Contrary to popular belief,
the lobby of a police station is not a very exciting place. There are no
criminals being dragged in, they go in through the rear. It's mostly filled
with citizens looking for forms or making complaints, and tired looking cops
behind the desk.
Dave Falcone was the desk
sergeant on duty, and was working the desk with Lenora Young, a black female officer
on desk duty because she'd twisted an ankle a few days earlier. Falcone had
long developed a sensitivity to the sound of the front doors opening, enough
that his eyes always routinely flicked in that direction to see who or what was
coming into his station.
What he saw this time
caused his eyes to linger.
“Whatadaya say, McCloud,”
he said by way of greeting.
“Sergeant,” the redhead
replied, waving as she passed by.
He watched her as she
passed through, wearing tight jeans and a purple tank top which did very little
to disguise an impressive looking body. He blew out his breath in a puff of
admiration, then turned back to his papers. He noticed, though, that Young was
watching McCloud in much the same way as he had and grunted softly, confirming
his suspicion on where her interests lay.
***
The lobby of Midtown North
hadn't gotten any more distinguished looking since she'd been gone. But at
least she hadn't been gone long enough for the desk sergeant to have forgotten
her. She strolled past him and then into the back and downstairs to the locker
room.
She emptied some snacks
onto the shelf, a change of clothes, and then pulled a hip length black jacket
from the hook to slip over her shoulders before heading back upstairs to
Anti-Crime. The jacket was a gift from her father. It looked like a fairly
normal windbreaker, though more stylish, but was made of Kevlar.
She couldn't wear it every
day. If it was too hot she had to wear her vest and then something like a
sports jersey, loose enough and long enough to disguise the vest and cover the
equipment belt with her gun and cuffs.
She closed the locker, then
trotted back up the stairs. The place felt familiar and comfortable, though it
wasn't exactly like she'd spent a ton of time here.
She'd only been here a
couple of months before being temporarily transferred to the First Precinct for
reasons her betters had apparently thought good and sufficient at the time, but
which, thankfully, no longer seemed to apply.
Not that she hadn't had met
some interesting people while there...
“Well, look who's back,” Nora Richards said, waving to her from her
desk.
“Hey,” she replied.
“Missed that red hair,”
Geraldo Batista said with a grin and a wink.
“Well who wouldn't,” she
said.
“Think I should dye my hair
red?”
She rolled her eyes at the
speaker, Lyle Jefferson's skin was a dark shade of coffee.
“I'm a natural redhead,”
she said with dignity.
“Yeah, but it ain't that
particular shade.”
“It's the best I could do
unless I wanted to stay a blonde. No offense,” she said, turning to Richards as
she said it.
Richards smiled and
shrugged. “Blondes have more fun,” she said, “or so I've heard.”
“My personality is more
suitable to red hair,” Jamie replied.
Batista laughed. “You're a
pussycat.”
“When she's not shoving
people into phone polls,” Mueller said, looking up from his desk.
“I don't shove people into
phone polls. I just... nudge them on occasion,” she said, sitting down.
“Foster is on one of his
minimal force kicks again,” Mueller said. “He gets them every so often, usually
after he's read of some complaint somewhere, usually not even in this
precinct.”
“Minimal forces is sort of
the rule,” she said. “But how do you decide what's minimal and still
effective?”
“Not by riding a desk,
which is about all that idiot's ever done.”
He glowered across the room
at the glassed in office where Lieutenant Foster worked.
“So what are we doing
today?” she asked.
He shrugged. “Play it by
ear. I got new wheels, though. I'm sure you'll appreciate them.”
“New wheels?”
“The precinct got some more
SUVs,” he said smugly. “And since I'm a supervisor, I get one.”
“Sweet. One of the new
Tahoes?”
He nodded.
“The bad news is we're
doing more overtime because of a pickup in the terrorist threat, which is
drawing off cops from a lot of other areas.”
She shrugged. “I could do
some overtime, I suppose,” she said.
“Most young cops love
overtime.”
“So sue me for being
different.”
She was different in that,
for one thing, she still lived at home. Her mother had inherited a four story
brownstone in Brooklyn, and had used it ruthlessly to ensure her children
delayed their departure as long as possible. Jamie had the top floor to
herself, in a kind of apartment, though one without a door.
