Into Focus Page 2

  ‘This is New York City, there’s plenty to go round.’

  ‘So as our reward, we get Major Case Squad’s caseload on top of our own?’ Shepherd replied. ‘Like we’re not busy enough?’

  ‘You get some for now, as a trial. They need help at the moment, even if they’re reluctant to admit it.’ The captain rose and walked to the window, the concrete vista of Manhattan in the distance visible across a misty East River with moody grey skies above, the air surprisingly warm with fall heat clinging on against the usual November cold. ‘We’ll know soon if we’re asking too much, and then we can look at it again.’ He turned back to face the three men. ‘But you getting sent these cases should be seen as one hell of a compliment. Look at it like a test run, to see if you’re all as good as we think you are.’

  It was clear that the conversation was over, and Shepherd and Hendricks got the message with a nod from Franklin; they left the office, Hendricks closing the door behind them.

  ‘Thought your boys would be happier about this,’ the captain told Franklin.

  ‘Doubling their workload?’

  ‘The cases they’re gonna be getting are top-shelf.’

  ‘Don’t take it personal, Cap; we’re temporarily down two detectives and just came off General Assembly week at the UN. You know how much fun that always turns out to be. World leaders in different locations around town, with their own security details who all want things done their way.’

  ‘Any issues?’

  ‘Nothing my guys couldn’t handle.’ Franklin leaned back in his chair, looking out of the window through the early November murk at the famous skyline. ‘But if something had happened to any of those leaders, we all know who that would have landed on.’

  ‘We’re not trusting Major Case Squad with much above parking tickets right now and they know they’re being very closely watched. Your guys are the most qualified to help carry the load for a while. Right now, it’s like you’ve got a racecar that you only ever take up to 3rd gear.’ The captain smiled. ‘Let’s find out how fast this thing can really go.’

  A handful of miles east of the CT Bureau across Queens on that overcast, muggy early afternoon, an MTA bus rattled and jolted as it pulled away from a stop on Northern Boulevard, the public transport almost full with a mix of residents and out-of-towners. A fifteen year old girl who’d been in the city with her family for the last few days was sitting beside the window observing the highway pass by, her brother next to her immersed in watching a movie on his phone, their parents sitting across the aisle with hand luggage resting on two suitcases.

  The family had been visiting from Perry, Oklahoma; up until now, the teenage girl had only ever seen New York on TV and in movies and had been excited about this vacation for months, but the visit had passed by as quickly as greatly anticipated trips so often did. When the bus took a turn-off towards LaGuardia Airport, the girl’s focus suddenly readjusted from watching buildings pass by to the windowpane.

  A sad face with two dot eyes and an upside-down crescent had been drawn onto the glass with a gloved finger.

  Curious, she turned and glanced behind her.

  The person who’d drawn it was a lanky man in jeans and a baggy hoodie with an orange, fluorescent vest worn over the top; strands of thin, straggly red hair were sticking out from underneath a black beanie, sunglasses concealing his eyes. But she could tell he was looking at her.

  ‘Don’t be sad, beautiful,’ he said.

  ‘I’m not.’

  ‘Beautiful?’

  ‘No- I mean- I’m not sad,’ the teenager stuttered. She felt uncomfortable, but quickly tried to recover the cool, bored demeanor she’d been working on developing lately in the hallways of her high school back in Perry. The man’s finger went back to the glass again, and he drew two dot eyes one more time, but this time the ends of the semi-circle underneath were pointing upwards. A happy face, beside the alternative.

  ‘I’ve seen a lot of sad people in my time,’ he told her. ‘Life’s too short.’

  The bus shuddered to a jarring halt, the driver not bothering to call out which terminal or which airlines it corresponded to, more interested in chewing gum and using the break to check her cell phone as the front and middle doors to the bus opened.

