Chapter 15
March 11
All week I’ve been paranoid that I’m going to get fired because of the False Alarm Marco Incident. Every time the phone rings at home I think it’s Chief Williams calling to kick me off the case. But the chief is as pleasant as ever at the station, and Bovano is business as usual. We even went back to the Neue yesterday and the only thing he muttered was “Don’t do anything dumb.” It’s as if it never happened. He’s messing with my mind.
“Ready, Eddie?” Officer Grant says, bringing me out of my thoughts with his usual greeting. He’s the older cop who started driving me a few weeks back when my mom stopped chaperoning my museum trips. He’s black and thin like me, and looks like he could be my grandfather, so I guess that’s why they chose him. We are working undercover, after all.
“Hi, Officer Grant,” I say as I settle onto the shiny leather seat of his unmarked police car. I stifle a yawn. Tonight’s shift at the Jewish Museum was painfully boring. I think I may have actually fallen asleep while standing up.
Officer Grant shifts the car into gear and slides us into the busy traffic. He’s an über-nice guy who lets me ride up front with him right next to the cool knobs and dials, even if I can’t touch any of them. And he didn’t even yell at me when I got his radio cord all tangled up by accident and set off his siren in the process. He just motioned for me to get in the back. A day later I was riding shotgun again. I’m not sure if he’d forgiven me or just forgotten. He seems pretty old.
I watch the museum fade in the distance behind us. It’s getting late, the evening winter sky lit orange from the city lights.
“You catch those bad guys?” he asks with a grin. Another part of our routine. He asks me that question, I smile and shake my head no, and then we drive to my apartment in friendly silence.
Sometimes he stops and buys me candy when he picks up a copy of the New York Times. You know things are bad when the only thing you look forward to at the end of a shift is a possible bag of M&M’s.
“Just a quick stop,” he says as he puts on the blinker and pulls up in front of a convenience store. Looks like tonight is one of those lucky nights.
Opening his car door, he gives me a nod as if to say, Keep your hands to yourself. I nod back. I watch as he heads inside the brightly lit store, first pausing to hold a door open for a couple of teenagers. Always kind and polite.
I’m resting in my seat, contemplating new and unusual ways to get even with Robin Christopher, sitting on my hands so I don’t touch the shiny buttons on the dash, when a masked man comes running out of the convenience store. Black ski mask, straight from Robbers R Us.
I bolt up, riveted to my view out the windshield. Officer Grant goes running out after him, shouting. The guy heads into an alley (of course!). Officer Grant follows, but slips on some ice, his arms flailing wildly for a brief moment. He loses control, bangs into a trash can, and falls. As I wipe the window that is rapidly fogging up, I can see that he is motionless on the ground.
“Officer down! Officer down!” I scream. No one hears me. The car is closed up tight. I fumble with the radio to try and call it in, but who am I kidding? I have no idea how this thing works. I start to wildly jab at the buttons, setting off the flashing emergency light (which is on the inside of the car since we’re undercover), and blinding myself.
Quickly I try to stuff the red globe under the seat, but the pulsing glow is bouncing off of everything, including my brain, announcing my presence to all criminals within a two-block radius: Here I am! Worst undercover cop in the world!
I grope for the door handle and stumble out into the cold night air, banging the door into the truck parked next to us with a loud thunk. I hope the owner isn’t watching this.
Running toward where he’s lying on the pavement, I yell “Officer Grant!” while attempting not to kill myself on the slush and ice. I skid to a panicked halt by the trash can while warily eyeing the dark entrance of the alleyway just a few feet in front of me. I kneel by Officer Grant’s body. It appears he has knocked himself out.
I poke him. “Officer Grant?” I think he’s breathing. Is that steam coming out of his mouth? Hard to see in the dim light from the store. All of the first aid I’ve learned this year is failing me at the moment, so I poke him again.
A clanging noise echoes in the alley, a hollow machine clank like a robot zombie is coming. My hand grabs Grant’s arm and tugs on him urgently. He’s not much help. More rattling. I peer down the dark path; something is definitely there. The robber? A zombie? Or worse? I curse the red strobe light shining behind me from the car, which is clearly calling the attention of whatever evil is stirring in the darkness beyond.
