And even losing my bag turned out okay. And what’s more—
Annie was determined to not let anything spoil the good time she was having.
You don’t expect to come to New York and wind up at a real New York police station. Maybe it’ll be like something out of Law and Order. With Mafia types and crooks of all kinds being dragged into the precinct in handcuffs.
And here I am listening to a conversation in some African language and I haven’t a clue—can’t get even a single word. Five years of school French and two of German, and they’re no use to me now.
The driver clicked off his phone.
“Okay, miss. We go to Pier Seventy-Six—on Twelfth Avenue.” With a single motion he started the meter and drove into the heavy flow of traffic. Annie read the driver’s name off the license mounted on his seat back.
IKECHUKWU
NDIBE
Again, not a clue. Does the license list family name first—like “Doe, John”—or is Ikechukwu his given name? She felt shy about asking, and his accent was so heavy, she wasn’t sure they wouldn’t misunderstand each other. She abandoned the idea of making conversation. But it was he who spoke first.
“I know you, miss.” With his head at a quarter turn toward her, she could see his big, genial smile. “On the TV,” he said. “You lucky lady. You saved by policeman. So you bring good luck to my taxi. Now I am lucky, too.”
I can’t believe the way this trip is working out. In town for one day, and I’m a TV personality.
She returned the driver’s smile and he turned his attention back to the road.
And there’s another thing. What about that crazy scene yesterday? Who comes to New York and gets practically trampled by a wild mob? With posters and yelling—what was that all about? What’s Buljornia? Or who? Is it a person? A place? I could have been killed. If not for that cop—
The television scene flashed through her memory. And with it, the sudden sense of his arm around her—the pressure against her ribs—her feet off the ground—the familiar horse-and-leather scent—animal and man working together, a single force—a gallant knight—riding to her rescue—
How many girls come to New York and get rescued by a cute cop?
Too bad she had no souvenir photo. Only the fleeting glance, the blue eyes and strong voice and the quick memory of a uniformed horseman riding herd on an ornery crowd. That would be all the souvenir she’d have to file away in her memory. Well, even that would be more than most girls got to take home with them.
But, gee, he absolutely took my breath away—
Ten minutes across town and now they were at the river’s edge, in a neighborhood that seemed not to belong to the densely packed, vertical New York she’d seen until now. Here it was an empty scene of river-borne breezes and salt-scented air. Here, with only sparse traffic on the broad avenue that ran parallel to the river, with not a single pedestrian in sight, they rode through a silent waterfront neighborhood that was almost uninhabited. Here, instead of skyscrapers, the skyline was flat and close to street level. Long, low structures, like soulless warehouses, marched down the avenue’s length, one after the other, as far as she could see. Annie felt she was riding through a different New York.
The driver pulled over to the curb.
“This is Pier Seventy-six,” he said. He reached over and turned off the meter.
Set well back from the street, behind a great length of chain-link fencing, a few cars and vans were parked and beyond those, a bleak, gray, windowless structure stretched down the length of a couple of long city blocks. Along the top of the building’s façade, there were great white letters:
UNITED STATES LINES
There wasn’t a single person in sight and she wondered why the driver had brought her here. As she peered out at this unpromising sight, Mr. Ndibe apparently recognized her apprehension.
“Would you like me to wait while you go in, miss?”
“I don’t know. I’m not sure this is the right place. I thought—”
But just then, as she peered through the cab’s window, past the fence and the parked vehicles, she spotted the somewhat obscure sign, rather modest for such a vast structure and barely visible behind tree branches and chain-link fencing:
NYPD
MOUNTED UNIT
HEADQUARTERS TROOP B
“Oh, no. That’s okay. I see it now. This is the right place. No need to wait. Thank you.”
She paid him and got out, and he drove off, leaving her alone within an apparently uninhabited landscape.
Great place for a crime. If it weren’t a police station, I’d be a little scared.
She was, in fact, a little scared.
There was an opening in the fence wide enough to allow a van to drive through and just beyond that, she saw a small hut.
Hardly any security here. Anyone could just walk right into this place. Maybe they rely on the isolation of this place to create their security.
She started across the parking space toward the glass door under the NYPD sign.
I just walked right in here—
But before she could take another step, a uniformed officer stepped out of the hut.
“Yes, miss. Can I help you?”
He was a big man in an NYPD uniform. He had a broad face and a wide, jolly smile and he seemed glad to see a person, any person, and especially a pretty young woman. His lonely job in this quiet, uneventful place could get really boring.
“You come to get your car, you’ll need to go back there.”
He pointed to the other end of the structure, a good fifth of a mile back in the direction she’d just come from. His smile was sympathetic and he shook his head, as though he felt sorry that she could have gotten herself into a really expensive error. “That’s the impound back there.”
She was momentarily puzzled, and then she sorted it all out.
“Oh, no,” she said. “I’m not here for a car. I’m looking for Troop B headquarters.”
His smile became even broader.
“Oh, sure, miss. Right over there. The general public doesn’t come down to this end very much. Just go right in.”
