let the small things slide and people get the idea that no one gives a darn. No sir. You have to bust the homeless guys who spit on your window and want a dollar to clean it off; the winos who demand tips as doormen at ATMs; corner crack dealers; fare breakers; graffiti artists. Anybody and everybody who made the streets an ugly, difficult place. He was not about to stand for some knucklehead peeing in public, and on a church, to boot.
It was policing this kind of low-grade delinquency that had reclaimed Harlem from the thugs and the thieves, and made greater New York the safest big city in the world.
A mile down the road, Franciscus pulled his car over and slipped the “Police Business” card onto the dash. Craning his neck, he stared up at the high-rise. Hamilton Tower, after Alexander Hamilton, who’d built his “country” house, the Grange, just up the road. What someone was thinking building a luxury office tower around here was beyond him. The building looked to be about twenty percent finished. He surveyed the building site. The only vehicle on the premises was a Ford F-150 pickup. He looked around for some hard hats, checked if the crane up top was moving. The site was as quiet as a morgue. Franciscus knew what that meant. No
dinero
. Just what Harlem needed. Another white elephant, excuse the pun.
Franciscus checked both ways, waiting for a hole in traffic. Strictly speaking, he was off duty, but he had a few things he needed to clear up, or he’d never get to sleep. Home was not a place he cared to be when his mind was jumping through hoops. It was a nice enough place, four thousand square feet, two stories, white picket fence, and a lawn out back up in Orange County. But it was lonely as hell. His wife had passed away three years earlier. His sons were living the life of Riley out in San Diego, both of them sheriffs, God bless ’em. These days it was just him and the radiator, each of them ticking away, waiting to see who was going to give out first.
A car passed and he jogged across the street. Five strides, and he could feel the sweat begin to pour, his heart doing the Riverdance—and this with the mercury barely clawing its way above zero. He slowed to a walk, and wiped his forehead.
At the supervisor’s shack, Franciscus knocked once, then stuck his head in the door. “Anyone here?”
“Enter,” answered a gruff voice.
Franciscus stepped inside and flashed his identification, keeping it there good and long so there wouldn’t be any questions afterward. The badge wasn’t good enough anymore. Every Tom, Dick, and Harry had a fake. “I’d like to take a look around. You mind?”
“Not if you’re interested in building a new precinct station here. We got plenty of floors open. One through eighty. Take your pick.”
The construction manager was an older guy with a beer belly and a beet red face. He had a copy of the
Post
in his lap, a cigarette burning in the ashtray next to a supersize mug of coffee, and a bag of Krispy Kremes in arm’s reach. Franciscus took a look at him, wondering how this guy’s heart was holding up.
“I need to get up to the foreman’s shack,” he said.
“Go ahead. Gate’s open. Elevator’s running. Not much to see up there. Don’t get too near the edges, ya hear?”
“Don’t worry about me. I don’t feel like taking a dive anytime soon.” Franciscus nodded toward the work site. “Mind me saying, I don’t see many guys around.”
“You and me both. The suits are waiting to see if anyone’s actually gonna move in, before they plunk down any more dough. If you need anything, just holler. Loud!”
Franciscus chuckled. It was weak, but at least the guy was trying. “You said the gate’s unlocked. You keep this place open all night?”
“Tell me you’re kidding and you’ll restore my faith in city government.”
“Who has the keys?”
“Me. And about twenty other assholes. Don’t tell me you want their names.”
“Naw. Just yours. You
Brandon Sanderson
Grant Fieldgrove
Roni Loren
Harriet Castor
Alison Umminger
Laura Levine
Anna Lowe
Angela Misri
Ember Casey, Renna Peak
A. C. Hadfield