Danika

Dude. This is intense.

I’m in the passenger side of Greer’s unmarked car. He’s a lieutenant, so he doesn’t use one of the standard NYPD Ford Fusion Hybrids, although most people would recognize the killer black sedan with tinted windows as a law enforcement ride. I feel like we’re phantoms, bobbing and weaving in and out of traffic, bypassing gridlock in the bus lanes, flying down the avenues surrounded by the rumbling purr of the engine.

His air-conditioning is set to a reasonable level. No music is playing. When he started the car, he even adjusted his mirrors for optimum visibility. He drives with two hands, because of course he does. Ten and two. That’s the rule and he’s a by-the-book man.

Never mind that he turned to an unfamiliar page in my parents’ apartment. Lieutenant Greer Burns thinks I’m important. He wouldn’t say it unless it was true. Unless he really believes it. And there must have been a little part of me that hadn’t believed in myself before he’d said those words, because my first reaction was relief.

Some days, walking into my parents’ apartment in a navy blue uniform feels like nothing more than a dream. As if I’m a little girl who wants to be an astronaut. Everyone tells her she can do anything if she simply tries hard, but they don’t really believe she’ll make it to space. Right now, I think I could strap into a rocket and make it to the moon.

Am I a tiny bit resentful that it takes so little from this man to reaffirm my commitment to being a good cop? My confidence in myself should be enough, right? However, I’m starting to think this probation is actually teaching me a lesson. Two people being confident in me is better than one. Being accountable to someone other than myself is a good thing, because I can’t save the world alone, like I tried to do at the yogurt shop. Argh. I landed myself in Central Booking for ignoring what I’ve been taught. So I’m not going to do that again. If some positive reinforcement can have such a profound effect on me, there’s my proof that I can’t become a good police officer on my own. I need other people. I need to trust.

Needing and doing are two different things, but admitting I’m not strongest alone is the first step, isn’t it?

“So . . .” I trail off, but Greer grunts for me to continue, never taking his focus off the road. “Most lieutenants act as the coordinator at a crime scene or direct arrest processing, but they spend a lot of their day at the precinct doing paperwork, right? Like more of a delegator. You don’t like doing that?”

“No.” I swear he’s going to leave it at that, but he keeps going once we’re stopped at a red light. “I have no choice but to delegate and complete a lot of forms, but I have to get out. Seeing the city. If I’m not familiar with what’s happening and changing on the ground, I can’t do my job from inside four walls.”

I cast a glance outside my window at the familiar sidewalks, bodegas, diners and nail salons of the East Side. It looks exactly the same as it always appears to me. “What are you seeing now?”

“For one,” he says, tipping his head forward and to the right. “That van has out-of-state plates, and it has been there since the last time I drove past, this morning. No tickets. So someone has been feeding the meter every two hours all day. On a weekday. That’s unusual. In Manhattan, a van usually means deliveries or somebody is moving. Neither of which would take this long.”

While he picks up his radio and calls in the plate number, I try not to watch him and marvel. That was some impressive observation though. A lot of recruits bitch about the lieutenant, claiming he probably made it to such a high rank so quickly because his father is a legendary bureau chief. I never believed that, mostly because Charlie tells us stories about Greer’s brilliance and dedication. Seeing it firsthand makes me glad I never bought into that nonsense. He might be an unholy jerk on occasion, but he’s great at his job. Isn’t that what matters?

When he hangs up the radio, my eyes are drawn to the picture taped up beside it. I don’t recognize the person in the photo. “Who is that?”

He’s quiet a moment. “Griffin Bates. My ex-partner.”

Way to step in it. It’s common knowledge that Greer’s partner died a few years ago, although I don’t know the details. I should probably back away from the subject slowly with my hands up, but . . . some intuition stops me. If he still has the picture taped up, maybe he wants to talk about Griffin. Maybe he doesn’t want to avoid talking about him. “I can’t imagine you with a partner,” I say, wading in slowly. “What was that like?”

His right hand slips to three o’clock, then shoots back to two. “We hated each other when they assigned us. He knew the department wanted me to babysit him. I just wanted him to stop talking.”

“What did he talk about?”

“His girlfriend. Video games. The Yankees.” He’s shaking his head. “Whatever new Apple product was being released. Cattle.”

“Cattle?”

“If he ever won the lottery, he was going to buy a ranch.”

“Huh.” I should stop there, but I’m too busy imagining him in a Starsky and Hutch–type situation, him and his polar opposite partner hunting down bad guys while wearing cool shades and uttering catch phrases. “Did you talk back?”

“Not at first.” He shifts a little and looks over at me. “I had to drive out to his place in Queens to get paperwork signed one weekend, and he was having a barbeque. I was only going to stay five minutes, but . . .”

“But you saw him in a different environment, and you realized he wasn’t just the annoying guy who takes up space in your car?”

“Yeah. Something like that.” His voice is rough. “His girlfriend pretty much chained me to a seat and kept feeding me.”

I laugh and the car jolts, as if he hit the brake by accident. “You have a habit of showing up and getting fed, don’t you?” Is it my imagination or does the right corner of his mouth lift? “Anyway, after what you said, you probably have a standing invitation from my mother.”

