keeping it from the
Mail
. The DA is also involved, and the feds. Won’t you get brownie points for passing the identities on, saving them a big court fight?”
Izzy hesitated again. He kept hesitating. I read him the names, ages and address. The ladies lived together. I explained I didn’t want to be hauled before a grand jury to protect an exclusive that was already out.
“The thing is, brownie points don’t really count,” Izzy protested. “Try cashing them in, sometime. Also, the guys who couldn’t get the information end up pissed at you for showing them up. You actually make enemies.”
“What a hotbed of intrigue Police Headquarters is,” I told him.
“You have no idea. So, where did these pictures come from—you and a photographer out on the balcony, trespassing, sneaking and peeping?”
“You might not believe me.”
“Try me.”
“Off the record? A drone.”
“You’re shitting me. You guys have drones now?”
“Not as good as we had in JSOC but pretty damn good. So, what are you up to, Izzy?”
“Phil and I are running with the big dogs, nothing but the biggest cases for us. Much too secret to discuss with a lowly reporter, of course.”
“Must have been all your good work on the Hacker case,” I said.
“Oh, and I’m supposed to say I owe it all to you?”
“Well, maybe a little.”
“Okay, a little. Oh, wait, I get it—you’re trying to score brownie points with me.”
“Well, maybe a little,” I admitted. “I’m starting a part-time gig tomorrow and I may need help.”
“That’s the other bad thing about brownie points—you also end up owing the guy who gave you the tip. The guys you beat hate you and then you owe somebody else. That’s two steps backwards.”
For a guy who saw murder victims all the time, Izzy was kind of negative.
“But you’ll pass on the sex industry workers’ info?”
“Sure. I’ll impress my bosses with my omnipotence. I love that euphemism—‘sex industry worker.’ In the pictures, I don’t see the ladies doing any heavy lifting or anything that looks like industry. More like artistry. They got a union yet?”
“Not yet.”
“So, Shepherd, what’s your new part-time gig?”
“Sorry, it’s secret. I can’t talk about it.”
Izzy chuckled. I braced myself for more Yiddish or Spanish. Instead, I heard a familiar sarcastic voice in the background. Detective Sergeant Phil D’Amico.
“Phil thinks you’re becoming a sex industry worker,” Izzy laughed. “He says, ‘Make sure you wear a hard hat.’”
“Tell him thanks, I will.”
15
I walked west in the morning sun, toward Central Park, toward my meeting, with my black backpack on my back. I noticed sporadic staccato patterns of explosions, firecrackers on the day before the Fourth of July. No one paid any attention. A perfect day to shoot someone and get away with it. By the time I reached Fifth Avenue, the back of my neck was itching. Again. Eyes were on me. It was rush hour and the sidewalks were busy. It was hard to isolate my shadow without tipping him off. I pulled out my phone and dialed Amy.
“Amy, it’s Shepherd. Are you still following me?”
“What the hell would I do that for?”
“That’s what I thought. Forget it. See you soon.”
I stopped at the crosswalk at Fifth Avenue, forcing people to move around me, a herd around a tree. I ducked around the light pole on the near corner and snuck a peek back. I couldn’t see anyone. I crossed against the light and moved swiftly into the park, the shortcut to my Westside meeting. In the park, I sprinted up a rocky rise and hid inside the nearest clump of thick trees. A group appeared at the entrance— four young, pumped steroid-neck white guys in uniform blue pants. Not uniforms. Pressed skinny jeans, with sharp creases, white silk shirts open halfway down their muscled chests, gold glittering at their necks, collarless black leather jackets, perfect black hair. It was the most formal version of
. The DA is also involved, and the feds. Won’t you get brownie points for passing the identities on, saving them a big court fight?”
Izzy hesitated again. He kept hesitating. I read him the names, ages and address. The ladies lived together. I explained I didn’t want to be hauled before a grand jury to protect an exclusive that was already out.
“The thing is, brownie points don’t really count,” Izzy protested. “Try cashing them in, sometime. Also, the guys who couldn’t get the information end up pissed at you for showing them up. You actually make enemies.”
“What a hotbed of intrigue Police Headquarters is,” I told him.
“You have no idea. So, where did these pictures come from—you and a photographer out on the balcony, trespassing, sneaking and peeping?”
“You might not believe me.”
“Try me.”
“Off the record? A drone.”
“You’re shitting me. You guys have drones now?”
“Not as good as we had in JSOC but pretty damn good. So, what are you up to, Izzy?”
“Phil and I are running with the big dogs, nothing but the biggest cases for us. Much too secret to discuss with a lowly reporter, of course.”
“Must have been all your good work on the Hacker case,” I said.
“Oh, and I’m supposed to say I owe it all to you?”
“Well, maybe a little.”
“Okay, a little. Oh, wait, I get it—you’re trying to score brownie points with me.”
“Well, maybe a little,” I admitted. “I’m starting a part-time gig tomorrow and I may need help.”
“That’s the other bad thing about brownie points—you also end up owing the guy who gave you the tip. The guys you beat hate you and then you owe somebody else. That’s two steps backwards.”
For a guy who saw murder victims all the time, Izzy was kind of negative.
“But you’ll pass on the sex industry workers’ info?”
“Sure. I’ll impress my bosses with my omnipotence. I love that euphemism—‘sex industry worker.’ In the pictures, I don’t see the ladies doing any heavy lifting or anything that looks like industry. More like artistry. They got a union yet?”
“Not yet.”
“So, Shepherd, what’s your new part-time gig?”
“Sorry, it’s secret. I can’t talk about it.”
Izzy chuckled. I braced myself for more Yiddish or Spanish. Instead, I heard a familiar sarcastic voice in the background. Detective Sergeant Phil D’Amico.
“Phil thinks you’re becoming a sex industry worker,” Izzy laughed. “He says, ‘Make sure you wear a hard hat.’”
“Tell him thanks, I will.”
15
I walked west in the morning sun, toward Central Park, toward my meeting, with my black backpack on my back. I noticed sporadic staccato patterns of explosions, firecrackers on the day before the Fourth of July. No one paid any attention. A perfect day to shoot someone and get away with it. By the time I reached Fifth Avenue, the back of my neck was itching. Again. Eyes were on me. It was rush hour and the sidewalks were busy. It was hard to isolate my shadow without tipping him off. I pulled out my phone and dialed Amy.
“Amy, it’s Shepherd. Are you still following me?”
“What the hell would I do that for?”
“That’s what I thought. Forget it. See you soon.”
I stopped at the crosswalk at Fifth Avenue, forcing people to move around me, a herd around a tree. I ducked around the light pole on the near corner and snuck a peek back. I couldn’t see anyone. I crossed against the light and moved swiftly into the park, the shortcut to my Westside meeting. In the park, I sprinted up a rocky rise and hid inside the nearest clump of thick trees. A group appeared at the entrance— four young, pumped steroid-neck white guys in uniform blue pants. Not uniforms. Pressed skinny jeans, with sharp creases, white silk shirts open halfway down their muscled chests, gold glittering at their necks, collarless black leather jackets, perfect black hair. It was the most formal version of
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