Badge of Evil by Bill Stanton Read Free Book Online Page B

talk about’s an easy pair of fake tits. I don’t have the patience for this tonight. Are you in or not, tough guy?” Cannel asked.
    â€œWhat do I need to know?”
    â€œMeet me in the main lobby at Bellevue tomorrow at . . . let’s make it eight fifteen. Wear one of your TV suits. We’re having a press conference after we talk to the mother.”

4
    THE NEXT MORNING, when Bishop stepped into an elevator at Bellevue Hospital, he was not a happy boy. He’d only gotten about three hours’ sleep, his head was killing him, and his stomach was fluttering wildly. He’d already had two cups of coffee, half a container of orange juice, and a bottle of water, and he still felt like he’d been licking talcum powder off the sidewalk. He must’ve had more to drink at V than he’d realized. And now he had to go interview some scumbag terrorist’s mother. Great, just what he wanted to do. Victoria left a message on his cell that the hospital had offered the use of a conference room on the third floor and he should meet them there.
    Bishop was wearing a navy-blue chalk-stripe suit, a light blue shirt, and a platinum tie. But even in the expensive, nicely tailored uniform of a successful executive, he still looked like a bouncer at a strip club. His skin was too brown from the tanning booth, his belt buckle was too big and too silver, and his shoes were too . . . well, his shoes were just wrong. But even if his skin tone had been normal, and the belt and shoes had been appropriate, his body would’ve given him away. No corporate clone or hedge-fund wizard was ever built like this.
    In truth, Bishop looked only marginally more respectable in a conservative $2,000 suit than he did in his usual getup of Seven jeans, tight Armani T-shirt, lizard cowboy boots, and a blazer—to cover the holster on his waist. His shoulders, chest, and upper arms were so beefy with muscle that even though the suit jacket fit him properly, the expensive worsted fabric looked like it was about to split open whenever he moved; like he was in the first stage of that explosive transformation the Incredible Hulk goes through when his muscles start to bulge and all his clothes start to tear.
    Bishop had brought along two of his investigators. Paul was a just-retired lieutenant from the South Bronx with thirty-two years on the street. Like someone who can play a musical instrument by ear, Paul was a natural, a brilliant investigator with an acute intuitive sense. The younger investigator, Eddie, was the son and grandson of cops but had forsaken the NYPD for the allure of Hollywood. Along with acting, taking film school classes, and writing screenplays, he worked for Bishop to pay his rent—and maybe gather material for his writing. Bishop liked Eddie. He thought he had a lot of energy and the potential to be a good investigator. But mostly he kept him on because of his skill with a surveillance camera.
    The conference room was at the end of a gauntlet of small, identical administrative offices occupied by people who stared at computer screens all day, keeping track of things like patient bills and insurance payments. Victoria, her assistant, and Mrs. Andrea Jafaari and her sixteen-year-old daughter were already there when Bishop and his crew walked in.
    â€œI’m sorry,” the private eye said as soon as he entered the room, “I hope we’re not late.”
    â€œActually, you’re right on time,” Victoria said. “We got here a little early to go over a few things. Frank Bishop, this is Andrea Jafaari and her daughter, Mary.”
    As the rest of the introductions were made, Bishop was a little confused. Andrea? Mary? What the hell was that about? He knew going in that the suspect’s mother was American, but he never thought she’d be quite this American. He expected an older, dowdier woman in Middle Eastern dress, perhaps wearing the traditional Islamic