I coasted up to the front of the 5th Precinct and cut the engine. I always forgot how tall the actual building was. I still expected to see the tiny, three-floor office it had been in my childhood. The 5th was one of the few buildings in the area whose top hadn’t been cleared for wireless power services. Instead, it boasted a helipad to accommodate a Rotorbird. The air was still and silent at the moment, meaning the vehicle was absent. It was a useful contraption for cops to zip across town from SoHo to Greenwich faster than a bullet.
Traffic was thinner in this area, maybe because people didn’t want to get in the 5th’s way, or maybe because this was one of the many backwater streets forgotten by the ever-shifting populace. It was dark down here, so deep in the Lower City that a lot of lights were needed. One of the lights outside the station was burnt out again. Or was it the same one I’d noticed months back? I walked up with some difficulty, tripping a few times on the cracked sidewalk.
The station was bustling with activity. The interior was the same as it had been back in the ’20s, with wooden door frames and asbestos ceilings. It had a charm that had always made me happy when I’d worked here. Stepping through the glass doors into the central area, I nearly toppled over a small trash bin. Thankfully, my blunder went unnoticed by the apathetic cops nearby.
The corridor to the right of the central area led to Commissioner Robins’s office. The wooden door at the far end of the hall looked darker than it had before, possibly because it had been painted over, or maybe due to rot. Light poured through the crack under the door, and I could hear people talking. Robins would kill me if I interrupted something important, so I took the opportunity to head to the bathroom and make myself somewhat presentable.
Inside the tiny washroom was a porcelain sink, a toilet, filthy tiles, and a blinking light that begged to be replaced. It was bright enough for me to make out my reflection, at least. I placed my hands on the edge of the sink and let my head hang for a few minutes, trying to collect myself.
I turned the taps on and splashed water into my face, watching the dried blood and soot of last night run down the drain, before looking up into the mirror.
I almost didn’t want to.
My jaw was a bit worse for wear, but it was still square and sharp. A thick mat of hair covered much of my face, going down to my neck, though some sloppy shaving had cleaned up the area under my chin somewhat. I should shave again soon. My cheeks were sunken and gaunt, reminding me that I needed to start eating properly again. My hair was a little long, but it had some style to it. The cut on my cheek was scabbing over and looked far better after the wash.
The cuffs of my polo shirt were a smidge looser now. Losing muscle mass was the one sign I’d told myself I wouldn’t ignore. Just looking at myself made my stomach grumble in dissatisfaction. I’d grab something to eat after meeting with Robins.
The slam of a door told me that Robins’s visitor had left. As I headed out, I caught sight of the long greying hair of the woman storming from Robins’s office. I retreated back into the bathroom and held my breath as her heavy footsteps approached, then turned to leave. Who knew the director of the FBI would take such an interest in the 5th?
I had a feeling I wouldn’t have to tell Robins what had happened at Prince and Greene.
I emerged once more and made for Robins’s office. The slammed door had blown open again. Robins sat down in his chair with a thud, his overweight body making the chair creak and groan as he settled in. He was a man who loved his job, though you wouldn’t have suspected it, looking at him now. He froze when he saw me and licked his lips in preparation to speak.
“I tried to get here quickly,” I interjected, and was met with a groan.
“Yeah. Not fast enough. You would have been a good chew toy for Greaves instead of me.”
I closed the door behind me and fell into one of the chairs in front of his desk, which was as dishevelled as I was: papers here and there, open folders, and his M1911 resting on top of several files, one of which was mine, I saw from a quick glance. He definitely needed some time off, and I was about to tell him so when his low voice shut me down.
“What the hell are you doing here, Elias? You only come to the station when I call you or when you need something. And seeing as I haven’t called you, I’m really not in the mood for the second option.”
“Paddy gave me the ring about the shooting.”
“Shooting?” Shit. Maybe the FBI director hadn’t been here about that. “What shooting?”
“Speakeasy at Prince and Greene. Two Red-eyes tore up the place. Three dead patrons and three dead cops, two of them from the 5th.”
“In the shop or on the street?” The way he said this gave me the impression he was more accustomed to the latter.
“The shop. A few hours ago, maybe earlier. I’m surprised you haven’t heard anything.”
“There’s too much to hear in this city, especially these days. I can barely focus on one thing before getting jostled into another fiasco. I thought people would be smart enough not to kill cops near the 5th, let alone cops from the 5th.”
“You give people in this city too much credit.”
“I suppose you’re right. For once.”
Robins stood and walked over to the window. I knew what he was looking at: that damn fountain. Everyone knew that whenever
