Chapter Text
NOVEMBER
Hamilton shook his head, absently staring at the stack of papers as his mind worked. “The suspect was rushing; the murder was hectic and spontaneous. Look at how he choked her with her own belt—he wasn’t planning on her being home—he didn’t bring a weapon, but somehow, he already had her keys.”
“A copy?”
“Office said it was an original.”
“So he’d been there before? Or stole it from someone?”
“More than that, Commissioner,” Hamilton replied, a smile spreading onto his flushed face. “He was welcomed there.”
“Excellent work, Detective,” Commissioner Louis Capet XVI swiveled his chair around, greeting him with his own smile. “As per usual. Brilliant.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Have you been keeping up with the news?”
Hamilton shuffled his feet a bit in his own chair, flipped the folder closed. This was what he had been trying to avoid. He’d intended to leave before it got to this point, but obviously, it had been too late to tiptoe out, hoping the Commissioner wouldn’t notice. News could have meant gossip or broadcasting, and it wasn’t mutually exclusive. But anytime Commissioner Capet mentioned ‘news,’ it had something to do with his little underground gamble, and Hamilton didn’t want to be involved. “You mean National news?”
“I mean Washington Syndicate news, boy,” the commissioner chuckled, bright eyes sparkling over the rims of his glasses. Of course, it was. The Washington Syndicate was one of the most notorious mafias on the east coast. And Commissioner Capet was playing with fire while his clothes were drenched in gasoline, in a house built of matchsticks and dry firewood. “Remember the agreement Washington and I had a while back?”
“I told you, you can’t negotiate with domestic terrorists, sir,” Hamilton frowned, voice low. It was a bad idea for the commissioner to grant Washington, the godfather of the Syndicate, immunity, along with some of his capos. The deal was, he’d get it if he’d gotten his men to leak information from other smaller drug rings, in return. Risky, but worth it.
“Detective, I appreciate your concern but it’s been said and done. I can’t have those hooligans running amuck, tearing New York to pieces. We needed him on our side. He’s a powerful enemy.”
“And since when does the NYPD strike up peace treaties with mafias?” Hamilton whispered, narrowing his eyes. The blinds had been snatched closed, and Commissioner Capet had been watching the door as he spoke.
He sat back in his chair, complacently. “The DEA, FBI and the NYPD are discussing a raid.”
“On the Syndicate?” Hamilton was startled, confusion evident.
“Don’t look so worried,” the Commissioner chuckled.
“That could be very, very dangerous, sir. First of all, you’re very accessible. They will know it was you…and you gained his trust so you’re—?”
“Trust means nothing to me when it comes to gangs, Detective. I have a city to protect.” He stood, maneuvered around his office, and began watering his plants.
Hamilton twisted his body, to follow him across the room with his terror-stricken eyes. “Sir, this is not just any gang. It’s the mafia. It’s the Washington Syndicate.”
“Hamilton, these men are criminals.” He sounded unapologetic as bitter finality and confidence molded his words once more into an authority figure. “As you said, I cannot negotiate with terrorists. I have one of the biggest mafias in the Western Hemisphere on my side: the US Government. We were discussing a drug raid on a factory we found in underground Manhattan.”
“But, with all due respect, sir, you’re in the NYPD. Why don’t you let the FBI and the DEA handle this?”
“It’s my raid.”
“They’re letting you conduct this?”
“Detective, I’ve been in this business a long time. If I’ve been working on this plan for nine months, you think I’m gonna hand it over to some fancy guys in suits? No, they’re going to let me conduct the raid and the plan.” Commissioner Louis winked, but returned to his single sunflower, on the windowsill. “A magician never reveals his tricks.”
Desperate for anything that could slow him down, Hamilton remarked, “That isn’t even your jurisdiction.”
Commissioner Capet stood up, pleased. “A lot of his men are either goin’ to jail or dying, son. And no jurisdiction in the goddamn world would pass that up. There’s somethin’ in it for everybody.”
