Perhaps the actual profit from the transactions wasn't as high, given that $12 million worth of drugs couldn't have been sold at full value. Even so, the combined cash earnings from these two black-market operations likely wouldn't fall below $20 million.
It remained unclear how many members of the "Blue Templar" were involved in these black-market heists. But even assuming a high estimate of 20 people, that would mean each participant received a million dollars—an extremely lucrative payout.
In truth, the NYPD's pension system is already quite generous. The specific details are complex, but generally, retirement benefits are calculated based on years of service and any extensions to retirement age.
Take Danny, for example. He joined the force at 25 years old. By the time he turns 45, he could choose to retire. If his final year's salary before retirement were around $110,000, his annual pension would be about $58,000. If he chose to work an additional five years, his annual pension would rise to nearly $84,000.
If Danny completed 30 years of service and retired at 55, his pension could even exceed his final year's salary while on the job. Considering that the participants in these schemes were likely experienced senior officers—such as Detective Malevsky, who had over 25 years of service—Frank's comparison of the illicit earnings to a "retirement fund" was quite apt.
"We tracked this gang of drug dealers for nearly two years, only for some dirty cops to ruin everything. Everyone involved in the operation is furious.
However, considering the longstanding collaboration between the DEA and NYPD, we've arranged for follow-up cleanup efforts. Our undercover agents have been fully extracted, and all informants have been protected. From here on, the ball is in your court."
After making the DEA's position clear, Dorne exchanged a few more polite words with Frank and Jack before departing. Before he left, Frank expressed his gratitude for the DEA's goodwill once again.
"I owe Dana a big favor for this," Frank said after Dorne left. A man as seasoned as Frank could easily deduce that Dana Moreau, Jack's FBI superior, had played a significant role in smoothing things over. While Frank did have a decent relationship with the DEA, it wasn't strong enough for them to willingly take a hit and still extend goodwill without external persuasion.
Jack feigned an innocent look of sudden realization, playing along as if he were completely unaware of Dana's involvement. In truth, he had his suspicions—after all, he had messaged his boss in Washington, D.C., after last night's crime scene visit. However, he hadn't expected the situation to unfold with so many layers.
The fact that one of the four victims from last night's ambush was a DEA informant wasn't something Dana had told him in advance. She had merely hinted that he should visit Frank this morning.
Despite receiving yet another piece of bad news, Frank seemed to regain some of his composure. The burden of grief over his son Joey's death appeared to momentarily lift as he stepped forward and patted Jack on the shoulder.
"Got some time? Let's take your flashy Dodge for a ride. I need to take care of something."
"Sir, would you like me to arrange a car for you?" asked Baker, Frank's blonde, long-legged secretary, as she noticed her boss and Jack donning their coats and leaving the office.
Though Baker was not yet 30 years old, she was one of Frank's most trusted aides. Her ability to read situations and act accordingly was top-notch.
"No need. This is personal, and besides, I already have a driver," Frank replied with a smile, then strode toward the elevator.
As the NYPD commissioner, Frank usually traveled in an armored Suburban with a dedicated security detail. However, today was a special case.
Once in the car, Frank handed Jack a slip of paper with an address in Uptown Manhattan.
The address led them to a pleasant neighborhood. Rows of three-story townhouses lined the street, separated from a nearby park by just a single road. While the homes didn't boast sprawling front lawns like those in spacious Los Angeles, their front steps were adorned with tastefully arranged flower pots.
Jack parked the car by the curb. Frank got out and walked briskly to one of the townhouses, knocking on the door.
A white woman in her fifties opened the door. Her expression turned to one of surprise when she saw her visitor. "Frank—oh, no, I mean Commissioner!"
"Hello, Alice. Could you call Greg for me?" It was clear the two were old acquaintances. Though Alice corrected herself to address him formally as "Commissioner," her tone was lighthearted and teasing.
"Of course! Greg! You'll never guess who's here!" Alice called loudly into the house, then turned back to Frank with an apologetic smile. "Sorry for the casual greeting—please, come in, Frank."
"No, it's fine. I won't be staying long," Frank replied.
As the two exchanged pleasantries, a white man about Alice's age came to the door. His expression mirrored Alice's when he saw Frank. "Commissioner?!"
Frank smiled at Alice again before turning to Greg with a nod. "Sorry to bother you, Alice. Greg, let's take a walk."
The two men crossed the road toward the park. Meanwhile, Jack stepped out of the car, adjusted his coat to conceal his holstered firearm, and followed a few steps behind, looking every bit like a bodyguard.
"How's your family?" Greg asked as they walked. He didn't seem to know why his commissioner had come to see him but, as an old acquaintance of several decades, he didn't overthink it.
"They're doing well, thanks. How's your family?" Frank's response was curt, his face darkening.
"Sean's coaching the lacrosse team at Stony Brook University. Tina's expecting her third child—it's a girl," Greg said cheerfully. He seemed to be doing well in life, likely a mid-to-senior-level NYPD officer.
Greg, oblivious to Frank's simmering anger, continued chatting away, likely assuming this was just a casual visit.
As they neared the park, Frank slowed his pace, his expression hardening as he cut Greg off mid-sentence.
"On August 15, you signed off on an order to destroy confiscated weapons. But some of those 9mm Glocks were hidden instead. Who did you give them to?"
Greg froze as if struck by lightning. His shoulders slumped visibly, and he muttered, "Oh, God…"
"I knew this day would come eventually," Jack thought silently, watching from a distance as Greg's face drained of color. The man stumbled in circles like a lost soul before collapsing onto a park bench, trembling.
Frank loomed over him, his face filled with disdain, as if staring at a pile of garbage. "You have ten seconds to answer me, or the deal's off."
"W-what deal?" Greg stammered.
"Your only deal," Frank replied impatiently, beginning a countdown. "Ten, nine, eight, seven, six—"
"Okay, okay! Stop counting!" Greg blurted, sweat pouring down his face. "It was Art Buchanan and Will Atwater from the Narcotics Unit in Manhattan North!"
Frank's expression remained skeptical. He knew Greg's position and doubted he'd connect with two detectives on his own. "Is that all?"
"They were the ones who handled the exchange with me," Greg admitted, panic-stricken.
"There's one more name," Frank pressed. "The person who roped you into this. The one who dragged you into this mess. You know I'll find them, and you know what I'll do. Three, two, one—"
Jack watched in silent admiration from a distance. The sheer force of Frank's presence was astonishing. If only interrogating suspects were always this easy.
Greg, who likely wore a white shirt and a gold-accented police hat at work, now resembled a helpless child, breaking into sobs. "Teddy Chapin… 31st Precinct…"
Seeing Greg's pitiful state, Frank pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and handed it to him, his previously stern demeanor softening slightly. Turning back to Jack, Frank's face was filled with weary resignation, as if lamenting the public airing of family shame.
"What exactly is the deal?" Greg asked desperately, eager to learn his fate.
"By tomorrow morning, I want your badge and gun on your precinct commander's desk. You can keep whatever money you made from the side deals—it'll be your only pension.
I don't want to see you at any NYPD precinct again—not even for a retirement party. Don't even think about wearing an NYPD-branded baseball cap. And don't speak of this to anyone."
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