While much of the hospital looked threadbare, Berkowitz’s office was comfortably outfitted with an L-shaped desk, leather sofa, and the conference table flanked by three chairs, all of it new. His old CPD badge was mounted on a plaque behind his desk, along with several framed community awards. A large tri-fold of family photos sat on his desk.
“My sons,” he said, pointing to the photos, showing two teenage versions of himself. “At Country Day. Never could have afforded that on a cop’s salary. What part of town you grow up in, Borders?”
“Oakley.”
“Getting kind of fou-fou now,” he said.
“It wasn’t back then.” Will rolled up to the table and faced Berkowitz, who continued to swing his legs playfully, a man without a care in the world. Will was sore and constipated. He fought to keep it off his face.
“Don’t you have a son? How’s he doing?”
“Fine,” Will said. There was nothing more to say, certainly not to Stan Berkowitz.
“So what, aren’t they treating you right down in rehab?”
“I just have a few questions…”
Berkowitz laughed, showing bright white teeth, looking relaxed and congressional again. “Wish I could help, a former brother officer and all that, but Dodds told me not to talk to you.”
“Huh.” Now it was Will’s turn to laugh. He started to wheel around but Berkowitz’s voice stopped him.
“What the hell is that for?” A cop harshness crept in.
“I’m just surprised you’d listen to Dodds, considering what he’s said about you and all, David.”
“Don’t fucking call me David!” he sputtered. “What are you talking about? What about Dodds?”
“I’ve said too much.”
“Hell, no. Tell me.”
Will turned back to face him, looking him in the eye, then looking away and sighing. “Oh, hell, Stan, not your fault you washed out of homicide. It’s a shit job anyway. Look where you are now. Better than any of us.” Berkowitz had stopped swinging his legs and now had his hands flat on the tops of his thighs, his suit jacket open wide, exposing a little.38 Smith & Wesson in his belt. Will went on, “Let’s just say Dodds wasn’t your friend when you were on loan to the detail…”
“Goddamn it!” Berkowitz slapped the table, slid down, and walked heavily over to his desk, seeming to seek safe harbor. “I always knew it, always knew it. Shit, he wouldn’t even have that job if the department wasn’t under pressure to hire people of a Nubian persuasion, if you get my drift. All the shit we used to take from the Sentinels-hell, they have their own organization! They won’t even support the FOP! I always knew Dodds did me in. I was a good detective.”
