where I could reach Lieutenant Donald at the East Precinct?”
The cop shifted to his left and touched the keyboard. His pockmarked face was bathed in blue light. He pushed a couple of more buttons. “Three, two, nine, three, nine, four, five, extension eleven twenty-nine.” The screen went black. For the first time, the younger officer was looking at Corso, who thought he detected a hint of amusement in the guy’s eyes. “Was it something I said, fellas?” Corso asked. He pulled open his coat and sniffed at his right armpit. “Deodorant failure?”
Officer McCarty looked only slightly amused when he said, “Happens Lieutenant Donald’s in the same meeting.”
Corso smiled. He now knew the meeting must be here in the Public Safety Building, otherwise a couple of desk cops wouldn’t be privy to it. He took a chance. “Wouldn’t be that an ADA name of Timothy Beal is in there with them, would it?” He hunched his shoulders, spread his hands. “Just a guess.”
The younger cop checked the screen in front of his face, tapped the keyboard twice, and then looked to McCarty, who leaned over in front of the younger man’s video display.
“You read palms on the side?” the older cop asked.
“The bumps on your head,” Corso said. “Phrenology.”
The cop looked like he was considering adding a few bumps to Corso’s head.
“I think you better let me see this Ms. Sheridan.”
McCarty weighed his options. “I drag her out of a meeting and this turns out to be crap, there’s going to be a problem.”
“I understand.”
McCarty finally read his way through Corso’s card. “Hopkins covers crime for the Sun . Says here you write features.”
“That’s right.”
“How long you been with the paper?”
“Three years or so.”
“So how come I’ve never seen you before?”
“Just lucky, I guess,” Corso joked. McCarty was not amused.
“Hopkins under the weather?” he asked.
“Not that I know of,” Corso said.
McCarty waited for an explanation.
“I need to run a story by someone in authority. To give ’em a chance to confirm or deny.” The cop wasn’t impressed. “I’m guessing it’s the same story they’re sitting in there talking about,” Corso added.
McCarty got to his feet. Took Corso in from head to toe. Pointed across the room to the built-in bench running along the north wall. “Take a seat over there.”
McCarty disappeared through a door behind the desk. Corso planted himself on the blue Naugahyde. The sticky plastic groaned as he slid back. No magazines. No cigarette butts. Just an overgrown jade plant, its thick leaves covered with dust, meandering its way around the dirty window. Corso took his notebook from his coat pocket and had begun to leaf through it when the front doors were pulled open wide.
Deep voices filled the room. SWAT. The storm troopers of the status quo. A full tactical unit, fresh from an operation. Still coming down from the adrenaline rush. Eight jackbooted, armored urban warriors. All in black. Darth Vader helmets. Huge men. Three white, four black, one other. Olympic weight lifters with twenty-inch biceps carrying bulging equipment bags full of body armor. A four-foot steel battering ram swung from the arm of an immense black man who carried what appeared to be an M16 in his other hand. The noise of their walking toward the elevator drowned the rush of the wind and the wet hissing of tires. When the elevator came, only four could fit in the car. Four went. Four waited.
McCarty came out from behind the desk. Clipped a visitor’s badge on Corso’s collar. “Follow me,” he said. Together they crossed to the elevator. The door slid open.
“Hold it, fellas,” McCarty said. “Got a priority here.”
The SWAT team stopped talking. Didn’t move an inch. Made McCarty and Corso squeeze around them and into the elevator. They reminded Corso of those space droids you see on TV. The ones with the tubes coming out of the sides of their heads.
The cop shifted to his left and touched the keyboard. His pockmarked face was bathed in blue light. He pushed a couple of more buttons. “Three, two, nine, three, nine, four, five, extension eleven twenty-nine.” The screen went black. For the first time, the younger officer was looking at Corso, who thought he detected a hint of amusement in the guy’s eyes. “Was it something I said, fellas?” Corso asked. He pulled open his coat and sniffed at his right armpit. “Deodorant failure?”
Officer McCarty looked only slightly amused when he said, “Happens Lieutenant Donald’s in the same meeting.”
Corso smiled. He now knew the meeting must be here in the Public Safety Building, otherwise a couple of desk cops wouldn’t be privy to it. He took a chance. “Wouldn’t be that an ADA name of Timothy Beal is in there with them, would it?” He hunched his shoulders, spread his hands. “Just a guess.”
The younger cop checked the screen in front of his face, tapped the keyboard twice, and then looked to McCarty, who leaned over in front of the younger man’s video display.
“You read palms on the side?” the older cop asked.
“The bumps on your head,” Corso said. “Phrenology.”
The cop looked like he was considering adding a few bumps to Corso’s head.
“I think you better let me see this Ms. Sheridan.”
McCarty weighed his options. “I drag her out of a meeting and this turns out to be crap, there’s going to be a problem.”
“I understand.”
McCarty finally read his way through Corso’s card. “Hopkins covers crime for the Sun . Says here you write features.”
“That’s right.”
“How long you been with the paper?”
“Three years or so.”
“So how come I’ve never seen you before?”
“Just lucky, I guess,” Corso joked. McCarty was not amused.
“Hopkins under the weather?” he asked.
“Not that I know of,” Corso said.
McCarty waited for an explanation.
“I need to run a story by someone in authority. To give ’em a chance to confirm or deny.” The cop wasn’t impressed. “I’m guessing it’s the same story they’re sitting in there talking about,” Corso added.
McCarty got to his feet. Took Corso in from head to toe. Pointed across the room to the built-in bench running along the north wall. “Take a seat over there.”
McCarty disappeared through a door behind the desk. Corso planted himself on the blue Naugahyde. The sticky plastic groaned as he slid back. No magazines. No cigarette butts. Just an overgrown jade plant, its thick leaves covered with dust, meandering its way around the dirty window. Corso took his notebook from his coat pocket and had begun to leaf through it when the front doors were pulled open wide.
Deep voices filled the room. SWAT. The storm troopers of the status quo. A full tactical unit, fresh from an operation. Still coming down from the adrenaline rush. Eight jackbooted, armored urban warriors. All in black. Darth Vader helmets. Huge men. Three white, four black, one other. Olympic weight lifters with twenty-inch biceps carrying bulging equipment bags full of body armor. A four-foot steel battering ram swung from the arm of an immense black man who carried what appeared to be an M16 in his other hand. The noise of their walking toward the elevator drowned the rush of the wind and the wet hissing of tires. When the elevator came, only four could fit in the car. Four went. Four waited.
McCarty came out from behind the desk. Clipped a visitor’s badge on Corso’s collar. “Follow me,” he said. Together they crossed to the elevator. The door slid open.
“Hold it, fellas,” McCarty said. “Got a priority here.”
The SWAT team stopped talking. Didn’t move an inch. Made McCarty and Corso squeeze around them and into the elevator. They reminded Corso of those space droids you see on TV. The ones with the tubes coming out of the sides of their heads.
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