by Steven Henry
“Oh, nothing special,” he said. “Those are security-guard uniforms.”
Erin’s lip curled. Rent-a-cop outfits. Squint a little, and if the light wasn’t too good, you might mistake the wearer for a police officer. This rack had been especially harshly handled, shirts and slacks heaped haphazardly. But Erin noticed that only the large and extra-large sizes seemed to have been rifled.
“Mr. Feldman, could you check whether any of these uniforms are missing?” she asked.
“I’d have to look at the inventory,” he said. “Do you need an answer right now?”
Erin gave him a card with the precinct’s phone number. “It’s not urgent,” she said. “But if you could give a call to this number when you know, it’d be a big help. Now, we do have a suspect in custody, and I’d like you to identify him.”
The rest was routine police work. Bernie knew Cal, just as he’d said, and confirmed the ID. Then, finally, she got back behind the wheel of her car, made sure Rolf was secure, and drove to the precinct to book the prisoner. All the way back, she couldn’t shake the question: What did a couple of small-time hoods want with rent-a-cop uniforms?
* * *
At the end of a shift, especially the “dog watch” that ran from midnight to eight, Erin always needed a shower. She preferred not to use the showers at the precinct. It wasn’t that she felt uncomfortable there, or vulnerable. She used the shower as a ritual to wash off everything she’d seen and felt at work, and she couldn’t do that until she was home.
She closed the door of her apartment, slipped the bolt into place, and took a deep breath, letting it out slowly. It was a studio apartment, sparsely furnished. The sun was up, but like anyone working nights, she’d fitted her windows with heavy curtains. She flipped on the kitchen light. Rolf trotted to his dish and waited, tail wagging. He knew he was off duty, and his mouth slowly opened in an expectant smile.
Erin fed her partner, then headed for the bathroom, unfastening her belt with its heavy burden of pistol, extra ammunition, Taser, flashlight, pepper spray, handcuffs, and radio. She took off her uniform jacket, then the bulky bulletproof vest beneath it. While she finished undressing, she started the shower to warm up the water.
After showering, she wrapped a towel around herself and leaned toward the mirror, wiping away the steam. She saw the face of a thirty-four-year-old woman, heart-shaped, with high cheekbones. Her hair was pure black, a startling contrast to her unusually pale skin. Her eyes were bright blue and hadn’t yet acquired the hard cynicism of a police veteran, though she’d been on the force almost eleven years. It was the face of an attractive woman, but a tough one. It took a bold man to approach her uninvited.
Erin turned away from her reflection and left the bathroom. She sat down on the edge of her bed and picked up her phone. She hit the speed dial and listened to it ring twice. Then a woman’s voice came on the line.
“Hello?”
“Hi, Mom,” Erin said, cocking the phone against her shoulder while she pulled on a loose pair of sleep shorts. “I just got off work. Sorry to call so early.”
“Oh, it’s no trouble, dear,” Mary O’Reilly replied. “We just finished breakfast. Your father’s out on the porch with the paper.”
“Could you get him?” Erin asked. “There’s something I want to run by him.”
“Police business?”
Erin heard the hint of concern in her mother’s tone. Mary O’Reilly had plenty of practice worrying. Sean, Erin’s father, was a twenty-five-year veteran of the NYPD. That meant twenty-five years of her mother watching him go out on patrol, trying not to think that each goodbye might be the last. Then, just a couple of years short of his safe retirement, Erin had followed in his footsteps and put on a shield. Her parents never talked to her about her career choice, but Erin always had the feeling her dad was proud of her, while her mom wished she’d been a doctor, like Sean Junior, or a businessman like her second brother, Michael. Tommy, the youngest, didn’t exactly have a career, so Erin didn’t count him for comparison.
She knew she was hesitating too long. “Yeah, just something strange I came across on my shift,” she said in answer to her mom’s question.
Mary put her hand over the receiver and called with a voice strengthened by years spent raising four unruly children. “Come to the phone, dear! Erin’s calling!”
