New York

Book 1: The Crime Beat

by A.C. Fuller

Genres: Literary Fiction; Legal Thrillers; Mystery

Synopsis

A brilliant reporter, haunted by her husband's death.

A disgraced cop, tangled in a web of lies.

Two unlikely heroes. One unthinkable crime.

The Crime Beat, Episode 1: New York

Perched on the soft tar of a New York City rooftop, a mysterious sniper fires a single round from a fifty caliber rifle. Five stories below, his target collapses on the marble steps of the Metropolitan Museum of Art, dead.

Crime reporter Jane Cole needs this story badly. Suspended NYPD cop Robert Warren is desperate to clear his name. They don't trust each other, but they make the perfect team. And as Cole and Warren track the killer, they uncover a plot so ruthless it shocks the conscience, a crime so expansive it will rock the world.

Perfect for readers of Michael Connelly and fans of True Detective or Jack Ryan, The Crime Beat is your next bingeable series from bestselling author A.C. Fuller. 
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The Crime Beat is a nine-episode novella series, designed to be read in order and in its entirety. Although each episode tells a complete portion of the story, the nine novellas--read together--weave one unforgettable tale.

Release date: August 26, 2019

Publisher: Vivid Books

Print pages: 192

Sample

Chapter 1

 

Sunday

The old man’s life flashed through his mind as he methodically unpacked the rifle. His calloused hands had aged, but the muscle memory created by hundreds of repetitions still lived in his fingers. Laying the base of the weapon on his lap, he attached the barrel, locked the takedown pins into place, and affixed the scope. Finally, he rested the spiked feet on the soft tar at the edge of the townhouse roof.

His back ached. Sharp pulses of pain coursed through his right knee. But the pain was worth it. His shot would change the world.

Gritting his teeth, he dropped to his stomach and took in the crowd. Six stories down and across Fifth Avenue, a couple hundred people had gathered on the wide marble steps of the Metropolitan Museum of Art to greet the arrivals of celebrities and billionaires with ooohs, aaahs, and countless photos. This is what America has become, he thought. A handful of elites hoard the wealth and the sheeple snap pictures and praise them for it.

He scanned the crowd and whispered the twenty-nine words in a hoarse monotone. “An international brotherhood, united by General Ki for a singular mission: to end the great replacement, to restore the sovereignty of nations, to birth a new era of freedom.” He’d repeated the words dozens of times each day for a year. Today he would do his part to put them into action.

A blur of faces met his eye through the rifle scope, but Raj Ambani’s face wasn’t one of them.

Staying cool in stressful situations is what makes a sniper a sniper. Fifty years back, he could make a kill shot in less than a second without noticing the bombs going off around him. Floating in the zone, he called it. His primal energies focused on the target, his vision like a laser, sound muted so he barely heard the crack of his weapon as he pulled the trigger. Just silence and a man going limp, dead before hitting the ground. Back in the shit, if a bomb or an errant batch of napalm was going to land on his head, it was better to be oblivious anyway. Better to lock in and make the kill.

At his peak, he could touch a man half a mile away. He’d trained on a Remington M40, a modified Remington 700—one of the most popular rifles among hunters and the weapon of choice of Vietnam-era snipers. But this rifle was a custom job, state of the art and heavier than the M40 due to the oversized suppressor. Its barrel was even coated with a polymer-ceramic protectant that prevented corrosion and wear over time. Not that it mattered. He would use this gun only once.

The late afternoon was cloudy and unseasonably warm for mid-December in New York City—between fifty and fifty-five degrees with no wind. His wrinkled hands were more prone to shake now, but the shot would be easy enough. No more than three hundred yards and at an angle that made him almost feel sorry for his target. Almost.

Eye in the scope, he moved from person to person. A pair of young girls aimed phones at the crowd. A fat man craned his neck for a better view. Reporters jostled for space before a velvet rope that protected a red carpet running up the center of the steps. A black limousine—its extra large wheel wells and sturdy tires suggested it was armored—stopped between the rope lines in front of the red carpet.

The man slowed his breathing as he lightly touched the trigger. It was all about control. Any elevation of his pulse could throw the shot. He’d taken metoprolol for his heart for years, experimenting with the dose until he’d found the perfect balance. The beta blockers would have disqualified him from competition shooting, but he wasn't here to collect trophies.