“Sir, have you really thought this through? You know they will not hesitate to kill you; you’re gambling your life with stone cold killers.”
“Alexander,” Commissioner Capet said simply, with his back to the detective, staring out of the window. “Do you know why I chose this life? Serving my community?”
“This is no time for anecdotes, Commissioner.” Hamilton murmured. He could not believe the man could go off on a tangent at a time like this.
“I did this because if I could keep this city safe, I would pay whatever price. My life, among them. I’m willing to die for my people, protecting them and serving them. And that decision isn’t for everyone.”
It wasn’t an argument the detective could win. He simply sighed in defeat, mumbled a, “Yes, sir.” Upon gathering his things, he left without another word.
JANUARY
If Washington’s men are an army, Washington is the General. Plain and simple. That is his calling card throughout the country. No one’s sure who he is, and Hamilton has never seen him before. Perhaps no one has, or everyone has, without realizing who they’d seen. That’s the mafia code of silence: omerta. There’s the rumor of him being the most powerful man of his family in decades. He doesn’t like publicity, it seems.
The bullpen office is steel grey and smells of ammonia. Telephones are ringing faintly, with officers and detectives wandering around in their coats with their scarves bundled up around their necks; their gloves and mittens are not coming off. A power surge during the blizzard compromised their heating units, apparently. Oh, that sweet New York weather. The florescent lighting doesn’t help; it only gives people migraines and flickers when a door is slammed too hard. Commissioner Capet’s bronze nameplate on his office door has been replaced with one that reads “Commissioner Robespierre,” whom no one particularly likes, but he gets the job done, and that’s the most important part. He’s a small man, with deep-set eyes and thin, dry lips. What he lacks in height and build, he makes up for in voice and power. A formidable man with a short temper. Oh, joy.
Hamilton’s stomach lurches when he’s handed the police file pertaining to the gruesome murder of Commissioner Louis Capet. Kidnapped from his apartment, tortured for 72 hours, and decapitated. Body dumped behind a cathedral. Classy. Hamilton has his eyes on the Syndicate as probable cause, and he is belligerently determined to track them down, even more than Robespierre would be, if he’d known. The problem is, no one really knows where their headquarters are located; the Syndicate is all over the country. They’re New York based, though. Why else would the General have befriended the NYPD Commissioner? Hamilton’s partner, Detective Hercules Mulligan is reviewing the case file with him.
“I told him not to do it,” Hamilton mutters over and over again. “I told him not to. I told him it was a bad idea. Now look.” The pictures are objective and solid, right there in his hand. Like the Commissioner was just any other victim, and not his boss. His mentor. His friend. There’s going to be a ceremonial burial tomorrow afternoon. Hamilton has already observed a speech the mayor gave in his honor. The police force still doesn’t know about the bust, nor does the public. If they did, it would directly connect Capet to the Syndicate. Hell, the public doesn’t even really know about the depth of the Syndicate. Everyone has only heard of them as a street gang, and this is partially because the New York government has done their best to downplay and conceal it from the citizens. However, the sudden calling-out would take the General down, no questions asked, but it would blow everything else up. But on top of exposing the General, he can’t reveal that Commissioner Capet was playing friendly with one of the Underground’s Finest. That would certainly raise some questions. And not particularly desired ones, for Capet, Hamilton, or the entire police squadron. So, Hamilton couldn’t pitch the theory without context at the press conference, without baffling the United States, so he didn’t even bother to attempt to make a statement.
“This is so crazy. One of our own.” Mulligan grumbles.
Hamilton sighs. “He’d want us to stay focused. To figure this out with a clear head,”
“God rest his soul.” Mulligan’s silent for a moment. “He was such a good guy.” Other than that, he doesn’t have much of an emotional response. Mulligan isn’t an emotional guy, and he didn’t really have a personal relationship with the Commissioner, the way Hamilton did.
