JULY 5, 1977
BROOKLYN, NEW YORK
“All news, all the time—this is WINS. You give us twenty-two minutes, we’ll give you the world!”
Hopper sank back behind the wheel of a precinct pool car and turned the radio down as the tinny xylophone music of the 1010 WINS news break filled the vehicle’s interior. The car was a huge white Pontiac Catalina that might have been a nice ride when new but now rocked and rolled on worn shocks like a boat in a stormy sea, thanks to the budget-saving increase in the intervals between services.
It was, however, still relatively comfortable, especially for someone as tall as Hopper. And after an hour of waiting in the underground parking garage, angled low in the driver’s seat, he was grateful for what lower back support the seat still offered.
“Good evening, it’s seventy-five degrees at seven o’clock, I’m Stan Z. Burns, and here’s what’s happening. Mayor Beame urges talks resume between the city and unions, but he says the unions have to give in a bit…”
The underground garage occupied two levels underneath the 65th, and the Pontiac was on the lower level, right in the back, the interior in perpetual shade thanks to the unfortunate angles of the garage lighting. Perhaps he was overdoing it, but the pool of vehicles was in regular use by the precinct, and the fewer officers who saw him, the better. If things got difficult later, he didn’t want anyone else forced to admit they’d seen him and Delgado down in the garage on the night Special Agent Gallup had taken the card homicide case off them.
Or…thought he had.
The garage was at least relatively cool, certainly compared to the city streets above, if the radio was anything to go by. Hopper kept the windows rolled down—not just to keep the temperature comfortable, but so he could hear as well as see everything that happened in the garage.
He just hoped she came soon. He hadn’t called Diane to let her know he’d be late—it was a common enough occurrence that he knew she wouldn’t be worried, but he hated the fact that, this time at least, his lack of communication was deliberate.
Delgado appeared a few minutes later, walking down the main ramp that led to the upper level of the garage. She paused at the bottom, scanning the cars. Hopper turned the key to start the battery, and flicked the lights once. She headed toward him and got in on the passenger side.
“This is crazy,” she said.
“Call it caution.”
“Call it paranoia.” She turned toward him, then glanced down at the radio and frowned before reaching for the knob and turning it off.
Hopper smirked. “You don’t like Stan Z. Burns?”
“I prefer Mellow 92 myself. But look, when I said to meet later, I didn’t expect the cloak-and-dagger routine.”
Hopper’s smile vanished as he leaned in toward his partner. “Hey, I’m on your side, but I think we need to be careful. We go where we’re going, I get the feeling it’s a one-way trip. We will win or we will lose, and losing will be bad. So, yes, I’m taking precautions.”
Delgado looked at him. She was an experienced cop, but still a new detective—one apparently willing to bend the rules of the job if the greater good demanded it.
So here they were, hiding in a pool car, disobeying direct orders.
Because they were not going to give up the case so easily.
Back in the coffee room, Hopper had listened as Delgado explained her plan. At first, a tiny seed of doubt began to grow in his mind, but as she continued he saw the commitment in her face and heard the determination in her words, and quickly dismissed his fears.
Because she had been right. He had listened as she talked about how they had a job to do, a city to protect. How this was their neighborhood and there were people depending on them, and they couldn’t just let the case go. That they had a duty to protect the people they’d sworn to protect, and how Gallup had no right to take the case off them and—
And he had agreed. He had listened, and he had taken it in. It was a crazy idea but it was a good one—one that Hopper knew, there and then, that they had to enact.
A few minutes later they returned to the bull pen and…
Well, Hopper had started a fight. He had walked up to Gallup, gotten in the man’s face, and started yelling.
His outburst had the desired effect. The other agents and detectives gathered round, and LaVorgna had rushed out of his office to intervene. Behind them all, Hopper saw Delgado slip into the captain’s office. A few moments later, she was out again. She gave him a nod, and Hopper made a show of giving up his argument.
Before getting back to work, Captain LaVorgna had given Hopper an earful of his own. Hopper gave his apology—a genuine one, at that—and life went on in the 65th. Hopper buried himself in another case, and he and Delgado spent the rest of the shift avoiding each other. That was part of the plan too: Hopper’s outburst was a bad example to set for his junior partner, so it was reasonable to assume they would both be embarrassed by it, and give each other some space for the rest of the day—which they did, save for a brief hallway encounter in which Hopper gave his partner the time and place for their secret rendezvous.
“Anyway, sorry I’m late,” said Delgado. “I had to finish some stuff off. But, mission accomplished.”
She opened her bag and pulled out the thin file belonging to Jacob Hoeler, the same file that was supposed to be sitting pretty inside the folder on Captain LaVorgna’s desk. “And before you say it, yes, I saw it too.”
Hopper took the file and flipped over the top page. On the back, swimming in the sea of black lines, was the second address.
“Dikeman Street,” said Hopper. “A building and apartment number, but no cross street or zip code.”
Delgado nodded, and opened the car’s glove compartment. From within she extracted a greasy spiral-bound street atlas. Flipping to the index, she frowned at the page before reaching up and turning the car’s inside light on. Now able to see, she traced a finger down the densely printed list of street names before finding the avenue in question. Turning back through the pages, she found the area in question.
“Only one Dikeman Street, so this must be it.” She tapped the page. Hopper took the book and squinted at it. “So what do you want to do?” asked Delgado. “Go check it out?”
Hopper nodded. “Yeah, I think we should.” Then he looked at his partner. “Are you sure you’re okay with this? There’s still time to pull out and deny everything.”
Delgado shook her head. “I wouldn’t have suggested a stunt like this in the first place if I wasn’t okay with it. I don’t like it when agents, special or otherwise, mess with my stuff, and I certainly didn’t fight to become a homicide detective for my first case to be taken off me just like that.”
“You know what could happen to us if we’re caught, right?” asked Hopper. Although he agreed with his partner’s plan of action, he was still the senior detective, and he felt obliged to point out the reality of the situation they were about to enter, whether she wanted to hear it or not. “We screw this up, you won’t be a homicide detective much longer. There’s a lot riding on what happens next and—”
Delgado held up her hand. “Trust me, I get it. But we have work to do and we’re going to do it.” She adjusted her position in the seat to better face Hopper. “So let me ask, are you in?”
Hopper grinned. “Oh, I’m in, Detective.”
“Okay, good,” said Delgado. “So, let’s go check out Dikeman Street.”
“Actually,” said Hopper, “I want you to go back to the apartment.”
Delgado’s brow knitted in confusion. “The crime scene apartment?”
“Yes. I want you to go in and take another look. See if there is anything we missed. We know more about the victim now than we did before, maybe you can shake something out.”
“Okay,” said Delgado. “Meet back here later?”
Hopper checked the time again, and winced. “Actually, no, I’ll need to get home.” He looked at his partner. “You do the same. We’ll talk tomorrow.”
“Got it.” Delgado clicked the door of the pool car open. “Happy hunting, Detective,” she said, then got out, closed the door, and disappeared back up the parking garage ramp.
Hopper waited a few more minutes to give her time to get clear, then he started the car up and headed out toward Dikeman Street and the mystery apartment.