  ‘Time to go, you two,’ the teenagers’ mother told them, her husband already rolling their suitcases towards the exit. The woman had heard the brief exchange and glanced at the man in the worker’s uniform as her two kids rose, collected their bags and walked down the aisle; he stayed in his seat, holding the woman’s gaze, then after they and some other passengers got off, the doors closed and the bus rumbled on to its next stop, condensation causing the two faces drawn on the window to fade then slowly disappear.

  Terminal D at the airport just served Delta Airlines, and with travelers landing on domestic flights from all over the US, the Arrivals Hall this afternoon was busy. Families and people here on business were mostly going for the taxi-cab queue while lone individuals on a budget and city locals were heading for the buses, with no train connection available like at the bigger airport of JFK a few miles south.

  But a few lucky arrivals were being greeted by drivers holding up signs, a familiar sight at most decent-sized airports around the world. Among the group of drivers who were waiting for specific passengers, a Dominican man holding a card with a name printed on the front was taking some deep breaths, his brow damp with sweat. He looked at his watch again, having already checked the screens to see the flight from Minneapolis he was here for had just landed. He couldn’t miss the pick-up so he forced himself to try and ignore the battle going on in his gut, but then lost the fight.

  He turned and rapidly made his way to the men’s restroom for the third time in ten minutes, trying not to run, and made it inside a stall just in time. For a grim moment, he thought he might throw up too while perched on the porcelain, but luckily the action that followed proceeded in only one direction. He was in there for almost a full three minutes, then with relief felt the nausea pass and his gut finally stop spasming. He put his head in his hands and swore quietly in Spanish while trying to work out what had caused this; it had to have been his dinner last night. Shrimp pasta and a few beers at a new bar near his apartment in Washington Heights. A woman around his age had struck up a conversation with him and joined him at his table for a while, saying she’d just moved to town; he’d thought he might get lucky even though she’d seemed a little weird, but she’d left just as his meal arrived and he’d gone home alone. If she was a regular, she was worth going back there for, but the food sure as shit wasn’t, judging by how sick he’d been for the last few hours.

  He used some tissues to wipe his forehead and closed his eyes for a moment, needing to get a grip, then belted up and flushed before unlocking the door and going to the row of basins. There was only one other man in the restroom, some guy with a bottle of water beside him on the ledge by the soap dispenser; he appeared to be a construction or airport worker, ginger hair poking out from under a beanie hat, sunglasses pushed up on his head. LaGuardia had been under extensive renovation for a couple of years now and men dressed like him were a familiar sight here.

  The workman was washing his hands and the driver did the same at another basin before he splashed some cold water onto his face, then pressed a couple of paper towels from the dispenser to his cheeks to dry off. He scrunched them up and dropped them in the trash before realizing he’d left the name sign for his pick-up in the stall. He went back to get it and turned but then he found his way out was blocked.

  The construction worker had moved quietly to stand in the doorway, trapping him in the stall.

  Two minutes later, a young man fresh off a plane from Sarasota tried the handle to the men’s room, but found it was locked; he worked the handle impatiently again before it opened and a man in a suit, white shirt and tie opened the door, holding a placard and wearing sunglasses and a hat.

  ‘You can’t just lock it, guy,’ the kid from Sarasota complained, brushing past. The man in the suit hesitated, glancing back at the young man, then turned and walked over to the line where other drivers and family members were assembled. Everyone’s focus was on the exit doors, so no-one noticed the man holding a placard with a particular name on it was different from the individual who’d been carrying the card five minutes earlier. The fact that he was wearing the man’s clothes also went unnoticed, despite the fact they were a size too small.

  While still in the restroom, he’d slicked his unkempt, fire-colored hair back before pulling on his newly appropriated driver’s hat, so now blended in with everyone else holding up their signs. And he only had to wait for less than five minutes before a muscular-looking individual appeared wheeling a travel case, the guy’s eyes locking onto the name card.

  He nodded to the man who’d been dressed as an airport worker less than ten minutes ago as he walked over to him.

  ‘The governor sent you?’ the new arrival asked.

  ‘He sure did. How was your flight, sir?’

