by Tessa Bailey
“Arrived at scene.”
“Yes. Ten-eighteen.”
That one gets her stuck for a second, and I find myself willing the answer into her brain. “Warrant check . . . active warrant.”
My nod is brisk. “Ten-ten S.”
“Possible crime. Shots fired.”
Last one. Jesus, this is beginning to make my dick hard. She’s looking at me like she wants a challenge, so I give her one. “Ten-fifty-nine N.”
Her smile wobbles and drops. I look around the table to judge if anyone recognizes the code, but only Charlie stares back at me with knowledge in his eyes. And he’s telling me without words that throwing this code—active brush fire in progress—at Silva makes me an asshole. There hasn’t been a brush fire in Manhattan since the inception of the NYPD, and thus, it isn’t part of the assigned study material. I can’t take my question back, though. It’s out there, and she’s chewing it over like a piece of tough steak.
“Uh . . .” She rolls around on the balls of her feet. “Second call for ambulance.”
Fuck. I open my mouth to tell her she’s wrong. Instead, I say, “Guess we’ll be eating red velvet cake at graduation.”
The girls start cheering, Charlie’s eyebrows shoot sky high and Silva slumps with a release of breath. A little satisfied smile plays around the edges of her mouth, sending the dumb-ass organ in my chest traveling in a ricochet pattern. I like seeing her happy way too much. I like even more that I’m the one who made her that way, even at the cost of being wrong. About police work. My life.
Bad. Very bad.
I turn for the exit. “I’ll leave you all to it.”
“Oh, wait,” Ever calls, elbowing Charlie, who’s still watching me with obnoxious fascination. “You don’t want to weigh in on frosting?”
“Anything but pink.” I wrench open the door and barely resist one last look at Silva. “You have drills in the morning. It’s your choice whether you come in early and set an example or show up smelling like cake and bring everyone down to your level.”
“There’s the lieutenant I know,” Charlie drones.
Silva huffs a laugh. “Did he ever leave?”
Yeah, for a second there I had left. Became someone who cared about feelings . . . about someone . . . over being right. I can’t let it happen again.
The door slams behind me.
Chapter 4
Danika
I’m walking home from a typically brutal day at the academy when a red light gives me the chance to lean down and massage my throbbing calf muscles as traffic races past.
Coming in early to set an example for the other recruits has its drawbacks.
Number one being the nod of approval from the lieutenant, as if I’d shown twenty minutes before inspection just to make his king-of-the-universe ass proud. Even more vexing was the tug of satisfaction as he noted something on his clipboard when I walked into the gym. It’s not such a crazy concept for a recruit to be happy when met with their instructor’s—albeit meager—praise. But I don’t want him to have that control over me. After months of his condescending style of teaching and what he said about Jack, he shouldn’t have such a lofty position in my mind.
Yet, he does. Winning that bet last night made me run a little faster today, listen harder, take the guys to the mat with more dedication. More heart.
The academy is a lot of hard work. It’s exciting, knowing we’ll be employing the skills we’re learning in the field someday, but the day-to-day grind can get repetitive. My radio codes pop quiz victory last night reminded me why I want to be a cop so bad. Making my family proud. Sometimes achieving that means always having the right answer. The solution.
I’m the oldest of my cousins. I’ve always been the one to lead by example, which is probably why Greer’s parting shot last night had me setting my alarm to go off early this morning. My mother always teases me, claiming I was born a mother, not a daughter, and I suppose that’s true. Look at how I bullied Jack through junior college and into the academy.
You’re welcome.
My parents came to New York from Colombia in the eighties, and their siblings slowly followed, once my parents put down roots. I’m the first of this new generation. Before my cousins were born, the expectations of my family were concentrated only on me. What would I do? How fast could I do it? Those pressures stuck and I got used to them. Now my family comes to me with their problems more and more. When my mother needs to schedule a repair with the super, or have something straightened out at the bank? She calls me. When one of my cousins needs homework help? I’m their girl. And I love having that responsibility, even if sometimes I take the lead when I haven’t—technically—been asked. If I don’t fix things when they’re broken, who will?