His index finger was sweaty inside the leather glove. Leather was hot and cumbersome, but prints could bleed through latex and cloth often left traceable fibers.

The hairs on the back of his neck tingled and the world around him fell silent as the limo door opened. With a long, slow exhale, he allowed most of the air to leave his chest. A tall brunette stepped out of the limo and waved to the crowd. The crowd cheered.

The old man inhaled. It was only some self-absorbed movie star, filming herself with a cellphone as she walked the red carpet. Not his target.

Moving his eye from the scope, he glanced up and down the street. A white SUV limousine turned onto Fifth Avenue a block away. It slowed and stopped in front of the Met. He trained the scope on the license plate: @3COMMA.

That was it. The custom plate matched Raj Ambani’s Twitter handle, and he’d had to look up the meaning. Two commas in your net worth meant you were a millionaire. Three meant you were a billionaire. It wasn’t enough to brag about his wealth, Ambani had to promote his Twitter account in the process.

He exhaled, letting his chest sink into the roof, waiting for the rear door to open. Everything dropped away except for his eye in the scope and his finger on the trigger. All sound around him faded.

The rear door didn’t open. Instead, a portly driver emerged and waddled around the limo. He opened the rear door, his wide back shielding Ambani as he got out.

The .50 BMG round could easily pass through the fat man and take out the target behind him. But that wasn’t part of the plan. Too risky.

He could wait. It had been fifty years since his last kill. And at seventy-three years old, this would likely be his last.

He wanted to savor the moment.

* * *

Halfway up the steps, Raj Ambani turned to face the reporters who’d followed him from the limo. “This evening is not about me, but I’ll take a few questions about IWPF. If they’re not about the cause we’re here to support, I’ll head inside.”

A young woman shoved an iPhone in his face, its screen displaying the wavy red lines of a recording app. “The deal with X-Rev International? Is that going through?”

Ambani stuck his hands in the pockets of his tuxedo pants. He was thirty years old and slightly built, his black hair slicked back and parted in the center. One of his companies had developed an early version of the recording app the reporter was using, and, despite her annoying question, he had to smile at seeing his work in action. Plus, he was in his element, as comfortable with the press as he was in the boardroom. He turned his unflinching smile on her. “Thanks, Sophie, but—again—IWPF questions only. Please.”

“I’m a business reporter,” she countered. “I have to ask about the merger.”

He’d done enough interviews to know he could ignore questions he didn’t want to answer. “The IWPF is an organization I’m proud to support. I’ve teamed with donors from the financial and tech sectors to establish an international legal team dedicated to protecting the wildlife of all nations, and of our precious oceans. The fifty-million-dollar fund will allow IWPF to blaze a trail in international law, creating protections for animals in an increasingly global society. As our economies and production bases become more interdependent, so must our conservation efforts.”

A stocky male reporter elbowed his way to the front. “Raj, if we promise to get our science editors to write about…” He glanced at his notes, “…IPWF…or whatever…will you comment on the X-Rev merger?”

Ambani frowned. “It’s I, W, P, F. The International Wildlife Protection Fund. And no, not today.”

Ignoring a torrent of shouted questions, Ambani stood motionless on the steps. He scanned the crowd for an environmental reporter to call on. His limo pulled away below, and he wished he was in it. No matter how much good he did with his wealth, reporters only cared about how he’d gotten it, and how he was trying to get more.

He raised both hands, silencing the reporters. “No more questions. It’s a beautiful Sunday evening in Manhattan and we’re about to give fifty million dollars to an important charity.” His white-toothed grin widened. “Come bug me about X-Rev on Monday morning if you must. Inside there’s a glass of champagne with my name on it.”

The thought of champagne made him salivate. He allowed himself one glass per week, and tonight was the night. Ambani loved New York City around the holidays, and he looked over the crowd to take it in. Across the street, twinkling Christmas lights decorated a Red Maple in front of a beautiful old limestone townhouse. A pair of pigeons emerged from the tree and flew south. He breathed in the cool air, which carried a sweet-smokey scent from a nearby roasted nut cart. Life was far from perfect, but it was beautiful.

