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Authors: Glenn Cooper
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going to be, but he knew it wouldn't be New York City.
It was no surprise that he was unaware that Hamilton Heights was an up-and-coming neighborhood.
"No shit," he replied with disinterest. "In Harlem?"
"Yes! In Harlem," Nancy explained. "A lot of professionals have moved uptown. They've got Starbucks."
They were driving in a torpid rush-hour mess and she was talking a blue streak.
"City College of New York is up there," she added enthusiastically. "There're a lot of students and professionals, some great restaurants, things like that, and it's a lot cheaper than most places in Manhattan."
"You ever been there?"
She deflated a little. "Well, no."
"So how are you so knowledgeable?"
"I read about it in, you know, New York magazine, the Times ."
In contrast to Will, Nancy loved the city. She'd grown up in suburban White Plains. Her grandparents still lived in Queens, off-the-boat Poles with thick accents and old-country ways. White Plains was home but the city had been her playpen, the place where she learned about music and art, where she had her first drink, where she lost her virginity in her dorm at the John Jay College of Criminal Justice, where she passed the bar after graduating top of her class at Fordham Law, where she landed her first Bureau job after Quantico. She lacked the time or money to experience New York to its fullest, but she made it her business to keep a finger on the city's pulse.
They crossed over the murky Harlem River and found their way to the corner of West 140th Street and Nicholas Avenue, where the twelve-story building complex was conveniently marked by a half-dozen squad cars from the Thirty-second Precinct, Manhattan North. St. Nicholas Avenue was wide and clean, bordered on the west by a thin strip of mint-green park, the buffer zone between the neighborhood and the CCNY campus. The area looked surprisingly prosperous. Nancy's smug look said, I told you so.
Lucius Robertson's apartment was parkside on the top floor. Its large windows captured St. Nicholas Park, the compact college campus, and beyond it the Hudson River and the heavily forested New Jersey Palisades. In the distance a brick-red cargo barge, the length of a football field, was steaming south under tug power. The sun glinted off an antique brass telescope standing on a tripod, and Will was drawn to it, seized by a boyish impulse to look through its eyepiece.
He resisted and flashed his badge, prompting, "The cavalry's here!" from a precinct lieutenant, a hefty African-American who could hardly wait to take off. The uniformed cops and detectives were also relieved. Their shifts had been stretched and they aspired to make better use of their precious summer evening. Cold beer and barbecues were higher on their agendas than babysitting.
Will asked the lieutenant, "Where's our guy?"
"In the bedroom, lying down. We checked the apartment out. Even had a dog in. It's clean."
"You got the postcard?"
It was bagged and tagged. Lucius Jefferson Robertson, 384 West 140th Street, New York, NY 10030. On the flip side: the little coffin and June 11, 2009.
Will passed it to Nancy and checked out the place. The furniture was modern, expensive, a couple of nice Orientals, eggshell walls plastered with gallery quality twentieth century oils. An entire expanse of wall hung with framed vinyl records and CDs. Next to the kitchen a Steinway grand with sheet music stacked high on the closed top. A wall unit crammed with a high-end stereo system and hundreds of CDs.
"What is this guy, a musician?" Will asked.
The lieutenant nodded. "Jazz. I never heard of him but Monroe says he's famous."
A skinny white cop said on cue: "Yeah, he's famous."
After a brief discussion, it was agreed that this situation belonged to the FBI now. The precinct would cover the front and rear of the building through the night but the FBI would take "custody" of Mr. Robertson and watch him as long as they liked. All that was left was to meet their charge. The
It was no surprise that he was unaware that Hamilton Heights was an up-and-coming neighborhood.
"No shit," he replied with disinterest. "In Harlem?"
"Yes! In Harlem," Nancy explained. "A lot of professionals have moved uptown. They've got Starbucks."
They were driving in a torpid rush-hour mess and she was talking a blue streak.
"City College of New York is up there," she added enthusiastically. "There're a lot of students and professionals, some great restaurants, things like that, and it's a lot cheaper than most places in Manhattan."
"You ever been there?"
She deflated a little. "Well, no."
"So how are you so knowledgeable?"
"I read about it in, you know, New York magazine, the Times ."
In contrast to Will, Nancy loved the city. She'd grown up in suburban White Plains. Her grandparents still lived in Queens, off-the-boat Poles with thick accents and old-country ways. White Plains was home but the city had been her playpen, the place where she learned about music and art, where she had her first drink, where she lost her virginity in her dorm at the John Jay College of Criminal Justice, where she passed the bar after graduating top of her class at Fordham Law, where she landed her first Bureau job after Quantico. She lacked the time or money to experience New York to its fullest, but she made it her business to keep a finger on the city's pulse.
They crossed over the murky Harlem River and found their way to the corner of West 140th Street and Nicholas Avenue, where the twelve-story building complex was conveniently marked by a half-dozen squad cars from the Thirty-second Precinct, Manhattan North. St. Nicholas Avenue was wide and clean, bordered on the west by a thin strip of mint-green park, the buffer zone between the neighborhood and the CCNY campus. The area looked surprisingly prosperous. Nancy's smug look said, I told you so.
Lucius Robertson's apartment was parkside on the top floor. Its large windows captured St. Nicholas Park, the compact college campus, and beyond it the Hudson River and the heavily forested New Jersey Palisades. In the distance a brick-red cargo barge, the length of a football field, was steaming south under tug power. The sun glinted off an antique brass telescope standing on a tripod, and Will was drawn to it, seized by a boyish impulse to look through its eyepiece.
He resisted and flashed his badge, prompting, "The cavalry's here!" from a precinct lieutenant, a hefty African-American who could hardly wait to take off. The uniformed cops and detectives were also relieved. Their shifts had been stretched and they aspired to make better use of their precious summer evening. Cold beer and barbecues were higher on their agendas than babysitting.
Will asked the lieutenant, "Where's our guy?"
"In the bedroom, lying down. We checked the apartment out. Even had a dog in. It's clean."
"You got the postcard?"
It was bagged and tagged. Lucius Jefferson Robertson, 384 West 140th Street, New York, NY 10030. On the flip side: the little coffin and June 11, 2009.
Will passed it to Nancy and checked out the place. The furniture was modern, expensive, a couple of nice Orientals, eggshell walls plastered with gallery quality twentieth century oils. An entire expanse of wall hung with framed vinyl records and CDs. Next to the kitchen a Steinway grand with sheet music stacked high on the closed top. A wall unit crammed with a high-end stereo system and hundreds of CDs.
"What is this guy, a musician?" Will asked.
The lieutenant nodded. "Jazz. I never heard of him but Monroe says he's famous."
A skinny white cop said on cue: "Yeah, he's famous."
After a brief discussion, it was agreed that this situation belonged to the FBI now. The precinct would cover the front and rear of the building through the night but the FBI would take "custody" of Mr. Robertson and watch him as long as they liked. All that was left was to meet their charge. The
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