“It’s not in the media release, though.” Maddie frowned and called up the briefing email in question. “It just says charges are proceeding for one person. I’ve looked and…”
“What can I say, Miss Grey? It’s old news. Charges stuck on one of them; can’t speak to the others.”
“But…”
“Anything else? Anything that’s not yesterday’s news?” Extra snippy now.
Maddie wondered what she’d trodden in. Had the arrests been all bullshit to start with just to make the nightly news, and they knew it? And then, when everyone’s backs were turned, they’d dropped the crap charges and followed through with the only guilty person? Or was the remaining accused even guilty? This smelled fishy as hell. Maddie knew she’d have to follow it up, or the curiosity would kill her.
“Which precinct handles the area that the bust was done in?” She flipped back through her notes from two days ago. “101st?”
“Miss Grey, it is highly advisable for the media to direct all their calls to my office and not bother individual precincts, which will simply direct your inquiries back to me. As you well know.”
“I hear you.” She underlined 101 in her notes. “So you’ll send me a statement on why thirteen arrests were dropped? Otherwise I’ll just ring 101st and ask direct.”
“You can’t. It is strongly advised…”
He could advise her all he liked, but he couldn’t actually stop her from picking up the phone and calling them. She wondered whether his bluster worked on the rest of the media. Were the other journalists all compliant and went along with this arbitrary rule? That’s not how she’d been taught. Maddie tapped her pen on her notepad, interrupting his speech on NYPD regs. She’d heard it dozens of times.
“Okay, so when can I expect your statement?” She doodled a circle around the 101 and wrote “Queens” beside it.
“I’ll get back to you later, Miss Grey,” he finished, dismissing her, and hung up.
Maddie rolled her eyes. Sure. She wouldn’t be getting a statement from him tonight or any other night on this. Or, if she did, it would be one paragraph long, say a fat load of nothing new, and be emailed within the next thirty seconds. A straight-up copy and paste. She could set her watch to it. Maddie looked up the 101st Precinct and dialled.
“Hi, this is Maddie Grey from the Hudson Metro News, could I speak to the deputy inspector, please?”
“She’s left for the day.”
“What about whoever’s supervising there now?”
Maddie hit refresh on her email. Nothing.
“He’s busy. And besides, shouldn’t you be calling the DCPI?”
“Yes, but I need a small clarification that the DCPI can’t help me with. It’s just background about the drug bust at Redfern Houses two days ago. Could you get the desk officer to call me when he’s free? Won’t take a minute.”
“I’ll tell him you called. Name?”
“Maddie Grey at the Hudson Metro News crime desk. My number’s—”
Click.
She sighed at the unsubtle message that they wouldn’t be calling her back. Just then, an email from Radley landed.
Forty seconds. He was getting slack.
The NYPD has no further comment on the drug operations on Sunday at 00:40. Charges are proceeding in the case of one Ramel Aiden Brooks, 18, on multiple counts of possession of a controlled substance, namely, quantities of Vicodin, ecstasy, marijuana, and oxycodone. The arrest was carried out at an apartment in New York City Housing Authority’s Redfern Houses, Far Rockaway.
So—nothing new; no further comment. And if anyone at 101st Precinct rang her back, she’d buy a lottery ticket. Such was life. That’s why the day shift was where the action was. Deputy inspectors, for instance, worked regular hours and tended to return calls.
God, this job could be boring.
Maddie worked her way through the rest of the NYPD media releases in her inbox. A flasher was doing the rounds of kids’ parks. The description was laughable—trench coat and combat boots. Nothing else. There was a shooting in the Bronx, but no fatalities beyond someone’s hotted-up, black muscle car. Break-in stats made her pause. She wrote that one up, highlighting the safest and most risky areas in New York. No shocks. It was pretty much a standard evening’s haul.
Maddie checked her watch. That late already? She headed for the office kitchen and grabbed her lunchbox. It contained a basic ham sandwich, a sad little Tim Tam (the last of her chocolate treats from Australia until her mother sent more), and a can of diet cola. High living. Not the most appetising selection, but the staff canteen had shut hours ago, and she couldn’t face how many people would still be bustling around on the streets outside, even at this time of night.
Back at her desk, Maddie leaned back in her chair and contemplated her existence. She did that a lot lately. Why am I so bad at cracking New York—personally or professionally? What made me think I could ever do this? She was out of her depth and drowning.
Giving her soda a morose glare, she cracked the can and had a sip.
It wasn’t as if she hadn’t been here long enough. She couldn’t use that as an excuse. Hell, Simon had been in New York half the time she had. He’d been born with a gregarious soul and seemed to know half of everyone in no time. Everyone loved Simon.
Her phone rang, so she dropped the can back on the desk and flipped the phone to her ear. “Maddie Grey, Hudson Metro News.”
“Sergeant Malloy, desk officer for 101st Precinct. You had questions about the Redfern Houses drug bust two nights ago?”
Maddie scrabbled for a pen, in a state of shock. The fact he’d called back meant he’d actively had to track down her number, which his office hadn’t taken. Malloy had to really want to talk to her. “Yes,” she said, heart thudding.
“That one was all Queens Narcotics Squad’s baby. This ain’t nuttin’ to do with us. Don’t call again. ’Night.”
The phone went dead. Maddie stared at it. Or he really wanted it on the record that his office was not involved in something stinky.
“Hey, chickee.”
She started.
The editor’s secretary and office gossip-hound, Lisa Martinez, was shoving her cell phone in her bag and smiling at her. “Forgot my phone again. Had to come back for it.”