As the birds disappeared into the evening, an unexpected movement pulled his gaze to the roof of the townhouse. A second twitch of motion focused his attention on what appeared to be a man with a black rifle.

* * *

As he watched Ambani watch the birds, the old man whispered. “An international brotherhood, united by General Ki to carry out a singular mission: to bring an end to the great replacement...” Ambani looked up at the roof just as he reached the end of the words. “...to restore the sovereignty of nations, to birth a new era of freedom.”

His forehead was like a target. Wide and brown against the backdrop of cream-colored marble. The world dropped away. Everything except the target, his right index finger, and the words. He let his breath out slowly. He grew still. He was floating in the zone. Ready to kill.

Ambani’s eyes widened as he saw him, but it was too late.

The man pulled the trigger once. A hissing pop came from the gun.

His target went slack before anyone heard the shot. The round could penetrate a truck engine at close range. His shot had entered clean, piercing Ambani’s forehead and turning his brain to jello on the way out, leaving a fine, red-mist plume. He never knew what hit him.

Before the body hit the ground, the man was taking the gun apart.

Shrieks filled the air as his senses returned to him, but the words moved through his mind, drowning them out.

A minute later, he slung the rifle bag over his shoulder and hobbled toward the ladder on the back of the townhouse. For the first time, his wrinkled face broke out in a wide grin. He’d done his part. The small part he’d been called on to perform. The small part in a worldwide pact that would usher in a new age of freedom.

 

 

Chapter 2

 

Jane Cole was pissed. She’d been pissed at the world for three years, but right now her boss was catching the brunt of it.

She slammed a fist on his desk, rattling a jar of pens and knocking a wire-bound reporter’s notebook off the table. She regretted it immediately, but was burning too hot to apologize. “The weeks before Christmas are especially tough.”

Max Herr grabbed his notebook from the floor, then kicked his feet up on the desk, lacing his hands through his thick white hair. “No problem. I get that you’re passionate about this issue. We’re on the same side here.”

She needed this job, and the two vanilla lattes she’d chugged before the meeting were doing nothing to calm her. From anger, she had only one place to go. With the flick of an internal switch, she sighed and her anger morphed into numbness. Her thoughts became white noise—static with a frequency between the crackling of a radio and the gentle whoosh of the cosmic noise app she used (with half an Ambien) to fall asleep each night. She flicked this switch a few dozen times a day. It kept her sane.

Max squinted. “Jane, are you okay? The story was good, but I’m catching hell for it. I know you’re passionate about this, but—”

She shot out of her chair. “You’re not?” The static was gone. The numbness disappeared. The anger was back.

Herr held up his hands. “I’ve greenlit more stories on police brutality than any editor in the city, but I’m more passionate about accuracy.”

“My story was accurate. Every word of it. Robert Warren smashed a suspect’s face into the metal grate of his cruiser. That. Is. Fact.” She shook her head and flopped into the chair. “Didn’t you tell me when I started here that every negative story I wrote about the department would get pushback?”

Herr stroked his bushy white beard, nodding. “I’m getting more than the usual pushback. Warren called twice today, three times yesterday. His name was on the list for detective. He can kiss that goodbye.”

“Good!” Jane snapped. “Brutal cops shouldn’t get promotions.”

Herr shook his head. “No, they shouldn’t.”

Going emotionally numb gave her power. The static darkness erased the pain but left her perceptive, allowed her to see others clearly. His terse answer made her wonder whether he truly agreed with her. She could read most people within three minutes. But she’d never been able to read her boss. He didn’t look at the floor when he spoke. He never raised his voice when he lied. He had no discernible tell. His affable smile and white hair and beard reminded her of a kindly old wizard from the movies. It was a face that allowed everyone to believe he was on their side. In truth, the only side he was ever on was that of The New York Sun, the newspaper he’d run for the last ten years.

Since she couldn’t read him, she kept pressing. “Max, he smashed a dude’s face after arresting him. What more do we need to know?”

“All I’m asking is that you flip over some rocks to see what crawls out. I’m sure you got the facts right, but sometimes the facts are different than the truth. Got it?”

Cole relented. “Just because Warren calls three times a day doesn’t mean he’s innocent.”

