Chapter One

 

Times Square was jammed. It was a zoo. Every type of humanity was wandering, strolling, striding, or standing around in it, as traffic crawled by on the busy street, horns honked, distant sirens wailed, and vendors cried out for customers.

There were thousands of tourists, who came from every corner of the world, and ranged from Californians with loud shorts and tank tops to Arabs in full robes and headdresses. There were thousands of impatient New Yorkers trying to get through, most working or living in the nearby towers. And then there were the vendors.

Those ranged from the guys standing outside stores trying to entice tourists to come inside, to sidewalk vendors to the ubiquitous 'characters' who dressed up in costumes - or undressed down to body paint, and tried to get tourists to pay them for pictures. Music and shouting were everywhere.

It was a carnival of humanity, and like any carnival it had its shady side, which mostly included pickpockets, purse snatchers, prostitutes, beggars and fraud artists, all of them quite brave given the high number of cops known to constantly patrol the area.

Brave or crazy. For Times Square had far more than its share of loonies, day and night. The area was like a pinball machine, with the constant clamor and flashing lights, and seemed to attract them like flies to... honey.

The smell of Times Square in summertime, unfortunately, did not at all resemble the sweetness of honey. It was more like the sweetness of overripe garbage, an unavoidable product of humanity, especially when the idiots who founded the city had decreed there be no alleys between buildings, so as to reduce crime.

No place to put your garbage, then, but on the street, on the sidewalk.

Fortunately, it was air conditioned in the small, NYPD substation in the square. Officer Michael Renzo wasn't terribly happy with his job there, however. It was boring. He'd twisted an ankle two weeks earlier, however, and wasn't up to much in the way of quick movement.

The department had found him a job here, mainly watching the monitors which kept an eye on the Times Square area. The software behind the cameras was sophisticated, and the digital cameras could produce crystal clear images even from some distance.

At the moment, Renzo was skimming his eyes across several monitors which were showing stationary views up and down the street and square, and a few others which rotated among other cameras. The one much of his interest was on, however, was focused on a leggy redhead in shorts who was meandering across the square.

Renzo had always thought of himself as a leg man, and this one had well-sculpted legs which met entirely with his approval. The rest of the package wasn't bad, either. The girl in question had a nice looking chest in a tight tank top which, unfortunately, he could only catch glimpses of since she wore a short sleeved purplish Hawaiian shirt over it. The shirt was open down the front, though, which teased at him to keep trying different angles from different cameras.

At the same time as he watched the action, he was listening in on the radio bands, both that of the local precinct, and a shorter ranged tactical channel attuned to the plainclothes units in the square. There were always a lot of cops in Times Square, but the city didn't like the image, so many were in plainclothes.

"You're gonna get in trouble if the sarge comes back early," Stephens, the cop beside him said.

"Harris is in love with the super burgers at Burger Emporium, and that's gonna be a line he can't push through fast," Renzo replied. "Besides, it ain't like he moves fast at the best of times."

He watched the redhead coming up the street, almost across from where the substation was, and sighed, mentally undressing her and wondering if it was true there were bikini pictures of her out there somewhere.

***

Jamie was wearing white denim shorts with frayed legs and a studded leather belt. The shorts were low waisted, and tight, but they were certainly not Daisy Dukes. They came down a good finger-length from her buttocks. It wouldn't do to be seen as unprofessional. She worked for a fairly conservative organization after all.

The NYPD Anti-Crime unit was a staple of every precinct. They didn't wear uniforms, and drove unmarked cars. The generally younger officers who made up the units were selected for having demonstrated above average initiative and ability, which she had certainly done on a number of occasions.

Though it didn't hurt that her grandfather was one of the NYPDs assistant commissioners.

She had about six months on the force, and at twenty-two, hadn't become either jaded or the least bit bored with the wild variety of unusual situations she encountered. In fact, if anything, she'd become calmer, and less inclined to judge people harshly.

When you were a redhead people expected you to have a temper. She'd spent some part of her life living up to that, partly because she could get away with it - because, hey, she was a redhead, so people expected it.

