it.”
The veteran from the Seven-oh grinned. “Hey, I’ve got my twenty in. They wanna bust my balls, let ’em try.”
AS JACK DISCOVERED WHEN he took another look at Charlson’s business card, the man’s office was not actually downtown in Federal Plaza (next to the FBI and City Hall)—it was in midtown, near Grand Central. As the two detectives got out of their car a couple of blocks away, they could see the building, a forbidding black monolith rising high above Third Avenue. Jack was staring at its tinted windows when a voice called him up short.
“Hey, mister!”
He paused in the flow of pedestrians. An old homeless man wearing a stained green Army jacket was sitting on the sidewalk, leaning back against the front of a Starbucks coffee shop and staring directly at him.
“Hey, mister,” the man repeated. “I’ll bet you three bucks I can tell you where you got your shoes.”
The crazy offer snapped Jack out of his musings about federal agents and their arrogance. He stepped out of the pedestrian flow and confronted the stranger. “Whaddaya mean? You’re gonna tell me I bought them in New York or something?”
The homeless man shook his head earnestly. “No, sir. I can tell you exactly where ya got em.”
Jack thought for a second: he had bought his footwear in a little store in Bay Ridge one afternoon when he’d been out there on a case. He looked at his partner and they both chuckled. Jack turned back to the stranger. “Okay, sure. If you can pull this off, it’ll be worth three bucks.”
The man grinned. “ You got ’em on your own two feet. ” He held out his hand.
Jack laughed, pulled out his wallet, and handed over the money, with absolutely no hard feelings. He had to give credit where credit was due.
Inside the skyscraper, the detectives took an elevator up to the State Office of Homeland Security, which looked like an impressive, well-funded government headquarters, with its official seals and photo of the president in the lobby.
An elderly blonde sitting behind a reception desk offered up a starchy smile. “May I help you?”
Jack flashed his tin. “I’m Detective Leightner and this is Detective Powker. We’re here to see Brent Charlson.”
“Do you have an appointment?”
Jack crossed his arms. “Nope. But it’s urgent.”
The receptionist picked up her phone. “I’ll try his office.” She dialed. “Hi, Deb. I’ve got a couple of NYPD detectives here asking for Mr. Charlson.” She listened. “Leightner. And Powker. From—”
She looked inquisitively at Jack.
“Brooklyn South Homicide.”
She repeated that, listened for a few seconds more, then hung up.
“I’m sorry—Mr. Charlson is not in the building right now.”
“I don’t think so,” Jack replied.
Her smile curdled. “Excuse me?”
Jack leaned over the desk. “I just called his office about thirty seconds ago. And he answered the phone.” He had hung up as soon as he heard the man’s voice.
The woman rose from her seat. “Could you wait here a moment?” She disappeared through a side door.
Jack turned and grinned at his partner. “As my son used to say, we seem to be about as welcome as a screen door in a submarine.”
After a minute, the door opened and the receptionist returned. “You’ll need to go up to seventeen.”
Up they went. This floor looked anonymous, no seals anywhere, not even signs on the doors, except for the suite numbers. Jack raised his eyebrows and gave his partner a grin. “Either we’re on the super-duper top-secret floor, or this guy is just some flunky.”
BRENT CHARLSON DIDN’T LOOK at all put out by the sudden visit.
“Sorry about that,” he said briskly, offering them a seat in his office, with its rich wood paneling and plush blue carpet “Our gorgon downstairs might be a little too efficient.”
Jack didn’t believe the receptionist had anything to do with it, but he held his tongue. Instead of sitting, he walked across the surprisingly large
The veteran from the Seven-oh grinned. “Hey, I’ve got my twenty in. They wanna bust my balls, let ’em try.”
AS JACK DISCOVERED WHEN he took another look at Charlson’s business card, the man’s office was not actually downtown in Federal Plaza (next to the FBI and City Hall)—it was in midtown, near Grand Central. As the two detectives got out of their car a couple of blocks away, they could see the building, a forbidding black monolith rising high above Third Avenue. Jack was staring at its tinted windows when a voice called him up short.
“Hey, mister!”
He paused in the flow of pedestrians. An old homeless man wearing a stained green Army jacket was sitting on the sidewalk, leaning back against the front of a Starbucks coffee shop and staring directly at him.
“Hey, mister,” the man repeated. “I’ll bet you three bucks I can tell you where you got your shoes.”
The crazy offer snapped Jack out of his musings about federal agents and their arrogance. He stepped out of the pedestrian flow and confronted the stranger. “Whaddaya mean? You’re gonna tell me I bought them in New York or something?”
The homeless man shook his head earnestly. “No, sir. I can tell you exactly where ya got em.”
Jack thought for a second: he had bought his footwear in a little store in Bay Ridge one afternoon when he’d been out there on a case. He looked at his partner and they both chuckled. Jack turned back to the stranger. “Okay, sure. If you can pull this off, it’ll be worth three bucks.”
The man grinned. “ You got ’em on your own two feet. ” He held out his hand.
Jack laughed, pulled out his wallet, and handed over the money, with absolutely no hard feelings. He had to give credit where credit was due.
Inside the skyscraper, the detectives took an elevator up to the State Office of Homeland Security, which looked like an impressive, well-funded government headquarters, with its official seals and photo of the president in the lobby.
An elderly blonde sitting behind a reception desk offered up a starchy smile. “May I help you?”
Jack flashed his tin. “I’m Detective Leightner and this is Detective Powker. We’re here to see Brent Charlson.”
“Do you have an appointment?”
Jack crossed his arms. “Nope. But it’s urgent.”
The receptionist picked up her phone. “I’ll try his office.” She dialed. “Hi, Deb. I’ve got a couple of NYPD detectives here asking for Mr. Charlson.” She listened. “Leightner. And Powker. From—”
She looked inquisitively at Jack.
“Brooklyn South Homicide.”
She repeated that, listened for a few seconds more, then hung up.
“I’m sorry—Mr. Charlson is not in the building right now.”
“I don’t think so,” Jack replied.
Her smile curdled. “Excuse me?”
Jack leaned over the desk. “I just called his office about thirty seconds ago. And he answered the phone.” He had hung up as soon as he heard the man’s voice.
The woman rose from her seat. “Could you wait here a moment?” She disappeared through a side door.
Jack turned and grinned at his partner. “As my son used to say, we seem to be about as welcome as a screen door in a submarine.”
After a minute, the door opened and the receptionist returned. “You’ll need to go up to seventeen.”
Up they went. This floor looked anonymous, no seals anywhere, not even signs on the doors, except for the suite numbers. Jack raised his eyebrows and gave his partner a grin. “Either we’re on the super-duper top-secret floor, or this guy is just some flunky.”
BRENT CHARLSON DIDN’T LOOK at all put out by the sudden visit.
“Sorry about that,” he said briskly, offering them a seat in his office, with its rich wood paneling and plush blue carpet “Our gorgon downstairs might be a little too efficient.”
Jack didn’t believe the receptionist had anything to do with it, but he held his tongue. Instead of sitting, he walked across the surprisingly large
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