in and he forced himself to shift his focus wider, scanning the entire area before him. In battle, the main ingredient of luck was information. There were no obvious signs of anyone else being present in the area. But, he reminded himself, there were no signs of anyone at all just a few minutes ago.

He doubted that the approaching figure knew anybody else was here because it was approaching the vantage point with no sign of slowing or caution. Jimmy pulled his service pistol out, anyway, just in case. As Ortiz stepped under a streetlamp about ten feet away, Jimmy stepped out and announced himself.

"Freeze right there," Jimmy said. "NYPD. Don't move a muscle, or I will drop you."

The figure stopped and appeared to be looking around as if he expected more people to suddenly appear. After a few moments, Ortiz slowly placed both of his hands behind his back and spoke. "NYPD, Bronx Narcotics Bureau. I'm out here on a stakeout, or I was. The whole thing went belly up."

"What's the color of the day," Jimmy challenged, noticing that the figure's hands had shifted behind him.

"Orange." Ortiz replied. "Where's your badge?"

Jimmy slowly grabbed the neck-chain that his shield was currently hanging from and pulled it out in front of his chest, one hand holding the badge and one still holding his pistol out in front of him.

"Homicide, Brooklyn North," Jimmy said. "What are you doing out here, detective?"

For a brief moment, after clandestinely pulling the pistol from the back of his waistband, Ortiz considered shooting it out with this detective. Instead, he kept the pistol behind his back for now.

"Detective Sergeant," Ortiz said. "And how'd you know I was a detective?"

"Because I sent you the beeper number you used to get me here. It took a lot of time and trouble to set this whole thing up. And there's not a drug dealer within two blocks of here. That's why I picked this spot."

Ortiz felt the blood draining from his face and stammered, "I told you I was on a stakeout. Besides, you're way out of your sector. What in the hell do you know about this area?"

"No," Jimmy said. "Not even worth trying. I researched the hell out of this area before I chose it. Plus, I'd bet everything I own that you are not carrying an actual service weapon on you right now. Probably have a throw-away gun, maybe two. But you're not here on any official duty. I know who and what you are because the FBI picked up your buddy earlier today. Judging by the look on your face I'm guessing you probably didn't know that yet. And also the fact that you're out here tonight instead of trying to deal with the FBI situation."

"Bullshit," Ortiz said. " You mind pointing that weapon somewhere else?"

"I do mind, actually. One of your guys is dead, and my partner is also dead, all because of the shit you guys have been pulling."

"The shit we've been pulling," Ortiz asked in a confused tone. "I don't know what you're talking about and I resent the implication that I'm a dirty cop. That ain't something that you want to walk around announcing, pal."

"I'm not your pal," Jimmy said. He could feel the anger building up inside him now. "By the way, your bald buddy left behind physical evidence at two different crime scenes. One of those scenes was from when he took a fucking shot at me! So, save your resentments for somebody else. You know exactly who I am and I know exactly who you are."

"And what exactly do you know, detective?"

"I know you've been out killing people for money. I know that you… Holy fuck, you dumped your own guy in an alley after that mess over in Queens. I know that my partner, one of the greatest detectives I've ever met in my life, is dead because of a crime scene that you created. And I know that you've tainted and defiled every aspect of what the shield represents."

Ortiz was beginning to realize that it was pretty useless to pretend at this point. He looked off into the darkness and said, "Nobody innocent was ever supposed to be harmed behind this shit. We were asked to do our jobs and we were making a difference."

"You were killing people for money. How in the fuck is that doing your job?"

"In the beginning, we were just after the dealers, not their money. We were focused on getting rid of them and their drugs. And I'm not talking about street punks, I mean the real threats, the assholes that were bringing that shit into our city to begin with."

"Jesus! You're cops," Jimmy said. "How in the hell did this ever seem like a good idea?"

"It didn't, until the Assistant Chief brought the idea to us and asked us to do it."