It took a few moments for Sean O’Reilly to make his way inside. He’d never been lean, and every year of retirement had added bulk around his midsection. “Morning, kiddo,” he said. “Everything all right?”
“I’m fine,” Erin said, wishing she didn’t have to start every conversation with her dad with those words. “I just wanted to pick your brain before I go to sleep.”
“Still working the graveyard detail? Back in my day, that was the rookie shift.”
Erin smiled. “Yeah, but there’s two other kinds of cops who pull the duty. There’s screw-ups like Brunanski who can’t get off the Lieutenant’s shit list, and there are experienced officers he uses to add some backbone to the roster. Since I’m a K-9, everyone says I’m a natural for the dog watch anyway.”
Sean chuckled. “Brunanski hasn’t been pensioned off? I thought he’d put in his time years ago.”
“He’s still around, still causing trouble. Just saw him tonight. Say, Dad, I busted a guy trying to break into the register at a uniform store.”
“They stock orange jumpsuits? You could’ve fitted him right there, save the city some time.”
She laughed. “No. But get this. The perp had a couple accomplices who booked it when I rolled up. I think they jacked a couple of rent-a-cop outfits.”
Sean thought it over. “Sounds like a prank, or some small-time bullshit. Gang initiation, maybe.”
“That’s the thing, Dad,” Erin said. “I don’t think the guy I busted was part of the gang. He was just their way into the store. He used to work there, and got fired a few days ago. What if he was planning to hook them up with the uniforms, only once he got sacked, he didn’t have access anymore? Then they had to break in.”
“Could be,” he replied. “You know who the other perps are?”
“Not yet. I’m hoping the kid we’ve got cuts a deal, gives up the others to save himself a few months. I’ve got a first name, a description, and a tattoo. And a silver Corolla.”
“Probably stolen,” her father said. Erin might not see cynical cop-eyes in her mirror, but her dad sure did.
“Probably,” she agreed. “But I got the plates, just in case. What do you think I should do?”
“Do?” Sean sounded surprised. “You’re a beat cop, kiddo, just like I was. We don’t do anything in cases like this. This is one for the detectives, if they bother with it. Which they most likely won’t. Theft of uniforms? They’re worth what, a couple hundred bucks, tops? Hardly the heist of the century.”
“But what if they’re planning a bigger job?” Erin asked. “The uniforms might be disguises. How can I stop it?”
“You can try to find out who they are and bust them for the burglary,” he said doubtfully. “Then see if you can flip one of them. Otherwise? You wait and see what you read in the papers.”
She sighed. “I thought you’d say that.”
“Kiddo, we don’t usually get to stop the crimes before they happen,” he said. “We’re only human, and we don’t get to bust ‘em for what they might do. Anything else on your mind?”
“Nope,” Erin said. “I’m gonna catch some Zs. Good night… good morning. Whatever.”
“Be careful, kiddo.”
“I will. Love you, Dad.”
She clicked off her phone, hung up her towel, and pulled on a baggy T-shirt. Then she crawled under the covers and switched off the light. Rolf clambered up beside her and settled himself into a remarkably small, furry ball. Erin laid a hand on her partner’s back, closed her eyes, and let go of the night’s work.
Chapter 3
Erin had plenty to keep her busy over the course of the following we
ek. The dog watch was never boring. From midnight to eight, most normal people were at home and in bed, but normal people weren’t a cop’s main concern. Between drug addicts, petty crooks, firebugs, drunk drivers, and general crazies, there were plenty of incidents to fill her reports at the end of each shift. She made four arrests, assisted at six accident scenes, and dealt with the usual patrol work. The most common calls were domestic disturbances, noise complaints, and reports of disorderly conduct. She just about forgot the burglary at the uniform store.
Friday morning, she was summoned into her commander’s office. Erin and Rolf were a little frazzled. They’d been the first on scene at an apartment fire. It had been messy and unpleasant, but at least no one had been seriously hurt. Rolf had made a sweep of the ground floor, and in the process both patrolwoman and dog had ended up exhausted, soot-stained, and smelling of smoke. They’d come straight back to the precinct from the blaze. They dragged their feet into the office, where Erin made an attempt at standing at attention. Rolf sat beside her, his ears drooping and his tongue hanging out the side of his mouth in a very unofficial manner.