It was rent free, and came
with free meals prepared by her mother, and laundry service to boot. It was
hard to turn that down in favor of moving to some expensive, grungy, one
bedroom place which probably wouldn't even be as close to river – and thus
Manhattan, where she worked – as the place in Brooklyn Heights.
Living in Manhattan itself,
was, of course, out of the question, unless she wanted to starve herself and
get her clothes at the Salvation Army to afford the rent. Living at home gave
her a healthy amount of disposable income, which let her save lots even while
not depriving herself of whatever caught her fancy.
She followed Mueller
downstairs and let him show her the Tahoe, and where everything was inside it,
including the stop sticks in the back.
“Captain Marsh wants us to
keep our eye on drivers who 'merit tickets due to poor driving habits' he said,
showing her the ticket book.
Anti-crime didn't normally
issue tickets, though of course they could.
“I hope we don't have some
kind of quota.”
“No, and he's mostly
talking about running lights and stop signs or dangerous driving, not minor
infractions. He says some drivers are too aggressive.”
He raised his eyebrows at
her and she shrugged.
“There's too aggressive and
there's too passive,” she said.
“I drive the speed limit.”
“Who does that?”
“Me. Get in.”
Given Mueller was six foot
six and weighed more than he was willing to admit to, the change to an SUV was
overdue. Mueller himself thought the reason he hadn't gotten one before was
that Lieutenant Foster hated him.
As far as Jamie was
concerned the change afforded her a better view, but it also meant her odds of
ever getting to drive had just receded into the distance. Mueller seemed to be
delighted at the powerful Chevy Tahoe, especially the leg room and the ability
to move his head without scraping it along the roof.
The SUV also had room in
the back for a variety of gear, from fire extinguishers and medical kits, to
riot gear, ballistic armor and helmets. It also had an AR-15 locked in a
bracket between the two front seats. The NYPD was responding to the threat of
terrorism by upping its firepower.
Given they tended to deal
with pickpockets and muggers a lot more often than terrorists some had
questioned the wisdom of spending all that money on heavier vests, helmets and
automatic weapons, but Jamie wasn't complaining given her own recent
experiences.
No way was she wearing the
damn helmet, though.
“I do like the view from up
here,” she said, as they drove down Broadway.
“The view is always better
the higher up you are,” Mueller replied. “Donald Trump would tell you that.”
“Donald Trump will tell you
whatever he thought you wanted to hear,” she replied.
She wasn't a fan of The
Donald, though the majority of police apparently were.
“What is that?” she said,
pointing ahead to the right.
A short, black bald middle
aged man was running along the sidewalk ten yards ahead of a young blonde woman
in a tiny black leather skirt and tight top. The blonde girl looked like she
was barefoot, and then Jamie noticed her carrying her shoes and purse together
in one hand.
“Probably nothing. Young
girls are always chasing me too,” Mueller said.
She snorted. Mueller's bald
head, big nose and generally unfriendly disposition didn't tend to cause a lot
of attraction in the opposite sex – or his own, for that matter. She'd only
been assigned to him because her grandfather had pulled strings to get her into
Midtown North's Anti-crime squad and its supervising sergeant was the only one
who wasn't partnered up.
He hadn't been partnered up
because of that unpleasant disposition, but Jamie hadn't had any difficulties
with him so far. Then again, she wasn't the overly sensitive type. Besides, she
was delighted to find herself out of uniform and doing interesting and varied
police work.
She didn't even have to
wear anything fancy to work. Detectives wore business attire, generally suits,
but Anti-crime just wore street clothes to blend in with the street.
The Black guy tripped and
went sprawling and the blonde caught up. Both of them were winded, but the
blonde managed to kick him between the legs before she fell down too. She was
getting up faster, being younger and fitter, but Jamie burped the siren as she
flicked on the lights, and Mueller pulled over to the curb next to them.
She slipped out of the door
to confront the blonde before she could kick the man again, grabbing her arm,
swinging her around and pushing her against the side of the Tahoe. The woman
looked to be in her mid-twenties, and was gasping for breath so didn't put up
any fight.
“What is this?” Mueller
demanded, grabbing the black guy by the scruff of the neck and hauling him to
his feet.
“He fucking robbed me!” the
blonde screamed furiously.
Jamie pushed her back
against the Tahoe as she completed her frisk, which didn't take a lot since the
woman wasn't wearing a lot.