She was six feet tall, had a black belt, was a dead shot, and had cops strewn liberally throughout her family tree. In addition to her grandfather, several cousins, several uncles, and her brother were on the job, which wasn't unusual in New York. Nepotism had a long and cherished part in the department's history. There were a number of 'cop families' on it.

So Jamie had a tendency towards a stern, no-nonsense outlook on life that didn't tolerate a lot of backtalk or disrespectful attitude. She didn't gossip, didn't feel the need to be chatty, and respected those who talked only when they had something worth saying.

That was why she got along so well with Alaric (big Al) Mueller, her partner. He was a gruff, old fashioned, dour German with little tolerance for... almost everything. He was seven inches taller than her and twice her age. And as the Sergeant in charge of the unit, he had normally been without a partner, until she was assigned to the unit, and him.

Everyone had had a few snickers about the potential of that match. Mueller with a 'girl' cop barely more than a rookie. She'd drive him insane, if he didn't strangle her first. Lieutenant Foster had probably hoped for one or the other since he'd been itching to get rid of Mueller for some time, and knew very well who her grandfather was.

But Jamie's height, demonstrated ability and close-mouthed behavior while they drove around had allowed him to get used to her, and even, she thought, kind of accept her. As much as he could anyone under forty anyway, particularly a girl.

For her part, she respected Mueller as a good cop, smart and fearless, if a bit too sour on his outlook in life for her, and with terrible taste in music and a frustrating need to drive under the speed limit.

She got a lot of looks as she wandered around, a box of popcorn in one hand, but that was normal. No matter what she wore she'd get looks. She doubted any of those looking suspected she was a cop, though, which was all that mattered.

Anti-Crime made a disproportionate number of arrests, and were constantly in and out of the precinct houses. They were assigned to higher crime areas, areas which required an unobtrusive police presence (like the Times Square district), and targeted known repeat offenders.

So while they weren't undercover, they did their best to simply blend in and not be noticed by criminals - until it was too late. Jamie had little hope of not being noticed. But not being seen as a cop was just as good.

She wandered through the square and over to one of the stores, where a stocky Hispanic guy was standing. He turned to look at her and raised his eyebrows.

"Working hard?" she asked.

"Hardly working," he replied.

Geraldo Batista was another cop from Anti-Crime. He pursed his lips a moment as he looked at her, then turned away.

"What?"

"Nothing. You're looking... hot today."

"Well, it is pretty hot out," she said with a grin.

Under the open shirt she wore a pale lavender, midriff baring tank top. It was form fitting but not tight, or at least, not too tight.

"Uh huh. Keep that belly away from Richards. She's complaining about the extra two pounds she put on over the weekend."

Nora Richards was his partner.

"Nora is almost forty, and has two kids," she said. "And she's married. Come on. We're not in competition."

And Nora Richards probably didn't take pole dancing classes, she thought.

He shook his head. "Baby, sometimes I wonder about you."

"What?"

"You got no sisters, right?"

"No. Two brothers."

He nodded. "Thought so. I got eight."

Her eyes widened. "Eight sisters!?"

He shrugged. "Believe me, I know women. You're always in competition with each other. All the time. Everywhere."

She rolled her eyes. She understood the sentiment, and she knew there was a lot of truth in it, but it wasn't a truism when it came to her. Oh, she did the quick assessment of other women in a room, but it didn't bother her if she thought one of them was prettier than her.

Of course, that didn't happen a lot. And she had other qualities that boosted her self-confidence, like the knowledge she could beat the crap out of that woman without breathing hard.

"Nora and I are friends," she said. "And anyway, it's not like I'm showing much."

She looked down at the few inches of bare stomach being displayed between her belt and the bottom of the tank top. There was no flab there, of course, not even a trace. Her stomach didn't show obvious muscles like her boyfriend Danny's did, not unless she moved in a certain way, but they were there under the very lightly tanned skin.

"Whatever you say, babe.