Bang!
Now I’m shaking Grant with both hands, gripping his jacket and yanking him upright and awake for all I’m worth. Which isn’t much, because he’s not budging.
Do I run? Adult assistance would be good. I’m about to sprint into the store when something black and shiny catches my eye. A Taser attached to Grant’s hip. I unsnap it quickly. It’s shaped just like a gun so I point the nose into the dark corridor of death and pull the trigger.
Nothing happens.
More banging in the alley. My adrenaline spikes, scouring my brain to get it to figure this out. Think, Edmund. Think! There’s a switch on the side of the Taser. A safety. I flip it up and digital numbers come to life by the handle, a red pinprick of light shining out from the front of the barrel. A laser for aiming?
Pointing the weapon into the alley once more, I wrap my finger around the trigger, and squeeze.
Wires on springs shoot out of the gun. The lines must connect with a target, because the whole thing is rigid and pulsating with a current that I can hear.
There’s a horrid, ungodly sound of demons being released from hell, a stench of burnt hair, and a flurry of knives that comes at me and slices my arm.
Heroically, I pass out.
“Eddie! Eddie! You all right?” Officer Grant is kneeling over me, his face full of concern.
How long was I out? An hour? Maybe two? My parents must be so worried!
I look at my digital watch. More like eleven seconds.
“That sure was somethin’ to see that alley cat take off!” Grant says as he touches the bump on his head and winces. “You went down like a ton of bricks. I was just coming to and was able to grab you. Otherwise you’d have banged yourself up pretty bad.”
He stands and helps me up. We’re both a little wobbly. Nothing hurts except my arm. A quick check reveals three slash marks, no doubt inflicted by a fiendish feline.
“We need to get you fixed up,” he says, examining the wounds with his reading glasses.
I politely pull away. “It’s fine,” I say. “My cat Sadie scratches me all the time.”
We hobble back to the car like two old men, slip-sliding on the ice and holding each other by the arm. Officer Grant opens the car door for me. The back door of shame. Demoted yet again.
“Sorry, Eddie. I gotta call for backup. An attempted robbery.” He points to the mini-mart and then turns off the red light with the flip of a switch. “I’d go and interview the clerk myself, but I can’t leave you here alone. Certainly can’t drag you in there to talk with witnesses. We’ll have to wait until another unit shows.”
“I’ll tell them I had to use the bathroom,” I say, trying to help him out. I have a feeling he’ll be in trouble for the chocolate pit stops.
“No need, son,” he replies, picking up his radio. “We’ll be all right.” He calls in the incident. When another police car arrives, he steps out to talk to the cops a moment, then climbs back in. With a loud rev of the engine, he pulls out of the parking lot and turns left instead of right toward my street. My heart lands in my stomach as I realize that he’s taking me back to the station. Back to Detective Bovano.
“Can you drop me off first, sir? I’m really tired.”
“No chance, Eddie. You were a witness. We won’t be long, I promise.”
A pang of doom. “We don’t need to say anything about the Taser, do we?”
His eyes meet mine in the rearview mirror. “Sorry, kiddo. You discharged my weapon. Not the gun, thank goodness, but we still have to report it. Don’t worry . . . it looks a lot worse for me than it does for you. I’m the idiot who knocked myself out.”
“Oh,” I manage to whisper.
My eyes dart around; my brain whirls to come up with a plan. There’s no door handles back here, no escape. No plausible excuse as to why I need to go home immediately, if not sooner.
If Jonah Schwartz were in my shoes, he’d jimmy the door open with a pen and jump out of the car at the next traffic light. No exaggeration. By the time we were seven, he could pick the lock on his parents’ bedroom door and the safe in their office. Amazing what that kid can do with paper clips and some bubble gum.
I go for a different tactic. Much braver and more manly. I bite my fingernails, holding back tears the whole way to the station, knowing one simple truth:
Detective Bovano is going to crucify me.