Shamrock Alley Read Online Free Page B

desk, nodding at the chairs. He was a tall, narrow-shouldered man with silver-gray eyes and indented temples. He smiled, exposing a perfect row of white, even teeth. “Have a seat.”
    They sat.
    “Roger,” Kersh said, folding his hands in his lap.
    “Bill.” Biddleman eased back in his own chair and massaged his temples. There were dark grooves under his eyes, and a spray of blood vessels was apparent along the extremity of his nose. “I’m not going to stroke you, gentlemen. Last night was a goddamn mess.” There were a few papers scattered around Biddleman’s desk. Biddleman shuffled through them now, absently and with one hand, until he selected the one he wanted. “Officer … Leland Mackowsky,” he read, sounding the name out. He paused and peered at them from above the top of the paper. “Twenty-seven-year-old kid, been with the force three years. He’s over at NYU Downtown right now with a shattered collarbone and some massive internal bleeding as a result of last night’s shootout. Took a goddamn bullet in the upper chest area, just below his neck. Lucky he didn’t lose his face. It’s very serious.”
    “We know,” Kersh said. “We spoke with the detectives and the assistant D.A. last night.”
    “Not to mention the two guys shot and killed behind the bar, John.” The attorney’s eyes shifted to him. “One of whom you killed.” There was disdain in his voice, which John sensed was deliberately obvious. Biddleman’s eyes were small and rodent-like, his complexion waxy and pitted. He reminded John of an aged and peeling mannequin. “What the hell happened last night?”
    “The cops had been watching Deveneau and his place for a couple of months for narcotics,” John said. “They got word the joint was hot, so they hit it. They didn’t know we were there, and we didn’t know they were coming.”
    Biddleman drummed his fingers on his desktop. “I think things should have been a little more controlled.”
    “We’re only responsible for ourselves—”
    “There should have been better communication, more professionalism displayed…”
    “Professionalism?”
John uttered a laugh. “Come on. You have FBI, DEA, Secret Service, ATF, local cops, transit cops—a million guys with guns and badges trying to lock up the shit. You think we have tea before every operation and discuss it with the world? Shit happens, and last night was just one of those nights.”
    “I’m not interested in excuses,” Biddleman said, “and don’t be cavalier with me. We’ve had this sort of discussion before. You shot and killed someone, then ran away like the criminal you were pretending to be. This isn’t a movie set. This is real life, where all your actions have consequences.”
    John pushed himself back in his chair. He could sense Kersh beside him—an unmoving presence. “I don’t need a lecture.”
    Biddleman sat forward in his chair, his pasty face reflecting in the polished mahogany desktop. “John, you fired the first shot that killed?”
    “Yes. He was going to kill the informant. I shot him to save her life.”
    “Was he going to kill
you?”
    “I don’t know what would have happened after he shot her.”
    “Were you in immediate danger, or were you just pushing your undercover role?”
    John felt a burning at the pit of his stomach. For some reason, he thought of his father at that moment: prostrate and unmoving beneath a wall of beeping machinery. “You’re out of line,” he told Biddleman. “What the hell do you think I am?”
    Kersh put up a hand. His voice was steady. “Roger,” he said. “Listen, the shooting was justified, you know that. Where are we going with this?”
    “We are going nowhere. You agents gave Francis Deveneau a pass. This case is done. No one in my office will touch this thing. John, I personally think you acted out of control, used poor judgment. But that’s the Secret Service’s problem.”
    “Jesus …”
    “Roger,” Kersh said, “let’s