She passed on, feeling a bit pensive, but quickly put it aside. There had been a time when she'd been very religious about ensuring her appearance was as, well... professional and asexual as possible. She'd been defensive about being a 'girl' and determined not to be treated like one.

That had faded, and her boyfriend Danny had been a big part of the reason why. She'd met him only a couple of months ago. He was a federal agent, and they'd been assigned to an undercover stint at a modeling agency because, as his boss had put it, less than one percent of American women were five foot ten or over, and the job needed a young, attractive girl who was at least five foot eleven.

It had been a weird experience. She'd had to dye her hair blonde! And then she'd had to basically act like a blonde airhead, complete with revealing outfits. It had had an effect on her. When you've paraded around in public, or semi-public, in a thong bikini you get less shy about showing your body.

She frowned as she saw two young Hispanic guys ahead. She was fairly sure they were locals, but they were moving too slowly. They could be tourists, but they weren't acting like it or dressed like it. They weren't looking around at all the bright lights and signs and costumed characters and stores, either. They were looking at the people, the tourists.

Plus they were Hispanics.

You couldn't be a cop in New York and not follow the ongoing debates about profiling. But that was all political theater to her. As a cop she went on facts, and the stats were undeniable. Most of the street crime in the city had Black or Hispanic perps behind it. The arrest sheets said so. The victim descriptions said so. And she'd never heard anyone deny it.

Most of the violent crime came from the Black community. There was a lot of anger there behind it. Hispanics mostly didn't want to stomp on your head or shoot you. They just wanted your stuff. That was something she could respect. Kind of.

The two guys ahead of her were about her age, or maybe a bit younger, wearing jeans and t-shirts. As she watched they leaned in together, speaking quietly, looking at a teenage girl walking along beside an older woman, and staring down at a smartphone.

It was a larger smartphone, probably an Iphone, she thought. The latest model, given its edge to edge glass. They retailed for over a thousand dollars, if you paid cash. Nobody did, of course. You took out a plan, which reduced the cost considerably.

Of course, if you wanted to buy one on the black market, a stolen one, the cost was even better. So there was a ready market that didn't ask a lot of questions.

Jamie had what would look to casual eyes like some kind of Ipod clipped to her belt, with wires running up to her ears. She pulled the tiny microphone out and double clicked it to get people's attention, then glanced around.

"Two Hispanic males in gray and brown t-shirts, by the recruiting station," she said. "Heading north."

She didn't have to say anything more. Whoever was nearby would head her way. And there was a local NYPD sub-station in the square itself, right across the street, in fact, which monitored their frequencies. There were a lot of cameras around, as well as uniformed cops. That was why most criminals were too smart to try anything obvious here.

She moved a little closer to them as they moved a little closer to the girl. A blonde, she noted, who rarely looked up from whatever she was doing on the screen. She was simply going wherever the woman next to her, probably her mother, was going, and leaving it up to others not to run into her.

The two split up, one veering around to the opposite side while the second moved up closer to the girl from her left. Jamie sped up too, weaving in and out around the crowd. She watched the two young men glancing at each other, getting their timing right.

Then just as one snatched the phone from the blonde girl's hand, or perhaps an instant later, the other tapped the older woman on the shoulder.

"Do you have a dollar?" he asked innocently.

Jamie and his partner were already running before the sentence was completed. She passed the blonde girl, who was still holding up an empty hand and staring in open mouthed astonishment at the Hispanic guy's disappearing back. By the time she shouted "Hey!" Jamie was already twenty yards away.

"He stole my phone!" she shouted.

Jamie was forty yards away by then, and already gaining on the Hispanic guy. She'd been a track star in both high school and college. The good thing about being in plainclothes, she thought, as the guy turned, saw her, and sped up, was you didn't have to wear the heavy gear and shoes that slowed you down so much in a chase.

Even the damn boots weighed two and a half pounds apiece.