The folders lay untouched before them for another moment, as Hamilton stirs his coffee and mutters bitterly, “Robespierre cleaned his office out pretty quickly.”
His partner shrugs. “We needed a new commissioner, especially dealing with something like this. The whole fucking country is on our doorstep, and we need to close this case before it gets any bigger.”
“Which is why I have a theory.”
Mulligan’s look is expectant, clicking his pen casually.
“I was thinking the Syndicate.”
His partner is taken aback. He watches Hamilton, in case it’s a joke. But when he sees that his large, dark eyes remain steady with fire, he chuckles uneasily, “Easy, Tiger.”
“Just hear me out.”
“Why does the Washington Syndicate, specifically, stick out like a sore thumb to you?” Mulligan asks skeptically. “Why not the Jeffersons? The Jeffersons kind of have the guillotine-thing down as their method of murder. Plus, we know Capet tailed them and had that whole intersection shoot out, and shit, when his transport from the harbor went wrong.”
“Yes, but that was last year. Why would Jefferson go after him now?”
“Wasn’t it last year around this time? That took a lot of money out of his pocket that year. About a million dollars. Mafias exist to make money, and Capet was responsible for a huge hole in Jefferson’s pocket. Maybe he wanted revenge.”
“Yes, but that doesn’t prove anything.”
“And you think pointing fingers at the Syndicate does?” Mulligan demands, a bit aggressively.
“So you really think the Jeffersons are behind this one?” Hamilton sips his coffee.
“I think they’re a better bet. Better than the Syndicate.”
Hamilton shrugs. He can’t tell Mulligan. He wouldn’t be able to tell him how he knew, without looking like he was in on it, because he wasn’t. He thinks about it (or doesn’t) and blurts out, “What if, hypothetically, Capet had a truce with Washington, and then he did this huge drug bust on Christmas Eve? Totally unexpected. Let’s say about fifty of Washington’s guys were there; most of them were killed. The rest barely escaped with their lives. Hypothetically.”
There’s a moment of awkward silence as Mulligan regards Hamilton, scrutinizing him. “Are you feeling okay, Alex?”
Hamilton’s eyebrows furrow. “Capet told me. For nine months, he was infiltrating the Syndicate. He was leaking information about smaller rings, Hercules. He kept me posted, in case anything like this happened.”
“Even if that were true, the General’s got a strategy of no surrender,” Mulligan replies oddly. “He’d find ways to kill his own men in prison if he suspected they’d talk. He’d kill anyone who could connect him to that murder. You got nothing.”
“False. I’ve got motive, and I’ve got Washington.”
“But the Jeffersons decapitate people, Hamilton. That’s their MO. And sure, you got the Syndicate as the main suspects, but wouldn’t it make sense if the Jeffersons retaliated?”
Hamilton smiles. “Outside of Commissioner Capet and the head of the DEA, I was the only one who knew about this operation. The fucking FBI had no idea.”
“I suggest you keep it that way,” Mulligan scoops his copy of the case file up. “I’ll be at my desk taking collect calls for the funeral if you need me.”
“Hercules!” Hamilton stands up, pushing his chair back with the force. “Wait a minute. Don’t you believe me?”
He looks over his shoulder. “Alex, listen, you’ve got a good head on you. If you know what’s good for you, you’ll drop this and never speak of it again.”
It seems like everything is drained of color when Hamilton’s shoulders drop and his face falls. “You’re not going to help me?”
Mulligan crosses his arms. “You need to listen to me. You’re a rookie, Ham. Even if you were on to something, Robespierre would never put you on it. Save yourself the trouble and leave the Syndicate out of the equation. I don’t wanna see this blow up in your face.”
He watches him walk away, but the only thing he can feel is the rage in his stomach, boiling up to his ears. His face flushes when a few detectives snicker at how ridiculous he must look. He snatches the file, his coat, and his coffee up and heads for the door, muttering about how annoying older partners are.
“Monsieur Hamilton!”