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘Let me take your bag.’

  ‘I got it.’

  ‘Don’t worry about it,’ he replied, reaching for the handle. ‘All part of the servi-‘

  ‘I said I got it,’ the pick-up snapped. The driver smiled and turned to lead the way instead as the passenger took out his phone, and together they headed outside towards the short-stay lot; the driver pushed the fob on the keyset he’d taken from the man in the toilets, unlocking a car with blacked out windows. He’d already scouted out where it had been parked before entering the Terminal, knowing what the license plate was before he’d even arrived at the airport.

  His pick-up was busy tapping into his cell as they reached the vehicle. The driver went to th
e trunk and opened up, then reached for the man’s bag; this time, the passenger didn’t object, stepping into the car instead. The driver closed the door, went around to the front and climbed inside. The traveler was too busy texting to notice that the man up front had to scoot the seat back slightly. This wasn’t a taxi, so there was no ID card in sight either.

  ‘Traffic was a little rough getting out here, but the journey back shouldn’t take much longer than normal,’ the driver said, passing the passenger the bottle of water that he’d slipped out of the inside pocket of his jacket. ‘Governor Purcival said the heating’s malfunctioning and set to high at the hotel, so he wants all you guys staying hydrated.’

  The pick-up in the back grunted and took the bottle, then immediately went back to his phone as the driver started the engine. Up front and unseen by his passenger, that same smile the red-headed man had worn on the bus ride to the airport when talking to the teenage girl reappeared.

  Then the car moved out towards the exits, and before long rejoined the highway leading into the city.

  TWO

  ‘Are they gonna try and split us up?’ Detective Alice Vargas asked, sitting in one of the upstairs conference rooms at the CT Bureau. Shepherd had just called a meeting with his investigation squad, which consisted of five detectives working under his leadership. Four of them were here, two men and two women, all in their thirties with Vargas the youngest at thirty two.

  ‘Not a chance, we’re staying together,’ Shepherd told her, having seen Vargas glance anxiously at her detective partner, Lisa Marquez. The two women were West Coast meets East Coast, Vargas an Angelino and Marquez a New Yorker; both had a daughter, both had overcome some serious challenges in their lives, and both were two of the sharpest detectives Shepherd had ever worked with. He’d never admit it to anyone, but there was only one other member of his team he considered to be a touch above, and that particular individual wasn’t here right now.

  ‘So are we getting transferred to another division?’ Detective Josh Blake asked, from his seat on the other side of the table, a powerfully built African American family man from New Orleans who’d worked as a doorman before becoming a cop.

  ‘No, this place remains our HQ,’ Shepherd said. ‘We’ve been asked to help out with other cases for a while, that’s all.’

  ‘Sounds like this is gonna be a lot of overtime,’ Marquez replied. ‘And with no bump in pay, right?’

  ‘So they avoid hiring any extra help and just dump the workload onto us,’ Vargas added. ‘Sweet.’

  ‘They think we’re capable of dealing with it.’ Shepherd looked at the quietest member of his team for his opinion; Detective Harry Ledger was similar to Hendricks in that he rarely engaged in idle conversation and only spoke when he deemed it necessary. An introvert and very much a loner, Ledger was a veteran from the army, a former sniper whom the Department’s SWAT team equivalent, ESU, had been hoping to take on as one of their sharpshooters, before he’d ended up as a detective in the CT Bureau. ‘Thoughts?’ Shepherd asked him.

  ‘How we gonna juggle all this and not get distracted?’

  ‘Exactly what I asked,’ Shepherd replied as Hendricks appeared in the doorway, having also just informed two of his three detectives of the unexpected upcoming increase in their workload. Shep rose and stepped outside to move down the walkway with him. ‘How’d they take it?’

  ‘Not exactly doing backflips.’

  ‘Neither are my guys. We’re just gonna have to suck it up, I guess.’ Shepherd rested his forearms on the wooden top of the railing as the two men looked down at the floor below. ‘How are we gonna juggle this, man? You’re already stretched with Bridges about to take maternity leave. I get Archer back on full duty next week, but Josh, Marquez and Vargas each have kids they don’t see enough of already.’