Lieutenant Murphy, on the other side of the desk, was wide awake and smiling. He was a jovial man with a disreputable red beard, a receding hairline, and a slightly-bulging gut from spending too much time in a building where snacks were a little too readily available. He’d been Erin’s CO ever since she’d joined Precinct 116’s Patrol Division.
“Good morning, O’Reilly,” he said. “Long night?”
“Yes, sir,” Erin replied. Her shift should’ve ended an hour and a half earlier.
“I’ve got good news for you,” Murphy said. “Starting Monday, you’re back on days.”
“You’re pulling me off dog watch?” she asked, startled.
“We’ve got a couple pieces of fresh meat coming in from the Academy, so the duty roster gets shuffled,” he explained. “I’ve had a request to add a K-9 to the nine-to-five. Congratulations, O’Reilly. You can pretend to be an ordinary working stiff. See you Monday, bright and early. That’ll be all. Go home, get cleaned up.”
“Uh, thanks, sir,” she said. She should’ve been pleased. Getting to work standard hours was something a lot of officers would kill for. But Erin didn’t mind the late shift. That was when things happened. She hadn’t joined the NYPD just to drive around Queens handing out traffic tickets. Her mind whirling with confusion and fatigue, she saluted and left the office.
She went home and spent the next half hour in the bathtub, washing Rolf. He submitted with good grace, only pinning back his ears a little. Then she showered, slept, woke up, sniffed her hair, and showered again. That took care of most of the smell of smoke. By the time her hair was dry, it was early evening.
Erin’s dad had told her there was only one thing an Irish cop wanted to do at the end of a week on the job, and she was her father’s daughter. She got dressed, brushed her hair, and headed to the bar.
* * *
The Priest was one of her regular haunts. It was just off Union Turnpike, an easy walk from her apartment. It was run by Nate O’Connor, a white-haired, heavyset Irishman who claimed to have been thrown out of the clergy for some transgression or other. “But it was the will of the Almighty,” Nate often said, “else how would I have found my true calling?” The drinks were good and cheap, the atmosphere nonthreatening.
Erin took a seat at the bar and nodded to Nate, who ambled over.
“Evening, Officer O’Reilly,” he said. “What’ll you have?”
“Black Velvet,” she said.
The former priest took out a champagne flute and filled it halfway. Then he picked up a spoon, held it upside down over the glass, and carefully poured Guinness stout over it. The beer ran down the sides of the flute to form a floating dark layer atop the clear champagne. Nate carefully slid the beer cocktail across the bar.
“That’s an unusual drink,” the man to Erin’s right observed.
She turned to her fellow patron, raising an eyebrow. He was about her age, tall, slender, good-looking in a mild, pleasant way. His wardrobe was a little too J. Crew for Erin’s taste, and she prepared to write him off as a generic yuppie.
“If you don’t mind my asking, are you in mourning?” he asked.
Erin looked down at herself. She was wearing a dark red halter top and snug-fitting black slacks, hardly the attire of a grieving woman. “Why would you say that?” she asked, humoring him.
“I believe that’s a drink that was developed by the English to commemorate the death of Prince Albert,” he answered.
“I’m Irish,” she shot back. “The death of a stuck-up Englishman might be more of a celebration.”
He grinned. It was a nice smile, a genuine one which showed white, straight teeth. “I’m not Irish, but my great-grandfather’s great-grandfather fought the British in 1812, so I’ll drink to that.” He raised his glass. “Nothing as fancy as what you’ve got there, just straight Guinness for me.”
Oh, what the hell, Erin thought. She clinked her glass against his. “Cheers,” she said. “So, let’s hear it.”
“Hear what?”
“Your line.”
“My line?”
“Yeah,” she said. “I’ve heard most of them, so take your shot. A lot of guys lead with, ‘So, do you come here often?’ Some just go straight for the compliments, or offer to buy the next drink. What’s your approach?”