“Monsieur Lafayette,” Hamilton greets dully. “I won’t have anything to drink anything today.” The bar is slow, with smooth jazz playing lightly to relax the atmosphere. Not many people are here, which is a good thing. Tuesdays are chill days. Or at least they were.
Lafayette shrugs, cleans the bar idly. “You are doing the frown, mon chou, ça va?”
Hamilton chuckles, but his shoulders are still slumped and heavy as he sighs. “I dunno, Laf. This detective business is hard. I hardly do as much detecting as I do paperwork.” Mulligan had him look over traffic tickets, since they were short on staff today.
“You do no have to lie to me, Jambon. I hear the Commissioner is dead and I am sorry for your loss.” He cleans a glass. “Come on, have one on me.”
Can’t ignore goodwill. Hamilton sits back, props his head on his hand, watches Lafayette pour him a whiskey and muses, “It just doesn’t make sense. If the General hates the spotlight so much, why would he do something like this that would draw so much attention to himself?”
Lafayette’s eyes avert to meet Hamilton’s. “The General of the Syndicate? You think he is the one responsible?”
Hamilton shrugs. “What do you know about him?”
“He is what we would call a mystery. Why are you so interested suddenly?”
Another shrug. “Wild theory.” He accepts the glass, tips it up to the barhand in a salute, and takes the shot. “What happened to your hand?” It’s bandaged tightly under a cast.
“I fell on it, trying to bathe my cat,” Lafayette replies simply. “Do not ever get a ferocious feline, mon ami. They hate the water almost as much as they hate their owners.”
“I prefer birds. Except parrots. Parrots are creepy as fuck. With their beady ass eyes.” He’s prepared to pull his phone out and show him a picture of parrots and their beady ass eyes, but Lafayette asks,
“What proof do you have, regarding the General?” He continues to clean the counter, only with much more interest.
“Aw, c’mon, Laf. You know I can’t talk to you about the case. And especially not this one.” Hamilton turns the glass over on the counter, grinning at the immediate heat in his stomach. The good kind of heat, not the anger that usually occupies him. He decides to look up pictures of pigeons instead. He loves pigeons.
“Mais oui, Jambon, but didn’t you ask what I know of him? I have worked in this bar for seven years, I think I may have something of interest to you.” His eyes glint in the dim light. “Quid pro quo.”
He considers it, the gears churning in his head, concentrating on his burning throat. “Why’re you so shady, all of a sudden?” He’s known the guy for about as long as he’s been working in the bar. But the wifi is slow, apparently, because the pigeons aren’t loading fast enough.
“I am only adjusting to the American Way of Life,” Lafayette chuckles. “I like to gossip almost as much as I like to hear it. Can you not indulge me, chouchou?”
Hamilton chuckles, sighs. He trusts the guy, and he needs someone to vent to. So, he says, “Fine. I know the Commissioner did a huge bust on the Syndicate a few weeks ago.” He doesn’t mention the deal yet. It’d be too much to explain right now. “Your turn.”
“One of his men owns the lounge on Mercer Street. Ad Hoc.” Lafayette replies.
Hamilton grins. Now he has a location. Perfect. He stands. “Thank you so much, Lafayette.”
“No, sit. There is much more to tell you, but I need more from you, first.” Lafayette pours him another drink, slides it to him across the counter. “Go.”
“Um, over the weekend, he mysteriously turned up dead. It was violent and bloody, and right now, the General has all the motive in the world.”
“How was he killed?” Lafayette inquires.
“Nope. Ball is in your court.” Hamilton takes the shot, turns the glass over again.
“John Laurens. A capo. If you can find him, you can find anybody, but do not go telling him you are a cop, Jambon.”
He etches the name into his memory, and then says, “Kidnapped, beaten, and decapitated.” Suddenly the alcohol isn’t sitting in his stomach right. “Tossed behind a church.”
Lafayette nods solemnly. “That is all I have to tell you right now. Are you going with that asshole partner of yours?”