She went through the glass doors and into a space as bright and almost as spacious as the average high school gym. And almost totally empty. To the right, along the wall, was a reception desk, and behind it sat a young officer, casually T-shirt-topped, sitting way back in his precariously tipped-back chair. The name plate on the desk said “Caleb Kim.”
“Can I help you, miss?”
She walked across the wood floor, aware of the sound of her boots echoing back at her.
“Hi,” she said. “I lost a bag at a street demonstration yesterday. I had a message that it’s been turned in here.”
“You’ll have to see the sergeant,” Officer Kim said, “but he’s with someone now.” He gestured toward a door just behind him. “You can wait here.” He pointed to a couple of folding chairs against the wall. “Sorry about the accommodations. We’re moving to new quarters soon, so we’re a little underfurnished right now.”
“That’s okay. I’m glad for a chance to just rest for a few minutes and take it all in. This city can be overwhelming.”
Officer Kim brought his chair upright and he straightened himself up, too. Annie knew, from the way he was looking her over, she must be looking pretty good.
“So you’re visiting here? Where from?”
“Wyoming. Laramie, actually.”
“No kidding! Hey, I’ve seen that bucking bronco on your license plates. Does everyone out there ride horses?”
“Well, not exactly everyone—”
“Then maybe, while you’re waiting, you’d like to see the stables.”
“Well, yes. I’d love to. That would be great.”
Just then, across the room, a set of broad doors opened and a couple of officers came out. Annie caught a glimpse of stables behind them.
“Hey, you guys,” Officer Kim called across to them. “We’ve got a visitor he
re, from out west. She’s waiting to see the sergeant. Maybe, while she’s waiting, one of you guys could show the lady around, show her the stables.” He turned to Annie. “I’d be glad to do it myself, but they need me here at the desk.”
“I have some time,” one of the officers called to her. “I’d be glad to give you the tour.”
“Thanks so much. I really appreciate it.” As she crossed the room, she was congratulating herself on the continuing flow of good luck.
I just know this is not on the usual tourist agenda. This is so great.
“No problem, ma’am. We like to have visitors here. Public relations is part of our job.”
His companion said, “Sorry I can’t join you, miss, but I have to get to a meeting,” and with a quick, appraising look at Annie, up and down, he added, “I’m really sorry about that. Maybe another time.” Under his breath, to his friend, he added, “Nice move, Chester. She’s a cutie.” And he was gone.
Officer Chester held the door for her and she stepped through into a veritable equine palace.
Wow!
The Cornell ranch back home had a barn for its horses. The barn had stalls. It had baled hay. It had feed bins and a feed trough. It had a tack room. It had corral space out back.
But it had nothing like this.
These stables were definitely the ultimate in luxury, the Ritz Hotel of horsedom.
“Wow!”
It was a whispered—but heartfelt—exclamation.
To her left was a training ring as big as the corral back home. To the right were rows of spacious box stalls that must have been designed for elegance as well as service, and obviously maintained fastidiously. Gleaming steel posts were topped by well-burnished brass finials. Mounted across the top of each stall was a brass plaque with the occupant’s name in raised letters. Each stall was occupied, and each occupant kept a lively eye on Annie’s movements as she walked past.
“We bring tours through these stables all the time,” Officer Chester explained. “As you see,” he said as he guided her past the aisles of stalls, “these horses are in first-rate condition. They’ve been very carefully selected and trained for the work they do, and they’re cared for as if they were royalty. Each horse has its own feeding trough, and the department employs a team of civilian hostlers to care for the animals. Their shoes are specially created for high traction on city streets. Even their feed is specially designed and mixed for them.”
Annie could tell he’d made this speech many times before.
He led her to the first stall in the nearest aisle. The horse lifted his head in an obvious greeting.
“This here is my horse,” he said. “This is Ballyhoo.” The horse lifted his head and nuzzled Officer Chester’s shoulder.
“Sorry, buddy,” the officer said. “I don’t have anything for you today.” Then to Annie, he explained, “I usually have a treat for him, but I didn’t know I’d be coming back in today.” He chuckled. “He won’t starve. These guys get plenty to eat.”
Just then the door to the stables opened and Officer Kim looked in.
“Hey, Chester,” he called. “Some visitors just walked in and I’m going off duty now. We’ll need you to show them around.”
“I’ll be right there,” Chester said. Then, to Annie, “Sorry about that, ma’am. I’m going to have to leave you now. But feel free to walk around, say hello to the horses. Stay as long as you like.”
“Oh, sure. I’ll be fine,” Annie said.
And he was gone.
Alone in the stables, she was free to take a leisurely stroll up and down the rows of stalls, to greet the horses as they put their heads out of the stalls to examine her, to pat a muzzle here or there, stroke a mane, enjoy the familiar pleasure of running the back of her hand along that lovely, soft place along a horse’s cheek, to say a word or two of greeting to these beautiful animals. She recognized at once that these were horses of remarkably gentle and unflappable dispositions—as of course they would have to be—but they were also the four-legged royals of the NYPD. They seemed to know they were a special breed, a cadre of highly trained “officers,” ready to do their invaluable job with the valor, dignity, and intelligence that come with good genes, good training, and a willing spirit. Though they were pretty much uniform in color, some were quarter horses, some were mixed breed, she saw a couple of Arabs, and even one thoroughbred. But each was beautiful, each was clearly an intelligent animal, and each one seemed comfortable with strangers, some going so far as to nuzzle at her, as though expecting to receive a treat.