He laughed. “I don’t script it,” he said. “In a world full of pickup artists, I’m drawing with crayons and trying to stay inside the lines.”
It was Erin’s turn to laugh. “You’re telling me you didn’t have that line ready?”
“Guilty as charged,” he said. “But I’m not trying to sell a used car or get you to buy life insurance. If all I give you is the same canned spam I give every girl in every bar, what’s the point? Let’s get the bullshit out of the way, okay?”
“Fine by me,” Erin said, intrigued in spite of herself.
“Obviously, I think you’re attractive. A guy’s not going to strike up a conversation with a girl he just met in a bar unless he likes the look of her. I’d like to get to know you, see if we hit it off. But to get you talking to me, I’ve got to get noticed. That means I have to say something to catch your attention. But then, if I do all the talking, I still won’t know you, and all you’ll know about me is that I’m that one guy in the bar who wouldn’t shut up.”
“I see you’ve given this a lot of thought,” Erin said. She took a sip of her drink. “So how do I respond in this scenario?”
“We tell each other something about ourselves,” he said. “I’ll go first. Luke Devins. I’m an art appraiser.” He extended his hand.
“Erin O’Reilly,” she answered. “So, you look at paintings; try to figure out what they’re worth?”
“That’s right.”
“I’ll bet that opens up some terrible pickup lines,” she said. “All sorts of ways to compare a woman to a priceless piece of art, eyes like jewels, a face like Michelangelo painted it, all that crap?”
Luke flashed his brilliant smile again. “Absolutely.”
“You ever traffic in stolen goods?”
He blinked and dropped his hand back to his side, his smile vanishing. “Miss O’Reilly,” he said, his voice growing suddenly clipped and formal, “I don’t deal personally in works of art, however they were obtained. All I do is provide my clients with an accurate estimate of their market value. If I suspect a work is stolen, I inform the police.”
Erin’s smile was mischievous. “Good,” she said. “Because I’m a cop.”
He stared at her, looking for some sign of a joke. “Really?”
“Really.”
“I’m glad to hear that,” Luke said, his own grin returning. “For a second, I thought I was going to end the evening in the trunk of somebody’s car. This isn’t a sting operation, is it? Because I was serious. I don’t have anything to do with stolen artwork.”
Erin shook her head. �
�Hey, you started the conversation, not me.” She took another sip. “What’s an art appraiser doing down here? Shouldn’t you be hanging around the swanky downtown galleries?”
“There’s an exhibit opening at the Queens Museum, over in Flushing Meadows,” he explained. “Have you seen the posters for it? The Orphans of Europe?”
Erin nodded. “I think so. Isn’t that the collection of paintings and things they found in Germany?”
“That’s right,” Luke said. “Some workmen broke through an old tunnel in a salt mine and found a collection of art treasures that had been looted by the Nazis. There were some well-known pieces, but others, no one was sure where they’d come from. Most of the owners are long dead, of course, in the Holocaust, or air raids, or whatever. My firm wants me to take a look at them before the lot goes on the block.”
“It’s going to be auctioned?” Erin asked.
“Once the tour’s done,” Luke said. “No one can agree who owns most of it, so Sotheby’s in London will auction off the whole collection of unclaimed works, with the proceeds going to the relief of war refugees around the world. The show starts next weekend.”
“Does this sort of talk get you laid much?” Erin teased.
Luke laughed and shook his head. “War refugees and art shows aren’t really the sort of things that get your average girl hot. I’m talking your ear off, probably boring you to tears. And you still haven’t told me much of anything about you.”
“That’s true,” she said. “So why don’t you buy me a drink?”
“And then you’ll do some talking?”
She met his eye and liked what she saw there. “Sure,” she agreed.
* * *
“Why become a police officer?” Luke asked.
Erin had lost track of how many rounds of drinks they’d had, but not because she was bingeing. She was too busy talking and listening. Every now and then she took a sip, and when her glass was empty either she or Luke signaled Nate and a full one appeared. She took another swallow and swished the dregs in the bottom of the flute, watching the dark and clear liquids swirl together.