great. Instead, he said, “Now I’ve done that.”
“All right. So what?” Stiles stared at the paper for another couple of seconds. “Narcotics works nights , Abe. We catch bad guys and the DA takes them to court during the day. Quite often on a day after a night shift. You know why? We get subpoenaed to show up, that’s why. We’re the fucking key witnesses. Without us there’s no case. Get it? So what do they want us to do?” But Stiles didn’t want an answer. He wanted to vent. “The reason we work nights is because that’s when these lowlifes crawl out from under their rocks. It’s when they buy their shit and make their deals and have their fights. It’s when it works !” Stiles turned on his chair, stood up, sat back down, glared across the desk.
Glitsky did his Buddha imitation.
Stiles started again, even louder. “They don’t want to pay the guys extra, maybe they can have night court. ’Course then nobody’s out on the street doing the job. Or maybe we could just ask these scumbags if maybe they could do all their business between eight and five? Business hours.” He half turned again on his chair, ran a hand over his forehead, finally settled a little, shook his head back and forth. “I don’t believe this shit.”
Glitsky came forward an inch. “You might want to take it up with the chief, Jerry. Either that, or tell your guys they can only work days.”
“We’d never bag a soul.”
“But your detail would be under budget, and that’s the important thing, right? Who cares about crime?” Glitsky gave no sign he was joking.
Stiles sat still a moment. “Abe, we’re the police department. What are these clowns thinking?”
When Stiles left, Glitsky didn’t give himself any more time to think about it. He stood up, came around his desk, and looked in at the room next door. There, two of his secretaries—Mercedes and Jacqueline—were engrossed at their respective desks in front of their computers. Jacqueline didn’t look up when he cleared his throat at the door—she must have been at a really juicy part of her romance novel—but Mercedes, in the middle of her daily crossword puzzle, brightened at the sight of Glitsky’s face. “Lieutenant. Nine letters, ‘Jackson A.K.A.’ Ends in ‘L.” ’
It took him less than ten seconds. “Stonewall.”
“That’s it! Stonewall. I was thinking something about Michael, if there was another way to spell it, but normally that’s only seven letters. But Stonewall. Andrew, right? You’re great, Lieutenant.” She looked over to Jacqueline. “Stonewall,” she said.
The other woman nodded. “Umm.”
Glitsky pointed down the hallway. “I’ve got an errand. You women okay holding the fort?”
But Mercedes was leaning over her newspaper, carefully filling in her boxes, and didn’t respond, or notice as he left.
Down a flight on the internal stairs and in a few more steps he was back where he’d lived for all those years. It brought him up short how physically close the homicide detail was to his current office, where nothing important had or ever would happen. It was probably no more than sixty feet, although the spiritual distance was incalculable.
Standing in the middle of the familiar room, he was surprised by how little it had changed in the near year-and-a-half since he’d been here. As usual on a weekday morning, the place was deserted—some inspectors were out working cases, others might be in court or, increasingly, had not come in at all because of vacation, alleged sickness, special training, or any of a dozen other reasons. Somebody had moved the full-size working stoplight off of Bracco’s desk and it now hung from the ceiling. A floor-to-ceiling picture of the World Trade Center at the moment of the second impact was attached to the pillar behind Marcel Lanier’s desk, and the old bulletin board on it—formerly reserved only for the grossest, most explicit crime scene photographs—had been done over with
“All right. So what?” Stiles stared at the paper for another couple of seconds. “Narcotics works nights , Abe. We catch bad guys and the DA takes them to court during the day. Quite often on a day after a night shift. You know why? We get subpoenaed to show up, that’s why. We’re the fucking key witnesses. Without us there’s no case. Get it? So what do they want us to do?” But Stiles didn’t want an answer. He wanted to vent. “The reason we work nights is because that’s when these lowlifes crawl out from under their rocks. It’s when they buy their shit and make their deals and have their fights. It’s when it works !” Stiles turned on his chair, stood up, sat back down, glared across the desk.
Glitsky did his Buddha imitation.
Stiles started again, even louder. “They don’t want to pay the guys extra, maybe they can have night court. ’Course then nobody’s out on the street doing the job. Or maybe we could just ask these scumbags if maybe they could do all their business between eight and five? Business hours.” He half turned again on his chair, ran a hand over his forehead, finally settled a little, shook his head back and forth. “I don’t believe this shit.”
Glitsky came forward an inch. “You might want to take it up with the chief, Jerry. Either that, or tell your guys they can only work days.”
“We’d never bag a soul.”
“But your detail would be under budget, and that’s the important thing, right? Who cares about crime?” Glitsky gave no sign he was joking.
Stiles sat still a moment. “Abe, we’re the police department. What are these clowns thinking?”
When Stiles left, Glitsky didn’t give himself any more time to think about it. He stood up, came around his desk, and looked in at the room next door. There, two of his secretaries—Mercedes and Jacqueline—were engrossed at their respective desks in front of their computers. Jacqueline didn’t look up when he cleared his throat at the door—she must have been at a really juicy part of her romance novel—but Mercedes, in the middle of her daily crossword puzzle, brightened at the sight of Glitsky’s face. “Lieutenant. Nine letters, ‘Jackson A.K.A.’ Ends in ‘L.” ’
It took him less than ten seconds. “Stonewall.”
“That’s it! Stonewall. I was thinking something about Michael, if there was another way to spell it, but normally that’s only seven letters. But Stonewall. Andrew, right? You’re great, Lieutenant.” She looked over to Jacqueline. “Stonewall,” she said.
The other woman nodded. “Umm.”
Glitsky pointed down the hallway. “I’ve got an errand. You women okay holding the fort?”
But Mercedes was leaning over her newspaper, carefully filling in her boxes, and didn’t respond, or notice as he left.
Down a flight on the internal stairs and in a few more steps he was back where he’d lived for all those years. It brought him up short how physically close the homicide detail was to his current office, where nothing important had or ever would happen. It was probably no more than sixty feet, although the spiritual distance was incalculable.
Standing in the middle of the familiar room, he was surprised by how little it had changed in the near year-and-a-half since he’d been here. As usual on a weekday morning, the place was deserted—some inspectors were out working cases, others might be in court or, increasingly, had not come in at all because of vacation, alleged sickness, special training, or any of a dozen other reasons. Somebody had moved the full-size working stoplight off of Bracco’s desk and it now hung from the ceiling. A floor-to-ceiling picture of the World Trade Center at the moment of the second impact was attached to the pillar behind Marcel Lanier’s desk, and the old bulletin board on it—formerly reserved only for the grossest, most explicit crime scene photographs—had been done over with
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