  ‘We’re just gonna have to figure it out, like you said. They’re not giving us any choice.’ Hendricks glanced back at Shepherd’s team in the conference room, having worked closely with all the detectives in there in the past and feeling the same affinity and responsibility for them as he did for the cops in his own squad. ‘Looks like you’ve still got one more person to tell, same as me.’

  ‘You owe me a night of drinks for this,’ Detective Sam Archer of Shepherd’s team said, standing inside a room in a clinic over in Manhattan. On a bed on the opposite side of the room, his colleague Karen Bridges, one of Hendricks’ squad, was lying beside an ultrasound machine while a female doctor rubbed gel on the end of a probe. Bridges was pint-sized, competitive, pugnacious and a top-quality detective, but was also in a condition that was a first for her; almost eight and a half months pregnant. However, of the two of them Archer was the one who looked the most uncomfortable right now.

  ‘Are you a family member?’ the doc asked Archer curiously, having already met Bridges’ husband who was currently out of the country on business.

  ‘No, we work together. My friend here said she was told to have company for the check-up.’

  ‘She was?’ Archer saw the doctor glance at Bridges before turning her attention to the scan.

  Suddenly suspicious, he looked at his colleague with narrowed eyes. ‘I didn’t think you’d mind,’ Bridges answered, smiling broadly. ‘Driving in the city’s become a real pain in the ass now I’m getting this big.’

  ‘Feel free to come with her any time,’ the doctor said, giving Archer a broad smile that had Bridges looking away so she didn’t laugh; like Vargas and Marquez, she was well used to how a lot of women reacted to their colleague. ‘If there’s an emergency or the baby decides to come early, do you have anyone you could ask to be with you while your husband’s away?’ the doc asked Bridges.

  The pregnant detective looked at Archer and grinned. ‘No way,’ he replied emphatically. ‘I’m not good with blood.’

  Bridges gave a shout of laughter. ‘Are you kidding me?’

  ‘You know what I mean.’

  ‘Are you managing to sleep?’ the doctor interrupted.

  ‘On and off,’ Bridges said. ‘Like the driving, it’s starting to become a real pain in the ass.’

  ‘Well, your weight and blood pressure look good, so let’s see how the little guy’s look-’

  ‘I’ll be outside,’ Archer said hurriedly. He stepped out of the room, shutting the door behind him, then walked out into the waiting area and took a seat on one of the chairs.

  Blond-haired, blue eyed and thirty three years old, the young NYPD detective loathed being off-duty; he’d been benched for the last two months, in recovery since getting stabbed several times at the close of an investigation at the end of summer. No vital organs had been hit, the worst injuries he’d sustained being puncture wounds to the upper back and leg along with a number of deep slashing cuts, but the CT Bureau had refused to let him back until he’d received full medical clearance.

  After he got hurt, Archer had attacked recovery as if it was his sole mission in life. Still young and in excellent shape, his immune system was strong and he knew from previous injuries that his ability to bounce back quickly was impressive; but desperate to return to work as fast as possible, this time he’d researched how to optimize the process. He’d increased his fluid intake and started drinking coconut water while eating more red meat and other high protein foods. He’d applied hyaluronic acid cream to the stab-wounds, which helped them heal faster by regulating inflammation and signaling to the body to build more blood vessels on the damaged site. He’d begun undertaking something called red light therapy after seeing a device at his gym, one of the trainers telling him it was said to speed up wound repair and healing; the look of shock on the man’s face when the NYPD detective asked if it would be suitable for helping heal his stab wounds had been worthy of a photo. He’d kept his fitness levels up, stretching and working out around the injuries to keep blood flowing, and had aimed for eight hours sleep a night, almost always achieving it unless his dog Diesel decided he’d waited long enough for his morning walk and hurled himself on Archer’s bed.