but me, I don’t give a shit where the information comes from. I just want to shut this guy down.”
Loomis was starting to like Detective Grady, something rare for him.
He nodded and just before turning back around to leave, he paused and without looking back said, “We have a computer we use to do geographic profiling. It uses a mathematical formula, which takes the locations where the girls were taken and develops a statistical, geographic model of where the subject is likely to live. I’ll have the results of what we’ve come up with couriered over to you, personally.”
Grady didn’t say anything. As he was walking out the door, Loomis turned back to make one last comment, “And you can call me Steven.”
As he was walking down the hallway, Loomis heard Grady respond from inside his office, “Yeah, well you can call me Detective Grady.” Yes, Steven Loomis was definitely beginning to like Bob Grady.
Chapter 4
Felix Garcia had been a beat reporter for the New York Chronicle for five years now. He was assigned to cover the police blotter from three precincts in Manhattan. Born and raised in Spanish Harlem by a white mom and a Hispanic father had provided him with more of a street education than he cared for, but for which he was immensely thankful.
He smelled bullshit a mile away and could think on his feet better than any of the other young reporters at the Chronicle . That was why he had been assigned his own beat covering three precincts over the complaints of the Ivy League whiners stuck with covering the social pages. Not bad for a kid that had taken six years to graduate from NYU’s journalism program.
He was by no means the only reporter of mixed heritage in New York, but his tall lean body, light brown skin, dark curly hair and light aqua eyes made him hard to forget. He spoke both Spanish and English fluently and had learned to seamlessly move from one culture to the other in order to fit his purposes. Unlike many of the other young journalists at the Chronicle who concentrated almost exclusively on their online persona, Felix had an old-school mentality that harkened back to Woodward and Bernstein.
He believed that good journalists kept their nose in the story, in developing sources and in looking for things deep under the surface, not worrying about how many ‘likes’ they got or how many Twitter followers they had. To Felix’s way of thinking, it was the story that should win fans, not the person who wrote it.
That didn’t mean that he did not have a deep understanding of social media or that he did not value what the Internet could do to bring his writing to those looking for that good story. Ironically, he had more followers on Twitter and more ‘friends’ on his Chronicle Facebook page than any of the other young reporters at the Chronicle .
He had traded on his family name, but not in the way of the Carnegies or the Rockefellers. He was Augusto Garcia’s grandson, from Spanish Harlem, and that carried some weight when he knew he wouldn’t get the information in his role as a reporter. He had more cousins, uncles, nephews and nieces than he could count, whether they were blood relatives or not was irrelevant, once a tio, always a tio and once a primo, always a primo.
Family was defined by the strength of your word and your bond. He never forgot this.
He had a reputation for being tenacious, smart, but also discreet. He had never burned a source, something that everyone that had ever given him a scoop appreciated. He was careful not to jump too quickly when he started hearing chatter or rumors about something.
Instead, he did his own homework and came up with one or two scenarios that he would work from. Once he decided on those scenarios, however, he bit down and didn’t let go until he had his story.
After three years hanging around the precincts and monitoring police scanners, he thought he had a pretty good feel for when there was a real story there or when it was just
Loomis was starting to like Detective Grady, something rare for him.
He nodded and just before turning back around to leave, he paused and without looking back said, “We have a computer we use to do geographic profiling. It uses a mathematical formula, which takes the locations where the girls were taken and develops a statistical, geographic model of where the subject is likely to live. I’ll have the results of what we’ve come up with couriered over to you, personally.”
Grady didn’t say anything. As he was walking out the door, Loomis turned back to make one last comment, “And you can call me Steven.”
As he was walking down the hallway, Loomis heard Grady respond from inside his office, “Yeah, well you can call me Detective Grady.” Yes, Steven Loomis was definitely beginning to like Bob Grady.
Chapter 4
Felix Garcia had been a beat reporter for the New York Chronicle for five years now. He was assigned to cover the police blotter from three precincts in Manhattan. Born and raised in Spanish Harlem by a white mom and a Hispanic father had provided him with more of a street education than he cared for, but for which he was immensely thankful.
He smelled bullshit a mile away and could think on his feet better than any of the other young reporters at the Chronicle . That was why he had been assigned his own beat covering three precincts over the complaints of the Ivy League whiners stuck with covering the social pages. Not bad for a kid that had taken six years to graduate from NYU’s journalism program.
He was by no means the only reporter of mixed heritage in New York, but his tall lean body, light brown skin, dark curly hair and light aqua eyes made him hard to forget. He spoke both Spanish and English fluently and had learned to seamlessly move from one culture to the other in order to fit his purposes. Unlike many of the other young journalists at the Chronicle who concentrated almost exclusively on their online persona, Felix had an old-school mentality that harkened back to Woodward and Bernstein.
He believed that good journalists kept their nose in the story, in developing sources and in looking for things deep under the surface, not worrying about how many ‘likes’ they got or how many Twitter followers they had. To Felix’s way of thinking, it was the story that should win fans, not the person who wrote it.
That didn’t mean that he did not have a deep understanding of social media or that he did not value what the Internet could do to bring his writing to those looking for that good story. Ironically, he had more followers on Twitter and more ‘friends’ on his Chronicle Facebook page than any of the other young reporters at the Chronicle .
He had traded on his family name, but not in the way of the Carnegies or the Rockefellers. He was Augusto Garcia’s grandson, from Spanish Harlem, and that carried some weight when he knew he wouldn’t get the information in his role as a reporter. He had more cousins, uncles, nephews and nieces than he could count, whether they were blood relatives or not was irrelevant, once a tio, always a tio and once a primo, always a primo.
Family was defined by the strength of your word and your bond. He never forgot this.
He had a reputation for being tenacious, smart, but also discreet. He had never burned a source, something that everyone that had ever given him a scoop appreciated. He was careful not to jump too quickly when he started hearing chatter or rumors about something.
Instead, he did his own homework and came up with one or two scenarios that he would work from. Once he decided on those scenarios, however, he bit down and didn’t let go until he had his story.
After three years hanging around the precincts and monitoring police scanners, he thought he had a pretty good feel for when there was a real story there or when it was just
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