of
hundred aren't missing. They had a personal emergency, or got stuck on a
train, or went out of town and forgot to tell you. With adults we don't even
start looking for twenty-four hours unless there's a reason to believe foul
play was involved."
I felt Jen twitching next to me. She was dying to get
out of the cop shop, back to her new job as an Innovator who solves crimes.
"Now, you did find her phone, which you are sure is hers ..." (I nodded like a puppy)"... but that's not really a sign of foul play. Until she's been missing for
twenty-four hours, it's just a lost phone. At which point you should have her
roommate or a relative or some other adult call me if she's still missing. I'll
keep your information on file."
I could tell from his tone it was useless arguing.
"Oh. Thanks."
"So, do you want to turn in this phone as lost
property, or would you like to save your friend some paperwork when she
reappears and hold on to it?" He held out the phone, making it clear who
was being saved from paperwork.
"Sure," Jen said eagerly. "We can give
it to her. No trouble."
Detective Machal Johnson nodded slowly, ceremoniously
handing the phone back to me.
"Your public-spiritedness is appreciated, I
assure you."
Chapter 11
OUTSIDE THE COP SHOP:
"What now?"
"There's only one place to go. Back."
"Crap."
We approached the abandoned building cautiously,
coming up Lispenard, urban commandos dodging from cover to cover—mounds of
trash bags buzzing with midday flies, the half concealment of a phone booth,
crouching behind doorways and stoops.
Actually, it was fun.
Until we spotted them.
The plywood doors were wide open, the padlock swinging
on its chain. A rental truck sat blocking half the street, its elevator
ascending with a whine, stacked high with boxes of the shoes.
"They're moving," Jen said.
We were hidden behind a steel-clad loading dock that
thrust into the street, hot under our fingertips from the noon sun. We spoke in
short bursts, as if on radios.
"Bald guy, by the door," I said.
"I count two more."
"Roger that."
"Roger what?"
"What?"
SoHo tourists walked by, casting puzzled looks in our
directions. Hadn't they ever seen a stakeout before?
Our bald friend watched the work with a foreman's lazy
disinterest while a woman stacked boxes on the curb. She was arrayed in a style
commonly known as Future Sarcastic: a T-shirt emblazoned with a big-eyed alien,
flight-suit trousers with dozens of gadget-shaped pockets, silver hair shining
in the sun. Everything but the jet pack.
The guy riding the truck's elevator was muscular and
lean, very dark. He was wearing a trucker cap and cowboy boots, jeans and a
mesh shirt that showed off his muscles. In a friendlier context I would have
pegged him as a gay bodybuilder doing an ironic take on NASCAR fandom. But alongside the other two, he
looked more like one of many hopefuls sent down by central casting to try out
for the part of Thug #3 in a hip new thriller.
Of which we were the unlikely heroes, I reminded
myself.
"What do we do?" I asked, trying not to
catch the eye of a curious young mother pushing a double-wide stroller past our
position.
Jen pulled out her cell phone, starting thumbing.
"Well, I'm inputting the license number of that truck."
"It's a rental."
"And rental places keep records."
"Oh, yeah." Maybe if I'd read more books
about shoe consultants who solved crimes, I would've figured that out myself.
"And you should be taking pictures."
"Good idea. I mean, roger that."
I pulled out Mandy's phone and started to shoot.
Between the five-millimeter lens and lack of zoom, they'd be pretty useless
pictures, I was sure. But it was better than just standing there and being
gawked at by passersby.
"Excuse me, is Broadway and Ninety-eighth Street
around here?"
I looked up from my crouch at the two girls in their
Jersey glitter shirts and floppy shoes, white capri pants tied at the calf with
drawstrings, so last summer. I had to take pity on
hundred aren't missing. They had a personal emergency, or got stuck on a
train, or went out of town and forgot to tell you. With adults we don't even
start looking for twenty-four hours unless there's a reason to believe foul
play was involved."
I felt Jen twitching next to me. She was dying to get
out of the cop shop, back to her new job as an Innovator who solves crimes.
"Now, you did find her phone, which you are sure is hers ..." (I nodded like a puppy)"... but that's not really a sign of foul play. Until she's been missing for
twenty-four hours, it's just a lost phone. At which point you should have her
roommate or a relative or some other adult call me if she's still missing. I'll
keep your information on file."
I could tell from his tone it was useless arguing.
"Oh. Thanks."
"So, do you want to turn in this phone as lost
property, or would you like to save your friend some paperwork when she
reappears and hold on to it?" He held out the phone, making it clear who
was being saved from paperwork.
"Sure," Jen said eagerly. "We can give
it to her. No trouble."
Detective Machal Johnson nodded slowly, ceremoniously
handing the phone back to me.
"Your public-spiritedness is appreciated, I
assure you."
Chapter 11
OUTSIDE THE COP SHOP:
"What now?"
"There's only one place to go. Back."
"Crap."
We approached the abandoned building cautiously,
coming up Lispenard, urban commandos dodging from cover to cover—mounds of
trash bags buzzing with midday flies, the half concealment of a phone booth,
crouching behind doorways and stoops.
Actually, it was fun.
Until we spotted them.
The plywood doors were wide open, the padlock swinging
on its chain. A rental truck sat blocking half the street, its elevator
ascending with a whine, stacked high with boxes of the shoes.
"They're moving," Jen said.
We were hidden behind a steel-clad loading dock that
thrust into the street, hot under our fingertips from the noon sun. We spoke in
short bursts, as if on radios.
"Bald guy, by the door," I said.
"I count two more."
"Roger that."
"Roger what?"
"What?"
SoHo tourists walked by, casting puzzled looks in our
directions. Hadn't they ever seen a stakeout before?
Our bald friend watched the work with a foreman's lazy
disinterest while a woman stacked boxes on the curb. She was arrayed in a style
commonly known as Future Sarcastic: a T-shirt emblazoned with a big-eyed alien,
flight-suit trousers with dozens of gadget-shaped pockets, silver hair shining
in the sun. Everything but the jet pack.
The guy riding the truck's elevator was muscular and
lean, very dark. He was wearing a trucker cap and cowboy boots, jeans and a
mesh shirt that showed off his muscles. In a friendlier context I would have
pegged him as a gay bodybuilder doing an ironic take on NASCAR fandom. But alongside the other two, he
looked more like one of many hopefuls sent down by central casting to try out
for the part of Thug #3 in a hip new thriller.
Of which we were the unlikely heroes, I reminded
myself.
"What do we do?" I asked, trying not to
catch the eye of a curious young mother pushing a double-wide stroller past our
position.
Jen pulled out her cell phone, starting thumbing.
"Well, I'm inputting the license number of that truck."
"It's a rental."
"And rental places keep records."
"Oh, yeah." Maybe if I'd read more books
about shoe consultants who solved crimes, I would've figured that out myself.
"And you should be taking pictures."
"Good idea. I mean, roger that."
I pulled out Mandy's phone and started to shoot.
Between the five-millimeter lens and lack of zoom, they'd be pretty useless
pictures, I was sure. But it was better than just standing there and being
gawked at by passersby.
"Excuse me, is Broadway and Ninety-eighth Street
around here?"
I looked up from my crouch at the two girls in their
Jersey glitter shirts and floppy shoes, white capri pants tied at the calf with
drawstrings, so last summer. I had to take pity on
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