Chapter 8
THE COMPANY JIMMY PINTER worked for had three active sites in Manhattan.
One was small and only had a crew of six working at it.
One was currently halted due to OSHA violations.
The last site was in lower Manhattan near the FDR. It was a sprawling site and probably had several construction managers working it.
As I was crossing the Manhattan Bridge, Terri Hernandez called me.
There was almost no one I enjoyed working with more than the Bronx-based homicide detective.
She was smart and decisive and had a sense for how to deal with people.
Sometimes that meant she was pleasant and friendly, and sometimes that meant she could sound like a Marine drill sergeant and act like a professional wrestler playing the bad guy. In short, she was invaluable.
I answered with my hands-free phone adapter. “How are things in the Bronx?”
“Did they resolve it or are you still waiting?”
“It was resolved. I told them if they wanted to charge me with something, to do it; otherwise, I didn’t want to hear about it again. Next thing I knew, they told me I could go back to work. I’m leaving headquarters now and thought I’d check in.”
“That’s lucky for me. I’m headed over to a construction site to look for a potential homicide suspect. It’s not too far from One Police Plaza. Can you give me a hand?”
“I’d love to.”
Fifteen minutes later, I was briefing her about our bombing case and how I’d gotten the name Jimmy Pinter.
The first thing Hernandez said when we met in front of the construction site was “Where’s Super Jock?”
“He had a family issue, so he’s on leave.”
“You mean like mom-and-dad kind of family, right? That kid’s awfully young to have his own family.”
I nodded, then added, “Sounds like you’re finally getting used to him.”
Hernandez said, “He’s green and I’m still annoyed he’s on a homicide squad after only two years on the job.”
“He’s only on temporary duty with us.”
“Whatever. It doesn’t matter. But I’ve accepted it’s not his fault. He got moved to your squad. Kid’s a hard worker, and holy cow does he have some good reflexes.”
I smiled. Hernandez had witnessed Rob Trilling save an old woman and her granddaughter by whisking them out of the way of a speeding van. The impression had stuck.
The construction site was bustling. There were skid-steer loaders and other equipment moving in every direction. I could see a partial excavation and towering cranes being put in place.
I asked the first worker we ran into, a burly Black man in his forties, if he knew where Jimmy Pinter was.
“Do I look like goddamn Google Maps?” The man moved on without another word.
We got essentially the same responses, though not as colorfully worded, from the next three people we asked.
The entire time, different construction workers were shouting or whistling at Hernandez.
To her credit, she mostly ignored everyone and stayed focused on finding our man—until someone shouted something in Spanish I didn’t understand.
It must have been bad because it made Hernandez freeze in place.
But then she took a breath and kept walking.
If we had to go to the office and identify ourselves, we would’ve lost our element of surprise when we interviewed Mr. Pinter. But as we started to walk to our cars, I didn’t see any other choice.
We were headed off the property when a heavyset man in his early twenties walked past us.
He had a straggly goatee and long, curly hair that hung loosely down his back.
As he approached us, he smiled at Hernandez, then stuck out his tongue and made a rude gesture with it.
I couldn’t believe men still did things like this.
Apparently, it was one step too many for my sometimes partner. Hernandez reached out and grabbed the guy by the collar as he walked past us. She spun the man around until he was facing her. She was standing on a raised part of the walkway and was able to look the man directly in the eye.
She didn’t raise her voice, but there was definitely an edge to it as she said, “You think that’s cool? You think that attracts women? Don’t be a douchebag.”
The man sputtered, then said, “Sorry. I didn’t mean nothing by it.”
“Don’t give me that shit. You know what you meant.” She tightened her grip on the man’s collar and pulled him closer to her face.
“Really, I’m sorry.” He sounded near tears.
“Sorry because I confronted you, cabrón. How many poor girls have you harassed?”
“I was being funny.”
“You were being an ass.” She shook the man a little bit, like a dog with a toy.
The man looked panicked now. “What can I do to prove to you I’m sorry?”
Hernandez loosened her grip slightly. Then she said in a calm voice, “Where’s Jimmy Pinter?”
The man looked confused for a moment. Then he said, “I don’t know, I swear. He likes to eat over at a sandwich place called Mr. Submarine. Maybe he’s there.”
Hernandez grilled him a little more, then made him swear not to tell Pinter that anyone was looking for him. She released the man and watched him scurry away. She did all that and never even had to mention she was a cop.
“Is it always like this or have I just never noticed?” I asked as we reached the perimeter of the construction site.
“This is particularly bad. I’ve already trained most of the men in the Bronx not to act this way. I haven’t had time to come down to Manhattan and fix the problem here.” She gave me a sneaky smile.
Terri was a champ.