“Don't make me smack you,”
she warned, jabbing a finger at the woman's chest.
“I pay her! I pay her!” the
Black man said in heavily accented English.
“He paid me with foreign
money that ain't worth shit!”
“The Burundi franc is a
recognized international currency!” he replied indignantly. “I am being most
very generous!”
“What's your name?” she
asked.
“Debbie Mannoti! And he
fucking robbed me!”
Searching through the
blonde's purse quickly produced a yellow bank note with the faces of two black
men on it and the legend 'Banque De La Republique Du Burundi' for 10,000
francs.
“I fucking googled that
thing and it's worth six dollars!” she shouted.
Jamie smiled.
“What exactly was he paying
you for?” Mueller asked, as if they didn't already know.
The Mannoti scowled at him.
“For personal services worth a lot more than six bucks!”
“Most untrue!” the Black
man said.
“Fuck you, you cock
sucker!”
“You are a foul person!” he
shouted in a high pitched voice.
“Let me see your ID,”
Mueller said, rolling his eyes.
“That is not your
business!” the black man said indignantly.
“If I arrest your ass and
run you into jail for causing a disturbance will it be my business then?”
The man took a red booklet
and thrust it at Mueller, who took it from him.
“I am a diplomat!” he said
sternly.
“You're a thieving
asshole!” the Mannoti shouted, lunging towards him.
Jamie jerked her back.
“Don't make me cuff you,”
she said warningly.
“She probably charges extra
for that,” someone in the group which had gathered to watch said.
“Hey, fuck you!” she said,
turning to glare around her.
“Well, it looks legit,”
Mueller said doubtfully. “I'll call it in just to be sure.”
He walked around to the driver’s
door of the Tahoe and opened the door while the black man and the blonde glared
daggers at each other.
“You have the tiniest penis
of any man I ever tried to blow,” the blonde said - loudly.
The man's eyes bulged and
he lunged at her. Jamie, who was holding the blonde's arm, raised her right leg
and caught his belly with her foot, then shoved back hard enough to send him staggering.
“No fighting allowed,” she
shouted.
“Go ahead. Let him come!
I'll pop his little round head like a pimple!” Mannoti shouted.
The black man replied with
a string of what sort of sounded like French to Jamie. Since she spoke Spanish
and the languages were similar she thought she got some of the words, but he
had a strange accent so it was hard to tell. It sounded like something to do
with dogs urinating on cattle.
Then he started to do some
sort of odd little dance, which Jamie gathered was a tribal dance of some kind
from Africa. Since it involved turning his back to the blonde and bending over
a lot she decided it wasn't meant to be flattering.
She had a firm hold on the
blonde's arm, and though the woman was half a foot shorter than her and fairly
easily managed, especially since she'd let her put her six inch stilettos back
on, the black man was waving his bottom closer and closer.
Jamie wasn't totally
surprised when Mannoti lunged forward, and yanked her quickly back, but not
before she got her foot up into a hard kick made all the more painful by how
pointy her shoes were. The black man squealed and went sprawling forward on his
face on the pavement as Jamie tsked in minor annoyance.
“Hey, Black asses matter!”
someone in the crowd shouted, to snickering and laughter.
She swung Mannoti around
and pressed her against the Tahoe, then cuffed her hands behind her back. The
woman didn't seem to mind, having gotten her kick at the can, so to speak. But
just as she finished and turned back she saw the Black man lunging towards
them.
He had something sharp in
his hand that looked very much like a knife. It wasn't aimed at Jamie but her
instincts took over, not police instincts but the instincts honed in twelve
years of martial arts training in Jiu Jitsu, a form of Japanese self-defense
designed to be used by unarmed people against the Japanese Samurai.
Naturally enough it
involved a lot of ways to disarm men holding pointy objects, and she instantly
grabbed at his wrist, keeping her back to him as she blocked his arm and
shoulder with her own, pulling him into her body as she twisted his arm down
and sideways and dislocated his elbow.
He screamed and dropped the
knife as Mueller rushed back from the car grabbed him by the scruff of the neck
and threw him bodily into a group of news boxes.
He did not land gracefully.
“Well, shit,” Mueller said.
Jamie shrugged but it was
hard to argue. What had been looking like something they could simply send the
two parties on their way and ignore had now spawned an awful lot of paperwork,
especially if the black man really did have a diplomatic passport.