Which leads me to the second drawback of showing early: occupying my time with lunges and extra running, thus turning me into a hobbling invalid waddling down the sidewalk. As soon as I get home, I’m commandeering the bathroom and taking a shower hot enough to melt off a layer of skin. Then I’m scarfing whatever is handy in the fridge and passing out. Tomorrow I’m showing up on time, not early, and Lieutenant Burns can deal with it.
Even as I make that vow to myself, I know deep down I’m going to break it.
When my cell rings in my hoodie pocket, I take it out, frowning down at the screen. My cousin’s name—Robbie—fades in and out. “Hey,” I answer, laughing. “I was just thinking about you. How’s the job?”
Robbie is a senior in high school and the youngest cousin on my father’s side. A couple weeks ago, I helped him fill out a job application for the frozen yogurt shop down the street from his building—and I was super proud of him for nailing the interview and getting hired.
This kid usually talks a blue streak, and he’s currently taking measured breaths, pacing footsteps in the background. It takes me the space of three seconds to detect something is wrong.
“What’s going on?”
“Danny, I didn’t . . . I promise this wasn’t my idea . . .”
I stop short and turn, jogging back toward the avenue I just crossed, scoping for available cabs. “What wasn’t your idea?”
His sigh is shaky. “A couple of guys at school found out I got this job, and they started asking me all these questions. You know? Like, what time do we close? Have I had any annoying customers? You know, normal stuff.” The panic is making his voice a higher pitch than usual. “Then yesterday, they asked if I work alone. If the manager is always around. I knew something was wrong, but these guys, everyone knows they’re wannabe gangsters.”
It’s rush hour, and it seems like every damn cab has their lights off, but I finally catch one letting out passengers and spring in that direction. “Did you answer those questions?”
“Yeah,” he groans. “They’re not easy to ignore, and I couldn’t just lie to them, you know? What if they found out I lied, then took it out on me?”
“Fifty-Second and Ninth,” I call through the cab partition, praying that by some miracle crosstown traffic won’t be a bitch for once.
“You . . . you can’t come here, Danny.”
“Just keep talking.” Still working my calm voice. “What happened after you answered their questions?”
It takes a long time for him to continue. So long that I have to check the connection, but the call time is still ticking upward. “They told me they were coming in to see me tonight. They said I should just go along with whatever happens . . . and they would cut me in.” I can hear his gulping swallow through the phone. “I told them I didn’t want to be cut in, but they just laughed.”
No. Not happening. A couple of punks are not going to pull my cousin into an inside job and get him into trouble. Robbie works hard in school, wants to study abroad when he gets to college. See the world outside Manhattan. I’m not letting some neighborhood kids looking for some spending money rip those dreams away. And after all the studying I’ve been doing and horror stories passed around the gym and locker room, I know how badly a black mark on a per
manent record can block every single avenue of opportunity.
Greer could handle this.
Some instinct I wasn’t aware of before pipes up, telling me he would drop everything to meet me at the yogurt shop. He’d put the fear of God into those kids about robbing the yogurt shop and screwing with my cousin. The lieutenant might be a jerk, but he’s on the side of justice. Like a superhero whose power is being a prize dickwad.
If I call him, though . . . if I ask for his help, I’ll owe him. Probably forever, because in what world would the invincible lieutenant need a return favor from me?
Dammit. The sides of my stomach grind together. Pride sits on one shoulder, filing her nails. On the other side, the Scared Face emoji screams, hands slapped to her cheeks.
“Danny?” Robbie’s voice pulls me back to the present. “I really don’t think you should be involved in this. You’re going to be a cop. Maybe I should have called my dad—”
“No. No, I got this.” I swallow any remaining reservations and focus on making this right for my cousin. Like I always do. Aren’t I spending every single day training to handle issues like this? Until I get there, it’s imperative to keep my cousin calm, so he doesn’t do something irrational or dangerous. “Look, I went to school with kids like these. They’re not as big and bad as they think.”