“Not only Warren. I’ve gotten calls from two others I trust. They say Warren is one of the good guys.”

She waved a hand at him. “Cops protect their own. Always have. Especially against journalists.”

Herr sighed. “You know I am still your boss, Jane.”

“For now.” She stopped halfway to the door of his office. “I remember when I could actually hear and smell the person I was reporting on. Now?” She waved her phone at him. “I’m a damn stenographer. I copy Twitter statements and hope someone calls me back. We break one story based on actual sources and the entire department comes after us. Makes a woman wonder whether there’s any room to be a real reporter. I just don’t think there’s a point anymore.”

Herr looked concerned. “A point to what?”

Through the windows of Herr’s office, Cole gestured at the expansive newsroom, where a few dozen reporters, interns, and tech people typed at laptops, scrolled on phones, or talked quietly. “This. Any of it. Anything.”

“I worry when you say things like that.” He shook his head. “That and things like the little ‘For now’ comment you snuck in a moment ago. You survived four rounds of layoffs because you’re brilliant and you write well. You’re the only woman leading a crime beat at a major New York City paper. I know the last few years have been…”

She frowned at him and he smiled sadly.

“…Difficult isn’t strong enough. I know it’s been devastating. I mean, I can’t know what you’ve had to go through. But you made it. You’re still here.”

“Nice pep talk, coach. I need to get back to my desk. My spidey sense tells me a police spokesman might be sending a tweet.” She stopped in the doorway and swiveled to face him, but his eyes were on his laptop. “I’m gonna need to be ready to transcribe it right away, sir.”

“Wait!” he called without looking up, his voice urgent. “Something at the Met. A shooting.”

“Who?”

“It’s Twitter so I’m not sure it’s true. They’re saying…oh, dear God... they’re saying Raj Ambani was killed at a charity event at the Met.”

Herr stood abruptly and waved for her to get out.

Cole met his eyes. “I’m sorry for…for all the…you’re right, I’m still here. Christmas is just hard for me, okay?”

“Go! And call me the second you have something.”

 

 

Chapter 3

 

The Metropolitan Museum of Art spans four city blocks on the east side of New York City’s Central Park. Bordering two police precincts—the Upper East Side’s 19th and the special Central Park precinct—the famous museum is one of the crown jewels of Manhattan’s Fifth Avenue.

Cole guessed that officers from the 19th would respond first. After evacuating the Met and securing the crime scene, they’d close the 79th Street Transverse, the road through Central Park that connects the east and west sides of Manhattan. So when she’d told the Uber driver to go farther north and cross the park at 84th, she was betting that the more northern crossing would still be open. She’d bet right. As she slid out of the car, two officers were setting up a barricade to block off the road.

“Turn around!” one of them shouted at the driver, waving his arms. “No more cars through here.”

The driver pulled a u-turn as Cole approached the cop—an acne-scarred twenty-something Cole figured she could work. Most of the young ones weren’t yet jaded against reporters, not having had time to develop the every-one-of-them-is-an-asshole-until-proven-otherwise mindset so common to veteran cops. “The 79th Street crossing was closed, too. What’s going on?”

“Police business, ma’am.”

The other officer was older and, Cole assumed, a little wiser. He pulled another barricade off the police truck. “Move along, lady.”

She didn’t recognize either of them. Grunts from the 19th, most likely. But they might have information. Her competitors—mostly cute twenty somethings with huge social media followings—would blow right past these two and not think twice. But low-level cops were often willing to talk.

On the ride from the office Cole had learned everything she could about the shooting, which wasn’t much. A handful of blurry pictures had appeared on Twitter, along with rumors about Ambani’s murder, but nothing credible. So far, the police had released no official statements. No video of the shooting or its immediate aftermath had emerged—a surprise since multiple TV crews had been covering the event, and every person in Manhattan carried a digital video camera in their pocket.

She made eye contact with the acne-scarred cop who’d returned to the barricades—large blue sawhorses connected by blue 2x4s and stenciled in white lettering that read NYPD. “I’m Jane Cole from The New York Sun. Mind if I ask you a couple questions?”

He stepped toward her aggressively, his face turning cold. “Cole, huh? You wrote the hit job on Warren.”