Hamilton is distracted long enough to laugh. “No, Hercules doesn’t think it was the Syndicate. He has his eyes elsewhere. I’m doing this on my own, for now. At least until I can get a solid lead long enough to keep him involved, or convinced that I’m right. And I’m not going tonight, I have to get back to the office.”
“Say hello again to him if you see him,” Lafayette teases. “Give him a nice big kiss.” From what Hamilton can see, there’s an odd relationship between the two of them. Hercules is no-nonsense and aggressive, while Lafayette is cocky and arrogant. Whenever the two of them see each other, they bicker, although they don’t know each other that well. They’ve only met when Hercules stopped by to pick up his partner, and Lafayette happened to be working behind the bar.
They say their goodbyes, and the Frenchman watches the detective leave, waving goodbye and thanks again for the tips. He’d asked Lafayette not to breathe a word of it to anyone that came into the bar. He’d promised, and continued to clean the glasses, turning over the discussion in his mind.
At the end of his shift, another young man breezes in, hanging his coat on the rack. The sun has long gone down, and Lafayette is ready to bounce.
“Woo, it’s nice and toasty in here!” He tucks his brown hair behind his ears, ties it into a ponytail as he scans the deck. About four people are hanging out in the bar, but then again, it’s a Tuesday night, and everyone has somewhere to be. Even Marquis de Lafayette. “See you, Marq. Your ride is here.”
“Merci, Sammy,” Lafayette kisses him on each cheek, and departs through the back, scurrying to the car through the mountains of snow. He practically jumps into the passenger seat, happy to find that the heat is blasting.
The driver sighs. “Didn’t I ask you to shake out your coat and shit before you got in my car?”
“Il y a de la neige, it will melt.” Lafayette chuckles, pulling the door shut and strapping himself in.
“That’s the problem. And did you really have to call me an asshole?”
Lafayette grins. “I did not have a choice. It is the truth, Hercules. You know I speak tongue in cheek! Did you get the whole conversation?”
“Sent it to Greene. We’re on our way now to give Laurens the heads up.” He starts the car up again, pulls off of the side of the street.
Lafayette lights a cigarette, “He is a good kid. I wish he did not put himself in the line of fire, oui?”
Hercules shrugs. “He knows too much. Told him to drop it, but he’s like a Jack Russell terrier. The harder you shake it, the harder he bites. Whatever happens now, it’s his doing. We can’t save him.”
“We should keep an eye on him.” Lafayette mumbles, taking a drag. He flicks the ashes out of the window, considering this.
“He isn’t going to shut up about it,” Hercules mumbles. “The only thing stopping him from telling the whole goddamn country is Capet’s good name. Don’t wanna expose him as corrupt for trying to work in partnership with the Syndicate.”
“Would you?”
“My boss is the Syndicate.”
“Mais, pardon moi, ma petite crotte. You are but a simple soldier, non?” The question is almost wry, the way the Frenchman raises his eyebrow. “I am your boss, Hercules. The General has nothing to do with you.” The hierarchy of the crime family, was like any other. Lafayette has a higher rank than Mulligan, only because Lafayette earns copious profits for the family, through his latest scams. The lowest ranking, responsible for all the grit work, are the soldiers. A majority of the gang is in that position. The next step is the capos. They’re the respected ones, with their own troop of soldiers to command. There are fewer of them, and they make more money than the soldiers. Their boss is the underboss. In this case, it’s Nathanael Greene, the General’s closest friend—though, there really aren’t any friends in the mafia. Then, there’s the boss, the one who gives the orders, makes all the money, and keeps the lowest profile. Even people within the Syndicate don’t know who the leader of the family is. That’s normal.
It’s better that way.
