Chapter 22
TWENTY-TWO
After our dinner with Sophia and Carolina, we are back on the street, sitting in the police car. It’s nearly midnight, and we just got ourselves tea and coffee.
My grip tightens on my teacup, spilling a few drops. I quickly set it down, starting the car. “That’s just a few blocks from here,” I say, flipping on the siren.
We speed out of the alley, sirens wailing, and as we approach Hamilton Corner Mart, the flashing blue and red lights illuminate the storefront.
The glass door is ajar, and a faint alarm bell rings in the distance.
I park the car at an angle, blocking off the entrance, while Clay jumps out, gun drawn, taking cover behind the car door.
“NYPD! Come out with your hands up!” he shouts, his voice echoing in the empty street.
A moment of silence follows, and then the sound of shuffling filters out from inside the store. A not-so-tall figure emerges, masked and holding a bag that presumably contains the stolen goods. In his other hand, he grips a gun.
“Stay back!” the guy warns, his words muffled by the mask. He has a sharp Italian accent, a quiver in his voice, and shaking hands.
“Look, just drop the gun and the bag. No one needs to get hurt.” Clay steps forward, trying to reason with him since he looks more scared than dangerous.
In a swift motion, the guy lunges at Clay and pistol-whips him across the face. Clay stumbles back, a sharp cry escaping him as he falls to the ground, clutching his eye.
The robber bolts, disappearing into the maze of alleys behind the store with Clay down and me too far away. I rush to Clay’s side, helping him sit up. He has a cut under his eye, bleeding down his cheek. “Dammit, Clay,” I mutter, checking him for other injuries.
He winces. “I’m okay,” he argues, his voice pressed. “We need to catch that guy.”
I nod, pulling out my radio. “Dispatch, this is Unit 47. Suspect has fled the scene on foot, heading east from Hamilton Corner Mart. Requesting backup.”
The dispatcher’s voice crackles back. “Backup is on the way. Stay safe, officers.”
Despite our best efforts and backup, the guy gets away. The maze of alleys and side streets in West Harlem gives too many escape routes, allowing him to vanish into the night.
With a lot of frustration, I steer the car back to headquarters. Every so often, I glance over at Clay, who’s trying to keep a brave face, but I can see the pain in his eyes—both from the physical injury and the sting of letting the robber get away.
As we pull into the headquarters’ parking lot, Captain Swanson comes over, having heard about the incident over the radio. “You guys all right?” he asks, his brow furrowed.
Clay nods, though his swollen eye makes it clear he’s seen better days. “I’ll live. Just a little souvenir from our friend.”
Swanson grimaces. “Let’s get that looked at,” he commands, guiding Clay inside and toward the medical room.
Inside, Officer Patel, trained in first aid, examines Clay. “It’s going to be a nasty shiner,” she comments, gently applying a cold compress. “You were lucky. A bit more force and he could’ve done some real damage. It will bruise, but I don’t think you need stitches.”
I watch from the doorway, guilt gnawing at me. “I can’t even tell you what he looked like. He wore a mask. But he was maybe a head shorter than me and had an Italian accent,” I mutter.
“Metro Milanesi?” Swanson asks, and I shrug.
“Could be. Seems likely. But he was nervous, maybe even scared,” I recount.
“New recruit?” Swanson asks, tilting his head.
“Possibly,” I muse, looking over at Clay. “Would explain why there are so many of them again. They are all new members. Fuck, we should’ve had him.”
Swanson places a reassuring hand on my shoulder. “You did your best. Sometimes, they just slip through. The important thing is you’re both more or less okay.”
Clay manages a weak smile, his eye already darkening. “Thanks, Sarge. We’ll get him next time.”
Swanson nods. “We always do.”