She stepped back. “I reported a brutal attack against a suspect who had already been apprehended, yes.”

His smile wasn’t friendly. “Then, no. No you can’t ask us any questions. And not only that.” He took out his phone and waved it in her face. “I’m gonna text every reporter at the Times, the Post, and the Daily News to give them a heads up on Ambani. Our precinct captain will sit for an hour on the record with the damn NYU student newspaper just to make sure you fall behind.” He spat at her feet. “Rob’s one of the best. That story made New York less safe.” He turned and muttered, “Stupid bitch.”

Cole grimaced and walked away. The animosity was nothing new, and she let it disappear into the void as she crossed the street. The Fifth Avenue sidewalk was blocked by police barriers, so she walked east, circled around on Madison, and approached the Met from 83rd, scanning every face she saw. A block ahead, three blue and white police vans were parked sideways across the traffic lane. A large crowd had formed. Necks craned to peek between the vans and a few dozen onlookers sat on people’s shoulders, trying to peer over them.

“The shooter was on the roof,” a man said as Cole passed.

He had wavy salt and pepper hair and wore a tan wool coat over a custom-tailored shirt. He’d been speaking with a woman who also looked rich. Local residents. “Where’d you hear that?” Cole asked casually.

“Didn’t hear it.” The man’s haughty voice matched his outfit. “I know it. I live up there.” He pointed to the top of a townhouse on the corner of Fifth Avenue and 83rd. “Furnace was stuck on high again, so I had my window open. Heard the shot, looked out...crowd was already scattering.” He pointed to the steps of The Met. “I ran down, but it was too late. I’m a surgeon—not trauma, but still...” He studied the ground. “Never seen a head so...damaged. What was left of it.” The doctor raised his head to meet her eyes again. “Anyway, by the time I tried to get back to my apartment, the whole area was on lockdown. Cops said the shots could have come from my building, but I’m pretty sure they came from next door.” He pointed up again, this time to the limestone townhouse next to his.

Cole studied him. He had shallow lines around his eyes and an even tan. His face was stiff, but earnest. A rich guy, guilty about his wealth, who needed everyone to believe he was an honest, good person. The kind of guy who staved off the darkness by remaining above reproach at all times. He wasn’t lying.

The fact that he was telling the truth didn’t mean he was right, but it was a good start. She nodded at the townhouse. “That one?”

“Pretty sure.”

“What did it sound like?”

“Kind of a shallow pop, not a huge bang.”

The townhouse was five stories of old limestone that had recently been resurfaced. Typical Upper East Side home for millionaires or billionaires, though nicer than average due to the prime location. It was a townhouse that would cost eight to ten million dollars on a side street, but was probably worth double that because of the Fifth Avenue address.

She reached into her small hip purse—which her colleagues derisively called a “fanny pack”—and retrieved a business card. She held it out confidently. “Jane Cole, New York Sun. Okay if I follow up with you about this?”

The man frowned—a common response when people learned she was a reporter—but he took the card and pulled out one of his own.

“Dr. Martin Horowitz?” she asked, reading it. “The heart guy?”

“I’m a heart guy.”

The woman next to him tugged at his sleeve playfully. “You know what she means, dear. You’re the heart guy. On the East Coast, at least.”

Cole stowed the card in the pocket of her black slacks. “Didn’t you do the mayor’s triple bypass?”

The doctor smiled proudly. “I did.”

The woman next to the surgeon beamed. “He does all the important people because he’s the best.” The woman tilted her head and leaned in toward Cole. “But he works on poor people, too. Pro bono.” Her lips curled slightly at the mention of ‘poor people.’ Cole crossed her arms. The work may have been pro bono, but it was all about projecting an image of compassion. Again, the need to be seen as good. “I’m Mrs. Horowitz, by the way, pleased to meet you. Martin and I are big fans of—”

“Thank you.” She deflected the handshake and cut her off. “I’ll follow up on that info.”

An officer she vaguely recognized was making his way from the steps of The Met back to the police van barricade. She’d met him at Shooter’s, but his name escaped her. Kenny? Or maybe...Remy?

Too bad she’d been three shots into a bottle of tequila when she’d met him.