The silver-haired officer wore a single gold oak-leaf cluster on his shoulder — the insignia of a Deputy Chief Inspector. The young man across from him was in a plain patrol uniform, no bars, no stars. Just a newly-minted cop.
The NYPD ranked its officers across the following grades, from the very top down:
Police Commissioner → First Deputy Commissioner → Assistant Commissioner → Deputy Commissioner → Chief Inspector → Deputy Chief Inspector → Senior Inspector → Inspector → Sergeant → Detective → Patrol Officer
Starting at Sergeant, officers were formally graded within their rank. Below that — and this young patrolman was squarely in that territory — you were just on the roster, unranked. Think of a rookie web novelist whose account exists but whose work hasn't hit a single ranking chart: technically present in the system, technically nobody. Not having a rank yet wasn't the problem. The embarrassing part was not even being ranked yet.
The Deputy Chief Inspector had climbed fairly high by any measure — but at his age, the odds of making the jump to full Chief Inspector before retirement were slim. There were certain ceilings a career hit and didn't break through.
"You're George Stacy?" the old officer asked. "That right, son?"
"Sir, yes sir! George Stacy, badge number—"
The old man waved him off with a smile. "I don't need your badge number. It's right there on your chest. Ha. Just tell me how you found this place last night."
George's face went a little red. "Sir — at 4:32 this morning, Dispatch received an emergency tip. They broadcast it to units in the area. I came to investigate, found no one on the scene, located the target vessel, conducted a preliminary sweep, and discovered multiple bodies. I immediately reported to Manhattan Central and locked down the perimeter."
The old officer nodded, studying the young man. "Not bad. Four patrol units got that broadcast last night. You were the farthest from the location — and the only one who actually showed up. That tells me you don't cut corners." He clapped George once on the shoulder. "Good work. Keep it up."
He walked away. George snapped off a salute at the old man's back, back straight, eyes bright.
Watching him go, George Stacy murmured: "I'm going to work hard, Anna. I'm going to break cases. And when I've earned that promotion — I'm going to walk up to your father myself and tell him: I want to marry you."
"What? They took the cargo? Who did this?"
"Boss — the situation is complicated. All our men are dead. The police have the pier locked down. We can't get anyone near that ship to figure out what actually happened. The only witnesses left alive are the cargo themselves — and we can't get to them either." Jimmy wiped the sweat from his forehead and kept his voice steady. He was doing his best.
And honestly, he was just as in the dark as anyone. He'd pulled an all-nighter, finally made it home this morning and sat down to a bowl of bone broth, and was about to go to sleep when one of the boys called: the cargo ship was in police custody. He'd contacted an inside source at the precinct and confirmed the crew were all dead. No time to sleep — he'd called Frank in Mexico before the hour was out.
"You told me a few days ago — Wilson Fisk's people came looking for me?"
Jimmy read the implication immediately. Frank thought the Kingpin had ordered this. A warning shot.
"I — Boss, I'm not certain. If we're talking about Fisk's usual approach, he'd wait until you were back in the city. Have one meeting first, before doing anything. That's his pattern."
"Jimmy — pull everyone in. All operations on hold. I'll be back in New York in three days." Frank Gardes closed the call.
Even in early March, Mexico was still brutally hot. Frank lay in a reclining chair by the pool in an open-collared Hawaiian shirt, his bodyguards deliberately positioned no closer than thirty feet (10 m). He stared at the satellite phone in his hand for a long moment, then dialed a different number.
The line connected. An old man's voice came through, tired and guarded.
"Hey, old friend! How have you been? I'm down in South America at the moment, just traveling around. I'll bring you back something when I come through New York in a few days — what do you say? Ha ha ha!"
Frank's laugh was warm and easy when he wanted it to be.
"Hmph. Souvenirs from South America. We are not close friends, Frank Gardes. If there's nothing else, I'm hanging up. I have work to do. Keep your souvenirs. Don't bother coming to see me when you're back in the city. Whatever we had between us — it's been settled. Done."
"Now, now — Eugene! Don't be so cold! Oh — sorry, Deputy Chief Inspector. Though, you know — if you wanted to trade those oak leaves for an eagle, that could be arranged. Just think back to when we—"
"Forget it, Frank." The voice hardened. "I'm done. I'm fifty-six years old. I've got a few years left before retirement. I'm not doing another thing for you. Don't try to tempt me. I'm hanging up now. Don't call this number again."
There was a pause, followed by the sound of a finger moving toward the End button.
"Dawn," Frank said quietly. "Dawn Edison."
The pause stretched.
Then a low, barely-controlled voice: "You lay one finger on my son, Frank. One. I will put you in the ground myself."
"Eugene, Eugene — what are you talking about? We go way back. Why do things always have to go to extremes with you? Dawn is a good kid. I hear he topped his class at the Academy last year. For that kind of talent to go to some small-town precinct — what a waste. New York is where he belongs. I figure three years and he could make Senior Inspector, no problem. That's just me thinking out loud. Of course, a father should think carefully about his son's future — there are so many career paths in law enforcement, and some of them are safer than others. I heard about Eden, by the way. Remember Eden? Back when he was just starting out, interning under you — such a promising young officer. And then that business on the highway to Washington — speeding accident, wasn't it? Tragic. Really, truly tragic. A young man with so much ahead of him—"