I, Michael Bennett

“Not here in Newburgh, ma’am,” Groover said. “We know who the players are all too well. This is a target-rich environment, believe me.”

“That’s good. Step two is the casework, which in this scenario would be undercover buys.”

“Buy-and-busts, yeah, we do that all the time,” Walrond said skeptically. “Then they’re out in six months with new friends they met in jail.”

“Actually, in this plan, all we do is buys with no busts. At least not yet,” Tara explained. “We gather ammo on the organizations slowly and surely, until we can prove that what we’ve identified is, in fact, a criminal organization. That way, under federal law, we can use the RICO statute and prosecute everyone at once to the fullest extent of the law. Clear out all the bad apples in one harvest, so to speak.”

“You don’t know how good that sounds. Music to my ears,” Groover said.

“We also give everyone involved maximum sentences of at least five years, which in federal prison means at least four years before probation,” Tara said.

“As an added benefit, in federal lockdown, they’re away from their homies, so they can’t coordinate anything from behind bars,” said Agent Brown. “We break the camel’s back with one snap.”

“You do know the Newburgh PD has only ninety cops, right?” Bill Moss said. “What you’re talking about requires massive manpower.”

“That’s where we step in,” said Brown. “We’ll get you man-power, overtime, money, vehicles, and equipment. The whole shebang.”

“Federal disaster relief. Finally,” Groover said.

“But there are roughly two hundred gang members here,” Ed Boyanoski said.

“Not a problem,” Agent Macaulay said. “We’ll get you all the guys you need.”

“This all sounds great, but won’t all the wa

“That’s when we go to phase three,” Tara said. “After we clear out the worst offenders, we get social workers, gang members, and community members—along with all the cops—and we do a sit-down. One group at a time, we give the gangbangers a presentation, a little class on what they’re looking at if the violence starts back up.

“We educate them fully on the law, the sentencing guidelines, what that’s going to do to their lives. We tell them straight up that if someone gets shot, we are coming down with the full weight of the federal government. That’s usually enough.”

“That’s it?” Bill Moss said. “That actually works?”

“Not perfectly, but yes,” Tara said. “Violent homicides go down, way down, in every place it’s tried. You have to do it one gang at a time and concentrate on one aspect of what they do—in this case, shootings. And you have to back it up. Someone gets shot, you drop the hammer. The gangs aren’t stupid. They’ll know the jig is up, especially since they know what just happened to the previous leadership. They might not stop dealing, but it’ll go further underground. What’s most important is that they’ll put their guns down and dial it back.”

Ed Boyanoski slapped me on the shoulder painfully hard as the townspeople began filling up the hall. He didn’t look so depressed anymore. In fact, he looked ecstatic. Finally, you could see it in his eyes and in the eyes of the other Newburgh detectives.

It was hope. Just a glimmer, but undoubtedly there.

“Gee, Mike. Why didn’t you just tell us that you had friends in such high places?” Ed said, smiling.

“I’m a humble man, Ed,” I said, smiling back. “Unlike you hicks up here, we NYPD detectives don’t like to brag.”

CHAPTER 77

SPIRITS WERE STILL high as we headed out of Saint Pat’s to the parking lot just before ten.

The attendance at the meeting had been even larger than the night before. Even though the FBI and ATF agents had only spoken briefly and vaguely about their plans to tackle the gang problem, just the sight of federal officials was enough to ease the minds of the people in the seats. Even the most skeptical in the crowd seemed glad that the grave nature of the problem was finally being given some serious due.

Saying my good-byes to my colleagues, I spotted Tara by her Jeep, talking on her cell phone. As I approached, she turned it off, gri

“What’s up?” I said.

“Reservations,” she said. “I just scored us one.”

“Reservations? To where? What do you know about this neck of the woods?”

“That’s my little secret,” she said. “Just tell me you’re hungry, Mike.”

“Okay. I’m Hungry Mike,” I said, smiling back.

“Yay,” she said, grabbing my hand and opening the door of her Jeep. “I think you’re in for a happy surprise.”

She wasn’t kidding. She took me fifteen minutes west on I-84 to a place called the Back Yard Bistro, in the town of Montgomery.

But as it turned out, I had a surprise for her.

Before we got out of her Jeep, I started laughing.

“What’s so fu

“I ca

“So much for my surprise,” Tara said, deflated.

“Not to worry,” I said. “I don’t think we’ll be disappointed.”

The Back Yard Bistro was a tiny, intimate restaurant. So cozy that Tara and I were almost touching knees under the small table. The waitress couldn’t have been more pleasant, and the food was mind-blowing.

The kitchen kept sending out course after course. Tidbits of tuna tartare, foie gras, some rye-crusted pork loin, a truly amazing duck breast. All of it matched with wines. My head and taste buds were spi

As we ate, Tara regaled me with family stories of her cousin and my dearly departed pal, Hughie. My favorite was when Hughie and the rest of his ADD-afflicted Irish clan visited a cousin’s farm in Ireland. Finding a tiny, deserted-looking house back in the woods, the Yank punks commenced firing rocks through the windows until the tam-o’-shanter-wearing pensioner living there came out with a double-barreled shotgun.

“Wow,” I said after our waitress, Marlena, dropped a humongous slice of maple mascarpone cheesecake in front of me and a crème brûlée in front of Tara. “This was fantastic, Tara. I hope you forgive me for ruining your surprise,” I said.

“If anyone needs to be forgiven, it’s me,” Tara said. “After all, I made such an ass out of myself at the St. Regis. Pretty much bare-assed, too, if memory serves me right.”

“Were you?” I said. “When was this?”

“Very fu

I took a sip of the Champagne at my elbow. Low on the speakers, an opera diva was singing a beautiful aria.

The woman in front of me was pretty much flawless. Dark and voluptuous, smart as a whip, tough, and yet caring and kind. There are women you meet in life that you know you could—and probably should—fall deeply in love with. Tara was exactly that. She was a keeper. One ripe for the keeping. All it would take would be for me to reach across the table through the candlelight and take her graceful hand.

And yet, I didn’t do it. In the end, I couldn’t. My hand stayed on my glass, the aria ended.

“Ah, Mike. Whoever she is, she’s lucky,” Tara said, putting her head down and digging into her dessert hard enough to make the plate clink. “Luckier than she’ll ever know.”