She paused at one stall, responding to what seemed to be the demand of a big bay who shook his dark mane at her and lifted his head as though he wanted to be friends.
She couldn’t help smiling at the mischievous quality of his invitation.
“Well, you’re a smart one, aren’t you?” He was pushing against her shoulder, as though he expected something from her. “Sorry, I have nothing to give you,” she said, showing him her empty hand. He tapped his hoof a couple of times on the floor of his stall, as though he had a Morse code message for her; she touched her forehead to his, as though maybe they could communicate that way. She stroked her hand along the side of his neck. “Oh, you’re a beautiful thing,” she whispered. The horse twitched an ear in response. She pressed her face against his, and even more softly, she said, “You sure make friends easily.”
“That’s Lindy.” The voice was just over her shoulder. “He recognizes you.”
Her hand on the horse’s shoulder stiffened. She recognized the voice instantly. Just coming up behind her like that, without any warning—it wasn’t the first time he’d taken her breath away.
She didn’t turn around. She needed a moment to take in—to enjoy—the swirl of pleasure and surprise, the interesting combination of feelings his presence, so close to her, had produced. Through her hand, pressed even more firmly against Lindy’s dark coat, she felt the strong pulse of the horse’s blood and it matched the sudden throb of her own response. She closed her eyes; she took one deep breath. She needed another moment to feel steady again.
Then, slowly, looking casually over her shoulder, not making any real move toward him, she said, “Oh, hi. It’s you.” Her hand continued to stroke Lindy.
“Yes, ma’am,” he said. “It’s me.” He was enjoying her surprise. He stepped around to her side and the horse stretched out his neck in greeting. “I see you two are getting reacquainted.” He held a hand to Lindy’s face, and she saw he had a bit of carrot for the horse.
There again was the merry expression of his face, the twinkle in his eyes, and she thought of leprechauns. Horse and rider seemed to be a good match.
“Oh, yes, we’re practically old friends now. He’s a beautiful horse.”
“Oh, you betcha,” he said. “Lindy here is a very special animal.” He fed the horse another bit of carrot. “You must be Annie Cornell. I’m Sergeant Hardin. Bart Hardin. Glad to see you got here safely. I wouldn’t want you to have any more adventures. You gotta be careful in this big, bad city. You can’t count on having a police officer on hand every minute to pull you out of danger.”
“Well, Sergeant Hardin, I—”
“And we have your bag.”
“Yes, I got the message that it had been found.”
“One of our officers picked it up right after that demonstration. That crowd had its own problems to think about and weren’t noticing ladies’ handbags. I’ve got it right back there in my office.” He held the door for her as they left the stables to cross the big reception area. “You’ll have to identify the contents and everything—we’ll need some paperwork taken care of.” His voice had become official as he led her out of the stables, passing Officer Chester, who was bringing the visitors into the stables.
The group wasn’t very large—not more than seven or eight people. A little girl—she couldn’t have been more than seven—had on a child-size helmet, and at Ballyhoo’s stall, Officer Chester said, “Hey, you want a ride
?” Her face lit up, her mama signaled okay, and she was hoisted up bareback onto Ballyhoo. The officer led the horse and his little rider for a short walk up and back in the aisle of stalls.
The little girl’s older brother looked on enviously and her mom and grandma took photos with their cell phones while Chester talked about the program, the selection and training of the horses, the amenities of the facility.
Three tourists from upstate asked questions, and an earnest woman who was writing a children’s story about a police horse was taking notes, doing her research, being careful to miss nothing.
And at the edge of the group, the last member of the little party also took pictures, using an old film camera that hung from a strap around his neck. He was a tall man with a thick mustache. He wore round eyeglasses, he had no eyebrows at all, and his head was as bald as an egg. And he, too, took notes, writing unobtrusively—on the lined, pale green pages of a small spiral notebook. Each page had a light red line running down the center of each page.
Chapter Eight
Pride and Prejudice
Monday Late Afternoon
Compared with the deliberate elegance of the stables, the sergeant’s office looked like a grudging afterthought. In one corner a couple of battered metal file cabinets leaned against the wall. Wire bins of scattered papers perched atop one of them. A precinct map, half torn and retaped, was tacked to the wall along with a calendar from a local body repair shop. Two desks, also battered and scratched, were against opposite walls, facing away from each other. Like everything else in this office, the two desks had lived through generations of mounted police and more than one move around town, changing locations as city administrations changed and the city’s real estate values went through its ups and downs. Clearly, though no expense had been spared in providing for the animal troops, the human ones—well, they managed with the space and the furniture they were given.
At the desk on the left, an officer was at work on a stack of reports. He looked up as they came in and swiveled his chair around to smile at Annie. She glanced at the name on the brass plate on his desk.
Her Winning Ways Page 6