dark alley.
“Commissioner, you’ve hung your entire career on punishing those who victimize the weak and helpless of our community. So, how can you justify brutally beating and attempting to rape the underage daughter of your business partners in one of the upstairs rooms of Maisy J’s, a well-known Algiers club that caters to prostitution and illegal drug activities? She was fifteen years old. How can a man with two daughters live with that on his conscience?”
Brady betrayed none of the shock paralyzing every muscle group. “I have no knowledge of any such event. What is the source of this outrageous lie?”
“The recorded testimony of both the victim and an officer on the scene who witnessed your trip to the hospital for damages the underaged girl inflicted in order to escape. Plus supporting copies of medical reports you tried to have erased.”
“If there was such a victim or witness to this fictitious event, why haven’t they come forward?”
“They will. At your trial.” The caller’s voice lowered to a menacing growl. “And you’ll pay for putting your hands on her, then and now.”
The connection ended before Brady had a chance for repudiation. Nor did Crawford request one.
“We have another caller,” she announced. “Good morning. You’re One-on-One. Please state your question for the commissioner.”
“It’s rumored there’s a ledger showing payments for both bribes and extortion by you and your former partner at Maisy J’s, a business you still own and run despite its reputation for illegal activities.”
“That’s not true.”
“I understand a copy of that ledger was retrieved from a computer in your own home and will be evidence at your trial, tying you and your mysteriously deceased partner to Carmen Blutafino, a well-known criminal figure in our city.”
“I’ve never had any dealings with Mr. Blutafino other than in my capacity as a servant of the law!” He caught himself before blurting out the name of his accuser. Kip Terriot wouldn’t dare take the stand, giving him the confidence to rebut, “There are no witnesses who can verify that this alleged information had anything to do with me.”
“But there is one. And he will bury you.”
The call disconnected.
Brady’s thoughts churned frantically. Neil? Neil D’Poussier, whom he’d thought ruined the digital copy of that ledger? Whom he’d fired with extreme prejudice? Was that little pissant looking for revenge? He hadn’t heard a whisper about him being picked up or questioned.
“Enough!” Medal-studded chest heaving, he leaned across his desk to glare at the calm reporter. “I want the identity of those callers.”
“You have the right to try to subpoena them, sir.” And she smiled, stare as flat and cold as that well-fed reptile.
He rose, becoming a threatening figure in full view of the audience. “This interview is over. My attorneys will be contacting you. I’ll see your credentials pulled. You will never work in my city again!”
After the cameras were silenced, Karen Crawford stood, calmly smiling in the face of his seething rage. “Oh, I think after this, I can pretty much write my own ticket. Maybe even go national. Good luck on getting anything buried. I did remind you it was a live broadcast, and nothing makes an impression on a viewer like live TV. Thank you for your time, Commissioner.” She turned to her crew. “We’re done here.”
As they packed up their gear, Brady slumped back in his chair, heartbeat hammering nails into his casket. Finally left alone, an animal panting in a trap of his ego’s making, he felt the buzz of his private phone in his pocket.
Carmen Blutafino cut right to it. “What the hell have you done? How could you let my name come up in connection with yours?”
“She was fishing.”
“And she managed to snag not just you, but us both. What witness?”
“I don’t know.”
“You’d better find out, or they’re going to find pieces of you floating to the surface in Pontchartrain come summer.”
Brady straightened, chest puffing up with indignation. “You petty thug. You dare threaten me? I’ll put a lid on this nonsense.”
“See that you do, or I’ll put a lid on your empty coffin.”
That warning echoing all the way to his bowels, Brady sat frozen. What could they have to connect him and the mobster other than the claims of those meddlesome Terriots?
Cold certainty settled like the cement shoes Manny referenced. There was no way to make the disastrous broadcast disappear, not in time. It would hang him in the minds of the public long before the court had its say.
A vicious sweep of his arm cleared all the