Chapter VI – The Hit

 

“We’re in deep shit” was the department’s general consensus surrounding the disturbances at the Mossberger estate. For so long, it seemed as though someone else was handling the whole endeavor. As it turns out, nothing was or has been done, and rumors are starting to fly. In fact, the moment Miss Stenzlo left yesterday morning, all of the officers began rifling their cabinets and searching for ways to cover their tracks. You see, this flight response was prompted by a growing suspicion that people were soon going to uncover the decades of dirt piled onto each officer’s connection with Mr. Mossberger.

 

From the beginning, you’re seen as a tool. One moment, I’m debuting the badge to a city that needs me. Next, I’m sipping champagne in the starlight while receiving the rundown of a drive-by. This was the routine for every man on the force – daytime patrol, nighttime hostage to the host, Milton Mossberger.

 

I always knew Milton was a mixed bag (his refusal to disclose any information about his past stifled most. But I always sensed that he never truly needed the help. On Valentine’s Day of last year, he hosted an incredible venue on the yacht he had recently purchased from a cruiser named Pauli Scolletta, another big shot in the banking business. Margaret and I, newly weds at the time, were invited along with several other department heads and their wives to join Milton in a “never ending extravaganza,” as he put it. Immediately after setting foot on the boat, we were plied with an overwhelming range of wines and liquors, all brought in from Napa. Next, a raucous assortment of music was blared by a combination of sound systems and live musicians; in the past, Milton used a previous connection with Tony Bennett to arrange a musical tour of the Hudson River. The evening flashed by, and most found comfort in the furnished bedrooms on the lower deck. Yet, there were always a few stragglers who managed to fight off the fever. Little did we know Mossberger would use this moment to pounce. Like a spider trapping clueless flies into its web, Milton arranged for a group consisting of myself, Phil Tully, and Dr. Matthew Spradlin to meet on the bow. Tully was the newly-appointed head of NYPD’s vice division, and Dr. Spradlin was one of Long Island’s two employed coroners. As I should’ve expected from past encounters, there was a discrete handshake (more of a forceful tug) given to each attendee. I’ve always detested Milton’s hands; they’re chapped and contain several scabbed slits along the lower palm that makes one think they’ve been caressing a cold-blooded reptile.

 

After getting through all the snide remarks made by Mr. Mossberger about his lack of preparation and the resulting “abomination” of a party, he cut to the chase. There were four gentlemen, all of whom Milton recently made moves with in their respective industries. He assured that the risk associated with betting against stable stocks was “too damn high for my blood,” but not for theirs. Each of us were dubbed a unique piece of puzzle, the end goal being to drown each of them in the same water we were dancing over. Milton provided us details of frequent hotspots attended by each of the tycoons in the evening, that was until a light-bulb went off in Officer Tully’s head, suggesting that we “take them out all at once – kill four birds with one big-ass stone.”

 

“Well, shit, there’s an idea,” Milton exclaimed. Suddenly, he began assembling a new strategy with several well-dressed henchmen there to assist him, not including the drinks servers. And that’s all we were: Helpless henchmen looking to preserve our titles at the sakes of lives we never knew existed.