The cab flies through a yellow light, and I judge we’re about three minutes away. If I call the police, it would be Robbie’s word against two guys. They could corroborate one another’s story about Robbie being involved—and my cousin had already ruined any chance of looking innocent by answering their questions about when the manager is around. Sure, he could claim he’d had a change of heart, but there would still be suspicion. He’d probably lose his job, possibly have an arrest on his record. Not good. I’ll have to judge the situation when I get there. It’ll be easier to call on my training when I’m not going at this blind.
As soon as the cab pulls up outside the yogurt shop, I throw a twenty through the opening in the partition and jog to the entrance, the pain in my quads forgotten.
My cousin is standing behind the counter, and I’m relieved to see there are no customers in sight. “Did they say when they’re coming?”
“Like around five-thirty, six.” Robbie plows both hands through his dark hair. “I can’t believe this is happening. I never should have told anyone I got this job.”
“We’ll talk about it later. Right now, you need to stay behind the counter, ready to call 911 if they try to go through with it.”
“Are you serious? I can’t call the police on these guys. It’s bad enough I called you. They’ll make my life hell, Danny. Yours, too.” He moans up at the ceiling. “I can’t believe this.”
“I’ll handle it.” How often in my life have I said those words? “Please calm down and do what I tell you.”
He nods and follows my directions, but he’s not happy about it. Only about two minutes have passed since I walked into the store when two kids—probably seventeen or eighteen—shoulder their way into the shop, hands stuffed into their pockets. One has his hood pulled down low over his forehead, but I get a pretty decent look at the other. Chapped lips, dirty blonde hair, nervous eyes. They take a seat near the entrance, faces turned away, shoulders hunched, obviously waiting for me to leave. So they can rob my cousin. And this won’t be the last time. Oh no. They’ll want to do it again next week.
I start to approach them when I see it. A flash of steel in one of their pockets. Gun. Immediately I divert to a nearby table, trying to appear as casual as possible. But with my heart slamming in my throat, I pull out my phone and text my cousin to call the police. Now.
He disappears into the back room and both kids sit up straighter, exchanging a look. They don’t like Robbie being out of sight. The tension burns in the air. And slowly, one of them turns around to face me, probably noticing the family resemblance between Robbie and me.
“Hey, girl—”
Flashing lights appear to my left, tires screeching to a stop at the curb. NYPD vehicles. Three of them. Too fast, though. Right? That can’t be the cops Robbie called, can it? Impossible. So who called them?
Two uniforms exit the closest car and approach the yogurt shop, weapons drawn, and I don’t think, I just put my hands up. Oh God. Oh Jesus Christ. This is not good. No, this is terrible.
“Robbie,” I shout, keeping my eyes trained on the officers, hoping to pass on some kind of message. I’m one of the good guys. “Set down your phone. Put your hands up and walk out. No phone in your hand, okay?”
When my cousin walks out and sees the police, arms lifted above his head, he looks so scared that I want to get sick. Apparently that conversation about being careful won’t be necessary. He’s going to be scarred for life.
More officers have joined the original two on the sidewalk. Between the flashing lights and intimidating numbers, the would-be robbers have finally gotten wise and put up their hands, too. One of the officers enters the yogurt shop, followed by his partner, screaming at everyone to get down on the ground, and there’s no hesitation from any of us. We hit the deck, cheeks to the floor, and when the handcuffs slap closed around my wrists, I start to shake.
Chapter 5
Greer
Wings are flapping in my ears. Loud. Sounds that I normally find soothing—tapping keys, filing cabinets sliding open—are attacking my eardrums like needles, turning them into pincushions. On a regular day, people seem to move interminably slow when I’m trying to get shit done. Right now, though, while I’m waiting to be taken to a back room at Central Booking, such lethargy is fucking unacceptable.
