“Nick, unfortunately, there has always been corruption in the city administration,” McDeere said. “If you want, we can check your people.”
“No, no,” Nick quickly silenced him. “I have to find out another way. Maybe it’s someone from the US Attorney’s Office.”
He thought about his staff members, all of whom he had known now for many years. In the future, he’d have to suspect that anyone he spoke to could be an informer for one of his enemies. This was a terrible thought, and Nick wished that he had more influence on his people’s paychecks. Given their immense workload, their salaries were downright laughable. No wonder one of them might be open to receiving additional sources of income.
McDeere said good-bye a few minutes later. Nick sat there in a very pensive mood. In the 1960s, John Lindsay—the mayor at the time—had called New York City ungovernable. Corruption, a disastrous infrastructure, the extreme contrast between rich and poor, high unemployment in the poverty-stricken districts, and a chronic shortfall in the city’s budget all made reasonable government policies virtually impossible. Nick had never let himself be discouraged by this up to now. With much enthusiasm and a healthy dose of optimism, he vigorously tackled the problems that his predecessors had failed to resolve. He had already accomplished so much. Continued support from the majority of his constituents confirmed his actions.
Nevertheless, there were plenty of people who were displeased by his fight against crime and his strengthening of the police force. The police’s tough stance was publicly criticized time and again, and only the obvious accomplishments of his no-tolerance policy could take the wind out of his enemies’ sails. In just one and a half years, he’d managed to drastically lower the crime rate in the city, and the Mafia bogeyman had faded away thanks to his persistent crackdowns. But now three damned shots threatened the success of his work! Nick had a feeling that Zuckerman’s murder would trigger active lively debate about safety in the city. He could already see the sensational headlines: “Mafia Murder in Manhattan,” “How Safe Is the City?” People would question the effectiveness of his security policy, and all the positive things that Nick had achieved with regard to quality of life and infrastructure improvements would be forgotten. He buried his face in his hands. He was a fighter. For his entire life he’d had to fight, but he didn’t mind it. Now, the terrible suspicion of having a traitor in his own ranks deeply discouraged him.
“Mr. Harding is here, sir,” Allie announced over the speakerphone.
“Send him in,” Nick replied, “and bring us some coffee, please.”
He stood up and walked toward the police commissioner. Jerome Harding, the head of the New York Police Department, was in his late fifties. He began his career as a patrol officer in the Bronx and built himself a reputation as a tough cop. His powerful stature and striking face with a protruding chin gave him an aggressive appearance. With his tailored suit and expensive silk tie, Harding looked civilized, but underneath this facade he was still a brutal bruiser from the Bronx who didn’t forgive or forget. At the age of twenty-five, he’d joined the police academy. After that, he worked his way up to become a chief homicide detective. Ambitious as he was, he studied law by taking evening classes and applied to the US Attorney’s Office for the Southern District of New York, where he quickly rose through the ranks to become the head of the securities fraud department. Nick met him there and soon came to appreciate his effective work, although he didn’t particularly like him as a person. The feeling was mutual, but both men were professional enough to put their career goals above their personal aversion. Harding was known for his hot temper, but also for his perseverance. He was an energetic and merciless investigator who was never overcome by remorse. He was behind the successful criminal prosecution of an insider-trading scandal on Wall Street in the 1980s, And as the police commissioner, he’d become one of Nick’s most important partners in the fight against crime.
“Jerome,” Nick said as he extended his hand toward the red-faced man with a smile. “I’m sorry you had to come here on a Sunday morning. Thanks.”
“No problem.” Harding laughed and winked at him. “As you know, the police never sleep.”
The two men sat down at the large conference table while Allie served coffee.
“So, what’s the matter? How can I help you, Nick?”
Nick interlaced his fingers. He caught himself questioning the degree of Harding’s loyalty, but he immediately brushed his doubts aside. The man sitting in front of him was known for his uncompromising disdain for all criminals. Harding might have a few unpleasant attributes, but he wasn’t corrupt!
“I’m sure you’ve heard about the FBI’s blunder in the Zuckerman matter.”
“Yes, indeed”—Harding waved his hand in contempt—“The Feds screwed up. But you insisted that the FBI should handle Zuckerman’s protection.”
Nick ignored this pointed remark.
“How is it possible that a killer can get this close to a man being guarded by fifteen agents?”
“These idiots fell right into a classic Mafia trap!” Harding laughed maniacally. “The killer was probably among them from the very beginning, and they didn’t notice!”
“That’s exactly what gives me a headache! We’ve been in this business long enough to know that something like this should never happen!”
Harding darted a piercing glance at Nick. “What are you trying to get at?”
“The killer’s contractor knew about Zuckerman’s imminent testimony, the secret location, and the details of the entire operation. Let me make myself clear, Jerome. I’m not so much interested in catching this killer, which we probably won’t manage to do anyway. I want to know how it was possible for confidential information to be leaked so quickly, and I want to know who leaked it!”
Harding seemed to hesitate for a split second before offering his unexpected response.
“You’re taking this thing way too personally.” He took a sip of his coffee and leaned back. “The FBI has disgraced itself, but you and I have nothing to do with it.”
Nick was silent. Was Harding right? Did he take all of this too personally because Vitali had once again managed to slip through his net?
“No,” he replied, “that’s not true. This episode will bring us a lot of negative publicity. My main promise to my constituents was that I would make this city a safer place. We’ve already achieved quite a bit, but my political adversaries will use this to tear us to pieces. You know yourself that many people disapprove of the police’s hard line, and now they’ll reignite public discussion about the purpose of certain police operations.”
The smirk vanished from Harding’s face.
“You’re being too dramatic. We succeeded in convincingly shutting up those damn liberal sissies, and we’ll continue to do so.”
“So you think we shouldn’t do anything?”
Harding nodded. “Correct. Give the press some meaningless report, and point out the responsibility of the FBI and the US Attorney’s Office. Let’s wait and see. Just don’t make any statements that could heat up this whole story in the public’s eye.”
Nick looked doubtfully at the police commissioner. Harding seemed unusually reserved. His recommendation to keep calm was completely out of character.
“I’d really like to know who provided the killer with the details,” Nick insisted.
“Jesus, Nick”—Harding impatiently clicked his tongue—“Do you really want to set off an avalanche and provoke a public discussion about corruption? That would harm you a lot more. Let the Zuckerman matter rest.”
Nick was anything but happy with the result of his meeting, and his phone calls with US Attorney John de Lancie and Governor Rhodes didn’t lift his spirits any. It seemed he was the only one bothered by the death of this key witness. Zuckerman’s testimony would have certainly stirred things up. There was a knock at the door, and Michael Page—Nick’s chief of staff—entered.