The lightweight tennis shoes on Jamie's feet weighed considerably less, and the Hispanic guy was now breaking trail through the crowds for her, making it easier to catch up. Then he stopped abruptly, clothes-lined by a short blonde woman in several layers of tank top and t-shirt with a short sleeve shirt hanging loose over them.

He dropped on his back with whoof, all the air and fight knocked out of him.

"That's how an efficient blonde does things, long-legs," she said with a smirk at Jamie.

Jamie stopped and grinned, grabbing the phone before it walked off, then helping Nora roll their gasping suspect onto his belly and cuff him. Mueller ambled up then. He wasn't much of a runner at his size and age. Then again, as he'd told her, that was what rookies were for.

"Good job," he said. "What about the other one?"

"They split up. And there's only one me," Jamie said.

Their suspect was still gasping, and not in any shape to walk. Nora tsked and rolled him onto his side.

"Pull your legs in tight. That's it. You just got the wind knocked out of you. You'll be fine."

She examined the back of his head to make sure he hadn't hit it on the sidewalk, then glanced at Jamie, eyes flicking up and down.

"White pants?" she asked, with raised eyebrows.

Jamie smiled. "If you got it..."

"Bitch," Richards said without spite.

"What's your point?"

Richards snorted in amusement.

A Chinese guy stopped and snapped pictures of them, until Mueller pushed him away. Then they hauled their suspect up and walked him back to the girl, who had disappeared. But given how close the police substation was they headed across the street. Sure enough, she was there with her mother, having hysterics for her lost phone.

She was incredibly relieved when they showed up with the suspect and phone, until the uniform on the desk told them it would have to be held as evidence. Then she started to get upset. Her mother was getting annoyed with her, as were the desk cops - though their annoyance was tempered by her being a cute blonde.

Jamie figured that her emotional response to being deprived of the phone might have less to do with being parted from it than having it in the hands of other people for a bit of time.

A bulky looking uniformed sergeant came through the door, carrying a bag that smelled like lunch. He and Mueller exchanged greetings as he bustled around behind the counter.

"What we got?" he asked Mueller.

Jamie picked up the phone and turned to the blonde. "Maybe you could have a look at it and make sure it hasn't been damaged," she said, handing the girl the phone.

The girl snatched it and quickly turned her back on everyone as she examined it. Jamie figured the examination involved deleting a number of photos she feared some nosy cop might stumble across.

Danny kept taking pictures of her, which made her nervous, and he'd even sent her some while she was on duty - to her phone. She'd instantly deleted them, of course, and questioned him repeatedly about where he was storing those pictures - and videos. He said they were encrypted, so even if someone stole his computer they wouldn't be able to see them.

Men. Was there even one who didn't want naked pictures and videos of his girlfriend? If so she'd yet to run across one.

"Think we can spot where the other guy went?" Mueller asked the sergeant.

They went behind the counter and over to the monitoring station as the sergeant pushed aside a patrolman.

"We got some set up here, Al. You can practically keep watch in a fly making its way around the square. Course, you gotta spot it first to track it. Renzo? We get the arrest on tape?"

"Uh... well...."

"Ah, here it is. Good work," the sergeant said.

Jamie was impressed at how clear the image was. The sergeant rewound it a little, then played it forward, and laughed with approval at the way Nora Richards had clothes-lined the guy, although that had barely been on screen since the camera was focused on Jamie.

The sergeant rewound it, and she blinked as she saw the camera following her all the way back up the street.

The sergeant frowned and looked up at Renzo.

"Ahm, she called in a suspicious activity, sergeant."

Which was true enough. He'd certainly spotted her quickly, though. He must be good with the cameras, she thought. But he should have zoomed out more to search for the guys she'd reported. They got to about the point where she reported it, and yes, she saw herself bring the mike up to speak.

But the rewind was going fast, and it continued past that. When the sergeant stopped it the camera was showing her legs, following them along.

He abruptly shifted to another camera, turning his head to glare at Renzo, who was blushing as Jamie frowned a look at him. It didn't particularly bother her, though it was a bit stalker-ish, but men would do that kind of stuff, so it wasn't any real surprise.