"Yeah, I know about him, too. And I know that all of you shared something in common with him. What I don't know is how you were able to look in the mirror and lie to yourself everyday."

"I've spent my entire career fighting an uphill battle. We finally had a chance to make a difference — and we did. It might seem like a crazy idea. But once you cross that line and start to see the results, results you've dedicated your life to pursuing, it starts to get a lot easier. Shit, who am I kidding? Those results become addictive. As crazy as it sounds, you get hooked on making a difference."

"Bullshit. We all fight an uphill battle, that's the job. Crime doesn't just go away. Otherwise, my grandfather would have cleaned house years ago and I'd be taking tolls on the G.W. right now. Uphill is the job, pal. That's what makes the difference. Not being a better asshole than the rest of the assholes out there."

"Yeah, sure. That sounds great, but in reality, you can't get down in the dirt to fight without getting some of that dirt on yourself, too. We're cops, not choir boys. Sometimes we have to be better assholes than them. We can't do this job without stepping over the line once in a while. And, once you do, you start to see those lines as the real threat to doing your job."

"Yeah, sometimes lines get blurred and we do some bad shit to get the job done. I know that, everyone on the job knows that. But you didn't just step over the line, you fucking stayed there. And, for what? There's already new people out there selling the same fucking drugs on the same fucking streets that you believe you cleaned up. Face it, at the end of the day, the only real difference that you've made is that two good detectives are dead and gone."

That last sentence just hung in the air between them for what seemed like an eternity. Ortiz suddenly realized that, no matter what else happened in his life, two cops were dead because of things he did and he could never change that. He was almost amused at how blind he had become while trying to make things right. Almost. With his hands still behind his back, Ortiz slowly removed the magazine from his pistol and slid the magazine into his back pocket. He then laughed softly and began to speak as he slowly pulled the slide back on the pistol to eject the final round from the chamber.

"Fuck! All I did was try, man. I went over there and served my country. Then I came back here and served my city. I tried to be a good father, and I tried to be a good cop. I don't know how things went so wrong. My… I just don't know." His eyes began to mist over with tears as reality began washing over him. "One day we were making a difference. Next, cops are dying and she's taking my son away. Everything just fucking unraveled on me."

While still holding the slide on his pistol, Ortiz reached his thumb down and depressed the slide-release button, slowly allowing the slide to return to the forward position. He hoped that the pistol once again appeared to be loaded. He was counting on it.

"Well, the first step to making things right, again, is standing up to face this shit," Jimmy said. "The FBI already has one of your guys. But maybe you can still limit the damage to the department. Maybe you can still protect some of the other people that have dedicated their life to the job."

"I can't do it, brother," Ortiz said, looking up to the night sky. "I can't go to jail. I deserve everything I'm facing, but I can't be one of them, can't go live with them, eat with them, whatever. I'd rather die while I'm still police."

"C'mon, man," Jimmy pleaded. "Don't do this. You've still got your son out there, man. Nothing's guaranteed. Just think…"

"No, brother." Ortiz interrupted. "It's over and I'm getting off of this ride."

Ortiz whipped his right arm out, swung his pistol around, and pointed it right at Jimmy. Everything happened so fast that he never even heard the gunshot that took his life.

Jimmy didn't realize what had happened until the sound of his pistol and the sight of Ortiz's body limply falling backward collided simultaneously in his mind. As reality quickly set in, Jimmy's arm reflexively jerked backward and forward again, imitating a sorry attempt to draw the bullet back into his pistol. Jimmy took a half step forward and shouted, "No, no, no. What the fuck? What the fuck!"

Turning himself to one side in an attempt to avoid seeing what was in front of him, Jimmy fell to his knees and wept. He had just committed the ultimate sin. Sure, Ortiz had drawn on Jimmy. But the conflict between what was sacred and what was necessary overwhelmed his brain. He had just killed another cop and could never take that back.