“Actually, I thought he was here to talk about Vic. Not one person came to see me, not one letter, not one single communication. If I hadn’t read it in the newspaper, I’d never have known.”
“No offense, but you kind of put yourself off the radar,” Frank said. “I had a hell of a time tracking you down.”
“So what are you doing here, anyway?” she said. She smiled suddenly and said, “I get it. You are Erinnyes’s new bitch now that he’s Chief and Vic is out of the way. You came to officially notify me that I am fired, right? Is that right, delivery boy?”
Frank smiled back at her and said, “You got the delivery boy part right.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a folded letter bearing her name. “This is for you. I’m going to let you read it one time, and then I’m going to take it back and destroy it. If anyone asks you about the letter, or if I was even here, you are to deny it. Are my terms clear?”
Aprille folded her arms over her lap, unfolded them, and then crossed her legs as she tried to work up a response. “Excuse me? Who the fuck are you, again?”
He had the letter pinched between his two fingers. “Yes or no? I’m leaving in five minutes either way.”
She reached out for the letter and said, “Okay, tough guy. Anything you say.”
Frank handed it to her and sat back, folding his hands in his lap as she opened the pages and pressed her hand against her face. He already knew what her letter said. He’d committed it to memory. Tears spilled down her face and she looked away several times, unable to go on until she wiped her eyes and was able to compose herself enough to continue.
Aprille folded the letter up carefully, taking a moment to look at the writing on the first page that spelled out her name. She handed Frank the pages and said, “Thank you for letting me see this. I knew it wasn’t an accident. There was no way.”
Frank stuck the letter in his pocket and stood up. “When you are ready, if you are ever ready, give me a call. I could use a hand from someone I can trust.”
Aprille laughed harshly. “And what makes you think you can trust me?”
“Because he did.”
She stopped laughing and wiped her nose with the back of her hand. “I can’t think of one good reason for me to ever go back there. Especially now.”
“What about for revenge?” He reached into his coat’s inner pocket and removed the photograph of her and Vic, kneeling over the stack of cocaine kilos. “I thought you might want this. It’s the only photograph of Vic I have. If you think it belongs in the station, come back and put it up yourself. Once that happens, I’ll tell you my plan.”
Frank left the rehab and got into his unmarked police car. He turned his cellphone back on and saw that there were two missed messages. The first, sent from the patrol supervisor’s cellphone: Complainant on station asking to speak to a Detective. Advise your ETA. Chief E. is freaking out.
The second was from Dez: Yo, Frankie! Surveillance detail tonight. Meet up at the Yard.
It was winter.
Fresh snow covered up the cars and streets and buildings and ground in blankets of white. Covering up the grime. Making everything temporarily pure.
Frank pulled out the letter bearing his name and opened it one final time.
Dear Frank:
I am sorry. There, I said it.
Vic
He pulled out his phone and dialed a number, listening to it ring.
“Hello?”
“Dad. It’s me.”
“Hey, Frank. Everything okay?”
“Yeah. I wanted to come over tonight. We need to talk.”
“What about?”
“A few things. Mainly, the Truth Rabbit.”
There was a nervous laugh on the other end of the line, and Frank’s father said, “Bring a six-pack for that conversation. Actually, bring two.”
Frank hung up the phone and drove onto the highway, turning his windshield wipers up as high as they would go. The sun was melting everything on the street into a soup of dirty slush. The phone buzzed again with another message from the station and Frank tossed it into the backseat without looking. He drove slow. No need to rush. I’m going to walk down this hill and screw you all.
Acknowledgements
The obvious question people will have upon reading this book is, “How much of it was real? Who were the characters based on?”
The answer is no one.
The answer is everyone.
My police career began as a part-time officer 1997 when Chief Robert Furlong opened his office closet to show me a collection of old uniforms and said, “Pick out whatever fits you, kid.” Since that time, I’ve worked with hundreds of police officers from all over the country. Some of them are still here. Some of them aren’t. Some were fired. Some quit when they realized the job wasn’t for them. Some died. Some killed themselves.
Others, like me, stuck around. Despite all the never-ending bullshit both inside and outside the station house, we are still here. Still holding the line. Still the people who show up when everybody else is running the other way.
Not for the money. No matter how much money we make, it could never be enough to compensate for what we experience.
Not for the glory. That wears off after the first few years when you realize exactly how meaningless and replaceable you really are.
Not for the recognition. Newspapers don’t put cops in the paper when they do good things. They reserve headlines for cops who get arrested.
I keep a binder by my desk that contains all my certificates and awards and official documents, a physical representation of my many hours of training and accomplishments. That’s the unimportant part of the binder. In the back are the collection of letters and Christmas cards I’ve received from kids who were being abused. Kids who are okay now. Those mean more to me than any medal you could pin on my chest.
I’m tightening up right now thinking about it. Maybe I’ll cry. It happens.
The truth is, not many people know what any individual police officer has done in the course of a career. How many lives he’s saved. How many crimes she’s stopped. But if you do the job correctly, I can guarantee you one thing: The victims know. Their families know.
This book was me opening up my own personal closet for everyone to see. After all these years dealing with cops, kids, bad guys, the dead bodies, I’ve got quite an assortment of stories. If you’re still wondering how much of it is real, I’m going to tell you like Chief Furlong told me. “Pick out whatever fits you, kid.”
To my family. All of you. For everything I put you through both as a police officer and as a writer. I can’t imagine which one is worse.
To the Kindle All-Stars who formed the incredible support team for this book. Laurie Laliberte, who edited the manuscript. William Vitka, Keri Knutson and David Hulegaard who read the earliest draft and provided detailed feedback course correction, and encouragement.
To the men and women of the multiple law enforcement agencies throughout Bucks and Montgomery Counties, and the City of Philadelphia, past and present. I’ve always feared this book will spell the end of my time among your ranks, but I want to be clear about one thing. I wrote it anyway, because I wrote it for you.
Turns out I was right. I was removed from the detective division and narcotics unit today.
I don’t regret a damn thing. And now the gloves are coming off.
Sneak Preview of SUPERBIA 2
They fly helicopters over police funerals.