“She could achieve world peace with that fried chicken.”

This time, when I laugh, he doesn’t almost crash the car. But slowly, he grows more and more tense, his easy demeanor being replaced by the hard one I associate with him. When I replay the conversation in my head, flames lick up the sides of my face. “Relax, Lieutenant. I didn’t mean anything by saying my mother would feed you. I’m not actually expecting . . . or hoping . . . for you to show up or anything.”

This is now the second time I’ve accidentally hinted at wanting to spend more time with him. Pizza with the roommates and now my mother’s house. What is wrong with me? Is it something I want without realizing it? He’s clearly opposed to any association with me that isn’t directly related to work and my future career. Unless you count the time he went down on me. Jesus, men are confusing. This man is confusing.

I feel Greer looking over at me, but I pretend I don’t. “Danika—”

“So how did you manage to snag those stamps?” A muscle in his cheek jumps over the interruption, but I press on, really not wanting another rejection. “You have to be there first thing in the morning, or they sell out. Did you pull some strings?”

He shifts in his seat. “You could say that.”

“Ooh. Cryptic.” No response. “Well, come on. Don’t leave me in suspense. I want some pointers for next time.”

“Wear rubber gloves and invest in nose plugs.”

“What?”

The radio crackles. “Five fifty-one Second Avenue. Ten-thirty in progress. Suspect is armed . . .”

There’s a robbery taking place very close to where we are. Right now. I barely have a chance to process that before Greer whips a U-turn at breakneck pace, squealing the tires. And then we’re going seventy miles an hour down the avenue—facing the wrong direction. I watch in awe as Greer very calmly presses the button to turn on his siren and flashing lights. Seriously, his expression doesn’t even change, except a slight hardening on his jaw. My jaw? It’s on my lap.

“You’re not to get out of the car, Silva.” We’re back to my last name, which is his way of telling me he means business. “Repeat the order.”

“You’re not to get out of the car, Silva.”

Greer looks over at me and . . . okay, he definitely smiled this time. He’s smiling right at me, while driving to a robbery. Leave it to my vagina to clench at this totally inappropriate moment, right? There isn’t a woman alive that could blame me, though, because he’s such a badass, threading traffic needles while responding to the dispatcher in an even, confident voice. He’s not my instructor right now, he’s this heroic being that can sometimes be the devil and other times, a seemingly tortured man who makes me cancel dates.

We screech to a halt outside what looks to be a Subway shop. “Ten-eighty-four,” Greer speaks into the radio, letting the dispatcher know we’ve arrived at the scene. An NYPD vehicle shows up at the same time, blocking traffic from entering the scene. One officer climbs out and starts to direct civilians out of the area, barking commands and herding them toward the side streets. Some attempt to take cell phone pictures, but most of them run like hell. Greer once again picks up the radio, hits a few buttons and his voice comes over the loudspeaker.

“This is the police. Walk out with your hands in the air.”

I hold my breath, watching the entrance to the store. Several vehicles arrive at once, lights flashing, officers jumping out with weapons drawn and crouching down behind their cars. It’s so swift, efficient. Incredible. But I’m too focused on the door of the Subway to pay much attention to the process. Come out. Come out.

A man’s voice comes over the radio. “I can see one female civilian inside the store. Green shirt. Probably an employee. She appears to be arguing with the subject.”

Greer snatches up the two-way. “Get our negotiator on the line. Have him call the location.”

“Two calls have been made.” The dispatcher again. “Suspect isn’t answering.”

“Try again—”

The door to the Subway swings open. A man wearing an oversized green jacket fills the doorway with hands raised. No weapon in sight. He looks distraught, rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet. “Approaching suspect,” Greer says before hanging up the radio. I don’t have a second to react before the lieutenant is drawing his weapon and slowly easing out from behind the open door of the car, keeping his gun leveled on the suspect. “Put your weapon on the ground.”

The man doesn’t respond. Or maybe he does, but it seems more like he’s talking to himself than Greer. His face crumples and kicks the glass door behind him. My heart is rapping against my eardrums, and I can’t breathe. Can’t swallow. A few minutes ago, we were talking about a barbeque, and now he’s walking toward a man who could be armed. Jesus. Watching Greer reassures me, though. His capable form moves slowly, not a single hitch in his step.

“Put your weapon on the ground,” Greer shouts once more, this time with bite. Again the man doesn’t respond or even acknowledge the lieutenant. Instead, his hands drop down and flatten on the top of his head, his shoulders shaking like he’s crying.

“I’m on the other line with the employee now. Suspect is her ex-boyfriend.” There’s a long pause. “Suspect is still armed—”

Then everyone moves, the series of events blurring together into a couple of terrible slow-motion seconds. The crying man’s hands drop to his big pockets, he removes a gun and fires. A second shot is fired closer to me. The suspect’s mouth opens in a pained O, he lands on his knees and rolls sideways, clutching his thigh.

When Greer stumbles and falls, I’m positive my eyes are playing tricks on me. He’s the lieutenant. Immovable. Capable of making a recruit pee themselves with a well-placed glare. He doesn’t get up, though.

He doesn’t get up.

And when medical personnel run in his direction, denial goes screaming through my head, drowning out every other sound.