Twenty-one

“HEY!”

The call was sharp, the voice low and gruff.

We turned to find a youngish man, early to mid-twenties. The stranger’s face was unnaturally pale, his eyes close-set. A scraggly goatee sprouted from his recessed chin, and an oversize jacket crawled around on his skinny shoulders.

“Give me your phones and wallets. I got a knife . . .”

“What are you hooked on?” Quinn quietly asked as he nudged me behind him. “Heroin? Oxy . . .”

The signs were there, and Quinn had seen them countless times. The emaciated physique, the sickly look. Dark circles under eyes with extremely small pupils, even in this shadowy light.

“You don’t need to do this,” Quinn pressed. “I can get you help.”

Shaking with agitation, the mugger stepped closer. “Give me your phone and your money. Hers, too. Or I’ll cut you both!”

Despite the threat, the mugger’s hands remained in the pockets of his black denim jacket.

Quinn’s grip tightened on the Maglite. “Show me your knife first.”

“You’ll see it when I stick you in the gut and cut your girlfriend’s throat!”

“Naw, I don’t think so. Not after I show you my gun and shield.”

The mugger’s eyes went wide when he realized his mistake. But as he turned to flee, my fiancé’s Big Foot hooked the punk’s ankle, tripping him.

Our mugger hit the concrete with an audible “Oof!” Then in a move practiced more times than a Yankee infielder’s double play, Quinn tossed me his Maglite with one hand while whipping out cuffs with the other. Before the dazed kid could react, he was shackled and on his knees.

“Call 9—”

“Doing it!”

To free my hands, I quickly pocketed my flashlight and bent to set down the Maglite. Suddenly, I heard Quinn curse.

In a last burst of defiance, our mugger put up a struggle. I jumped out of the way as Quinn subdued him. Now the kid was flat on the ground with Quinn’s knee in his back.

“Stay down. Stop moving,” he ordered.

As I talked with the 911 operator, Quinn continued speaking with the kid on the ground. No more orders. He was back to being the social worker, getting him to come clean about his addiction, his identity. Where was he from? Did he have any family? What drove him this low?

With the police on their way, I knew our shoe searching was over for the night. It seemed pointless now—even dangerous—to continue.

I was sorry, but grateful to Quinn for backing me up. Proud of him, too, for helping those homeless men and this lost soul. His promise to get this kid help for his addiction wasn’t idle. I knew he’d do it.

After the weak whine of police sirens grew stronger, and the 911 operator assured me that help was on the way, I moved to retrieve Quinn’s Maglite, which had rolled away during that last scuffle.

As I bent to pick it up, my gaze absently followed its stabbing light. The golden column reached across the concrete walkway, toward the railing along the riverbank.

What I saw there made me blink—then shout!

Beneath a low bench, spotlighted by the flashlight’s glow, was a pink slip-on sneaker, lying on its side.