Even though it’s snowing again, the riotous John Laurens greets them in his stark white dress shirt on the sidewalk, leading to Ad Hoc. His collar is hanging open, and he doesn’t appear to be wearing shoes. His huge grin is almost too big for his face, and his freckles disappear under the flush that spreads on his cheeks generously. “Marquis! Hercules!” He’s holding a half empty glass in his left hand, waving them in, under the copper-lighting and into the lounge. They walk in, one behind the other with John leading, observing men playing cards and gambling, dancers swinging on poles onstage, workers chatting behind the bars, and patrons drunkenly minding their own business. John leads them to the back, Hercules taking Lafayette’s coat, and pulling his chair out for him.
As they’re seated around a large table, John lets the man and woman at his side resume kissing his neck and the rings on his fingers. Hercules ignores it while the Marquis cannot seem to tear his eyes away from the spectacle. By the look on his face, Hercules would probably say it’s because the scene reminds the Frenchman of home. John’s honey brown eyes flutter shut and he sighs when the man nips with his teeth, so Hercules says,
“Hamilton will be here tomorrow.”
“Mmm?” It’s a lazy mumble from John as the woman beside him moves across the table, in Lafayette’s direction, who frantically scrambles for Hercules’ arm. “You mean the detective?” He opens his eyes, and they’re distant, but he snaps and the man and woman reluctantly leave. He’s still looking dazed as he takes a sip from his glass, offering to pour Lafayette one.
“Non, merci. Laurens, we need your assistance.” He leans in, clasping his hands. “He knows about the bust. He’s trying to get to the General.”
“What bust?”
“The bust that killed Sonny and Nicky. He knows about it and he is trying to blame the Syndicate for the Commissioner’s murder, John.”
“Did the Syndicate do it?” He’s chasing the drink around in his glass with a straw, confusion settled in his knitted brows.
“I do not know, ma bichette. But it all seems very cohesive; it would make sense if we did and it is his word against ours.”
“Well, do you think it was the Syndicate?” Laurens smiles.
The Marquis and Hercules exchange uncertain, quizzical glances.
“That’s what I thought. But no one can touch the General,” Laurens replies, bemused.
“No one except the FBI. And when he presents his case, who knows what he’ll find. All of us will get 150 years in prison, at the very least. If he finds anything even remotely related to us, we’re fucked,” Hercules growls.
“So kill him,” Laurens chuckles, looking back and forth between the two of them, like murder is the solution to everything. Well, in La Cosa Nostra, it is. “I know he’s both of you guys’ window into the NYPD, but I’m sure the don would whack him. You can find another scapegoat.”
Hercules frowns. “John, we can’t just put a contract on him. He’s a detective.”
Lafayette shrugs, fixing his collar. “I say we set him up. It’ll look accidental.”
“Set him up how?” Laurens asks, face twisting into a frown. His eyebrows are furrowed, and the dim light appears to deepen the creases on his forehead. “Tie a piano to the ceiling with dental floss and have him stand right under it?” It’s meant to be a joke, but then he actually considers it. “If we set it up, it doesn’t matter how it looks, they’re gonna be looking at us.”
“He has not told anybody else about it, John.” Lafayette’s losing his patience. “But if we do not hurry this up, he will—ah, how is it said?—spill the beans!”
“What did I tell you about using those phrases from forty thousand years ago, Marq?” Laurens cringes.
“Have one of the Schuyler girls talk to him when he gets here tomorrow.” Hercules seems to have an epiphany. “Then we can let her father know he was chattin’ her up, flirting with her and all that. The geezer whacks him, doesn’t know he’s a cop, it doesn’t come back on us. Boom, problem solved.”
No one messes with mob women. The rule is, men cannot approach or talk to mob wives and daughters, without getting in trouble with the fathers, husbands, and brothers. In some cases, even the cousins, if they’re close. Phillip Schuyler is a well-respected capo in the Syndicate, with three beautiful daughters. Hamilton is quite, ah, reliable with the ladies. Usually, mob women are protected, and if Mr. Schuyler doesn’t take care of it, someone else certainly will.
“I think that sounds like a plan,” John replies, sitting back. “Now have a drink with me, to celebrate our impending victory."