“I don’t need an escort,” I say though my teeth at the pencil dick manning the front desk. Upon arriving, I showed him my lieutenant’s badge and he almost pissed himself, calling for a superior to act as my tour guide, as if I need one. I’ve made it my business to know every nuance of protocol, and I can walk through any door I choose, if I deem it necessary.
And that’s exactly what I need to do right now. Get through the door to the place where Silva is being held. So I can demand an explanation, then shout at her no matter how reasonable it turns out to be.
“Call again. I’m in a hurry.”
He fumbles with the intercom. “Yes, sir.”
Half an hour ago, I was sitting at my desk completing case paperwork when my phone buzzed. A courtesy call from another precinct informing me that one cocky, beautiful—damn me for noticing—recruit is in custody requesting my presence as soon as possible. That’s when the flapping in my ears started and it hasn’t stopped, merely growing more deafening during my drive downtown. God, as soon as I see her, I’m going to . . .
Make sure she’s okay.
Yeah, man. That ought to teach her a lesson.
A vision of my hands roaming over her back is interrupted when a stiff-lipped officer arrives, putting his hand out for a shake. “Lieutenant Burns. Sorry for the wait. Follow me.”
We move through a series of hallways, each one dimmer and smellier than the last. The farther we get into the bowels of Central, the more anxious I get for the sight of Silva. She better be pissed off or flippant about this whole situation, because I’m not sure I can handle anything but her usual cocky attitude. Not when she’s spent the last couple hours caged inside these walls.
A growl builds in my throat. “Fill me in.”
“Yes, sir.” The officer takes another turn, leading to another hallway, and now I’m starting to get really irritated. “Couple of teenagers in Hell’s Kitchen had plans to hold up a yogurt shop. Might have pulled it off if they hadn’t alluded to their plans on Facebook. Posted pictures of themselves in masks, like a couple of Grade-A jackasses.”
“Jesus Christ.”
“You said it. One of their mothers called the closest precinct and tipped them off. Officers followed the perps to the location. They probably wouldn’t have called in backup and made any arrests if they hadn’t seen one of the kids with a weapon. Confiscat
ed a twenty-two pistol. Belongs to the kid’s father, but it’s not registered.”
If the officer notices the hitch in my step, he doesn’t comment. How the hell did Silva end up in a situation where her safety was in jeopardy? I need answers now, or I’m going to start breathing actual fire. But I want those answers from her.
“Same mother who called in the tip is now complaining about how long it’s taking to bail out Heckle and Jeckle, if you’re a fan of irony.” He pushed out a sigh. “Meanwhile, the girl seemed like an innocent bystander. Probably would have been questioned and released at the scene, but she wouldn’t leave her cousin.”
“Cousin?”
“Yeah. Kid worked behind the counter at the shop. She kicked up kind of a fuss when we arrived at The Tombs and separated them.”
“Funny, that doesn’t sound like her,” I mutter. We stop outside a locked door, and I bite the inside of my cheek while the officer moves in slow motion, unlocking it with a loaded down key chain. “I’ll sign the paperwork for their immediate release. Have it ready for me as soon as possible.”
“Yes, sir.”
He pushes the door open and there’s Silva, swallowed up by the cold, gray room. As soon as she sees me, she shoots to attention at her feet, then hates herself for it. But not as much as she usually would, because she’s . . . upset. Her bottom lip is red from being worried by her teeth, there’s a crumpled tissue in her hand. Goddammit. Just like that, I’m transported to no-man’s-land. A land populated by sad girls who speak a different language.
Realizing I’ve been quiet too long, I clear my throat. “Thank you. I’ll take it from here.”
That almost sounded convincing.
The silence that reigns in the wake of the door closing is solid. Brutally so. I expect Silva to launch into an explanation, but she doesn’t. Just stands there, across the room, balancing on the balls of her feet, mutilating that tissue. This could have been so much worse. I know that lesson well. It’s inked on my insides in permanent marker. I want to shout it at her until my voice gets hoarse, but instead, I find myself moving toward her cautiously. Maybe I’ll get that coveted chance to yell later, but that image of my hands stroking her back won’t leave me.