I MADE THE solo trip from Manhattan to Picatinny Arsenal in Wharton, New Jersey, in record time. I may have
had one of the older Chevy Impalas in the NYPD fleet, but I’d developed a de ep attachment to the vehicle. An
electronic key chain that rotated photos of my kids hung from a little hook on my dashboard. A titanium Saint
Christopher medal my first wife gave me on our first anniversary had never left my rearview mirror. Little things
from home were stashed all over the car to make me feel better on those days that dragged into nights. Every cop I
knew with a take-home car did essentially the same thing.
I’d sent Trilling home from the crime scene at the Office of Technology.
I couldn’t help but admire my young partner’s protective instinct. Trilling was a quiet guy but had an impressive
background: Though barely in his mid-twenties, before joining the NYPD, he’d been an Army Ranger and received
a Bronze Star for protecting a medical unit under ambush in Afghanistan.
And at least he was no longer trying to hide the fact that he was currently hosting five Pakistani human-trafficking
victims in his little apartment. I still wasn’t sure how he was managing it, and I smiled, recalling how he’d worried
he might be in trouble with the NYPD for taking in helpless victims instead of making them go to an immigration
holding facility. He had done it the right way, through the court system, after we’d encountered the women on a
case. Now that we knew, my family and I could pitch in a little bit. My grandfather, Seamus, had been able to help
him with some community services he had access to as a priest at Holy Name Church.
Walter Jackson, our criminal intelligence analyst, called me as I was
pulling up to the Army facility. Trent had gotten into my phone this time and set the theme song to the 1960 s TV
show Green Acres as my ringtone.
It made me smile, and I knew I couldn’t punish him for it. The kid loved technology and pranks as much as he loved
vintage TV. A dangerous combination.
Walter said, “I’ve nabbed all the info I can get from my contacts familiar with the incident. Apparently there’s some
sort of argument between the ATF and FBI about who has jurisdiction. I’ll leave that mess up to you when you meet
them. But I’m hearing this break-in might be related to an attempted bombing of a bank in Newark several months
back.”
“In New Jersey? I think I vaguely remember reading something about it in the Daily News.”
“It happened the same day some idiot tried to crash his car into the crossing at Niagara Falls. Anyway, it was a
crudely made bomb and it didn’t actually go off, so I’m not surprised that no one paid much attention to a story
about a dud left in a regional bank.”
Walter didn’t have much more I could use but said he’d ke ep checking.
The arsenal already had local patrol cars, ATF bomb-disposal vehicles, and half a dozen unmarked police cars.
Outside the gate there were two news crews broadcasting live at the scene. This is going to be a challenge.
My stomach sank at the thought of entering a crazy crime scene like this.
I showed my badge to the uniformed officer standing at the front door of an administration building. He filled my
name in on the entry list but didn’t give me any guidance as to where to go.
I followed a line of people traveling up and down the hallway. It wasn’t a giant building, and I soon found myself
st epping outside and crossing a rear parking lot toward a low structure with no windows. Obviously a storage area.
Before I could make it to the building, a woman wearing jeans and an ATF raid jacket over a Yankees sweatshirt
st epped outside. She was Asian with dark hair. I put her age somewhere between thirty and forty. She looked up at
me and began marching in my direction.