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Red Alert--An NYPD Red Mystery by James Patterson (50)

There were four white-shirted cops in the command center. Brass. Two of them were barking into satellite phones. I’d picked the wrong place to duck into for quiet reflection. I took a few slow deep breaths, centered myself, and looked up.

One of the white shirts was looming over me. I recognized her immediately: Barbara O’Brien, a public information officer. I stood up.

“You’ve got balls, Detective Jordan,” she said.

Coming from anyone else, that would have felt like a compliment. But not from her. I nodded, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

“You got a warrant to go with those balls?” she said.

“Ma’am?”

“You disabled the cell phone service for tens of thousands of civilians. The press is going to ask me if you came up with that little rescue mission on your own, or did you have a signed warrant?”

“I believe my partner was working on a warrant.”

Working on? For your sake, let’s hope she got it.”

“Lieutenant, I have to go. Captain Cates is expecting to hear from me.”

“Tell her she’ll be hearing from me, too.”

I’d walked into the command center to the sound of a cheering crowd. I walked out a minute later at the top of somebody’s shit list.

Within seconds after I stepped back outside, the crowd let out another joyful roar. But this one wasn’t for me. Their cell phones had come back on.

“I see that you restored their cell service,” I said to Kylie as she made her way toward me.

“It’s more like I restored their lives,” she said. “Another few minutes without a dial tone and these people would have gotten ugly.”

“So now the bomb is hot again.”

“No problem. The guys in the bomb squad live for that shit. They’ll be fighting to see who gets to disarm it. Besides, Segura’s not going to set it off without anyone to blow up. Now that he’s got a cell signal again, he’ll probably call back and congratulate you. As will I.” She threw her arms around me. “You’re a hero, partner.”

“I don’t think so,” I said, “but I need the hug.”

You don’t think so? Zach, just because people couldn’t make phone calls doesn’t mean they couldn’t shoot videos. That hundred-yard mad dash of you running toward a bomb will be all over the internet. By tomorrow this time, you’ll be a YouTube sensation. You risked your life to save someone most people wouldn’t think was worth saving. Trust me: you’re a rock star.”

“Tell that to PIO O’Brien. I just ran into her in the command center.”

“And what did that hard-ass want?”

“An inquiry into why two cops violated a federal law that prohibits police departments from operating a cell jammer without express authorization.”

“And what makes you think we don’t have authorization?”

“Because we don’t.”

“But we will in a minute.”

“From who?”

“From the randy old coot who took me to dinner at the Harvard Club, and who after two glasses of wine said to me, ‘If you ever need a favor, sweetheart, here’s my cell number.’”

“Judge Rafferty,” I said.

“I think the old boy has a crush on me.”

“You’re telling me you called him on his personal phone and got a warrant.”

“Verbal. I’m going over to the courthouse now to get it on paper.”

“You mean you’re going over there hoping to convince him to give you a warrant after the fact?”

“Shut up and follow me. But we better go around the back way. That pesky bomb is blocking the front door.”

Five minutes later, we were escorted into Judge Rafferty’s chambers.

“Kylie,” he said, coming around his desk and giving her a hug. “I’ve got your warrant right here.”

“Ye of little faith,” she said to me, grabbing the document that would exonerate us from the wrath of O’Brien and prosecution by the Feds.

“And you, young man,” the judge said, shaking my hand. “I thought you were kind of a dolt at first, but I’ve come around.”

“Zach Jordan,” I said, hoping he’d eventually remember my name. “Thank you, sir.”

“By the way, Your Honor,” Kylie said, “we’ve just arrested the two scoundrels who were blackmailing you.”

“That calls for a drink,” he said, opening his desk drawer.

“We’re still on duty, sir,” Kylie said. “But we’ll take a rain check.”

“I’ll hold you to it,” he said. “But we’ll have to have two drinks. One for the blackmailers, and one for Zach’s masterful performance. I watched it on TV. It was textbook police work, son. I wouldn’t change a thing.”

“Oh, I’d definitely change one thing, sir.”

“And what’s that?”

“I’d have Wynton Marsalis on trumpet instead of that damn saxophone player.”

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