The Stolen - Jason Pinter [27]
back to your typewriter and your fancy paper. The day you
tell us how to do our jobs is the day you see us coming
down to your office and sticking a Bic up your ass. You
want a comment about Daniel Linwood? Here you go. The
investigation is ongoing. If and when we have any news
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to report, don't worry, we'll make sure you and the rest of
the respected media get all the info."
"So...can I quote you on that pen-in-ass comment?"
"I got nothing else to say to you," Lensicki said. "You
have any more questions you direct them to our press secretary. She's eighty-three years old and can't see out of one
eye and I'm sure she'll be happy to help."
"Wow. You know, I watched Columbo, and always
thought cops were helpful and jolly."
"Blow it out your ass, Parker."
"'Detective has strange ass fetish.' That's my headline
for tomorrow. What do you think?"
Unsurprisingly, the line went dead. I felt good about
myself, not just for pissing off a cop but because Lensicki's
standoffishness made it clear the Hobbs County PD wasn't
serving and protecting quite as strenuously as their job description called for. Somebody called 911 to alert the cops
to Danny's whereabouts when he woke up, and if Lensicki
wasn't interested in digging, I'd be happy to pick up his
slack.
I debated calling Curt Sheffield to get his take on it.
Curt was a young African-American officer with the
NYPD. We'd grown close over the past few years, mainly
due to our unwanted celebrity, our respect for our jobs and
our admiration for a good pint. He'd been a source on
numerous stories, and I was happy to repay him with a few
good shout-outs for his squad. That's what was most important to Sheffield. That the job was given as much
respect as possible. I was happy to help, because they
needed all the help they could get.
In the aftermath of 9/11, NYPD recruit applications had
dropped more than twenty-five percent. And while the police
force still had approximately fourteen applications for every
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Jason Pinter
spot they needed to fill, a drop in overall applications meant
a drop in quality of applications. That's why a cop like
Curt--young, good-looking and ambitious--found himself
on every recruiting poster between here and Hoboken.
Many blamed lack of recruits on the NYPD's staggeringly low starting salaries--just $25,100 during the first
six months on the job, a salary that would make most
janitors shake their heads. Having young men like Curt on
the force showed those quality applicants that the best, the
brightest and the most appealing citizens made up the
NYPD. What pissed Curt off was that he was a damn good
cop, yet on the street he was treated like Mickey Mouse.
Kids and their parents recognized him from posters. He
spent more time signing autographs than patrolling his
route. I tried to get him to keep things in perspective, but
unlike many cops, Curt's celebrity didn't go to his head.
He wanted to stay behind the scenes. Just like a certain
reporter who desired celebrity as much as he desired
rickets.
I called Curt's desk, got a message saying that today
was his day off. Which meant he was probably sitting on
his couch watching SportsCenter and eating one of those
meat-lovers pizzas that contained a little over eighteen
thousand calories per slice. If I had Curt's dietary habits
I'd look like Norm from Cheers, but the guy had the metabolism of a Thoroughbred. He could eat a cow smothered in steak sauce and not gain an ounce. Sometimes life
wasn't fair.
I tried his cell phone. Curt picked up on the third ring.
There was a pause between "Curt" and "Sheffield." I must
have caught him in the middle of a burp.
"Hey, man, it's Henry."
"S'up, Parker?"
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"Let me guess. You're on your fifth slice and third
SportsCenter rerun of the day."
"Nope. Gloria's got me on a health kick. She made me
some spelt toast with peanut butter, mint jelly and honey.
For lunch I got a bowl of plain oatmeal with some raisins
and soy milk in the