“We’ll get it covered, boss.”
“Um, Lieutenant?” Trueheart half raised his hand. “Our usual vehicle probably won’t handle the current road conditions.”
“Requisition an all-terrain.”
She glanced around as Jenkinson came in, snarling, his blindingwhite snowflakes on a fiery red background tie leading.
“Didn’t they know it was coming?” he demanded of his partner as Reineke, smirking some, came in with him. “Didn’t they?” He threw out his arms to the nearly empty bullpen.
“Problem, Jenkinson?” Eve asked.
“Yeah, there’s a problem. Damn straight there’s a problem with the basic infrastructure and maintenance of this city we serve and protect.”
Reineke slapped Jenkinson’s arm. “I’m gonna get us come coffee, partner.” So saying he walked toward the break room, giving Eve a wild eye roll on the way.
“Weather guys all say the storm’s coming. Hold on to your asses, boys, it’s gonna hit. But are we prepared?” Jenkinson demanded, arms out like an evangelist preaching to the flock. “No, we are not.”
He tossed his coat on his desk chair, stomping that way on boots crusted with snow.
“I was fucking prepared. I tag my kids, tell them to get over to the skinny-ass garage I pay my left nut for every month, clear the snow from the door so I can get my vehicle in there. And they do, my kids do the job, so I get home, park it up. And what do you think happened? I’ll tell you what happened,” he ranted before Eve could respond. “I come out this morning, wade down there over sidewalks nobody’s cleared along streets the crews have half-assly cleared, and see they’ve shoved a couple feet of that fucking snow right in front of the garage door. What the fuck, LT!”
“Bastards.”
“Damn straight. Ends up, I flag down a black-and-white to haul me in, pick up Reineke. And my kids are bitching—can’t blame ’em—that they’ve got to go back over, dig me out a-fucking-gain.”
“Requisition an all-terrain.”
He opened his mouth, more raging on the tip of his tongue. Then angled his head. “Yeah?”
“Yeah. You might as well have one on tap in case, and do it now before everybody else gets the same idea and we’re out. Meanwhile, you and Reineke hold down the fort.”
Reineke came out with coffee, shoved one at Jenkinson. “Tell him it’s not going to do any good to call and bitch at the mayor, Dallas.”
“It’s not going to do any good to call and bitch at the mayor.”
Jenkinson’s face settled into a haughty sulk. “It’s the principle.”
“It’s the politics,” Eve corrected. “I need you holding the wheel if I don’t make it back in from the field today. Remember?” She gestured to the squad slogan posted over the break room door. “That holds for before, during, and after snowstorms and shitty road-crew work.”
Jenkinson sighed, gulped coffee. “Yeah, but I bet nobody blocked the mayor’s car in.”
“Five’ll get you ten the mayor’s buried under irate ’link calls, e-mails, v-mails, and texts this morning.”
The idea had Jenkinson brightening. “Yeah. Yeah, that’s something.”
“If Peabody comes in, tell her to keep her coat on. We’re heading out in ten.”
Eve escaped to her office, got her own coffee. At her desk, she sent the list to Olsen and Tredway, to Baxter and Trueheart, earmarking names for each team to contact. She sent Baxter and Trueheart a copy of the case file, put a brief update together for Olsen and Tredway.
She skimmed Baxter’s report on the case they’d closed, found it—as expected—competent and thorough. Noted Carmichael and Santiago had caught one at roughly six-thirty that morning. Bludgeoning with a snow shovel.
Yeah, snow could make some people crazier than they already were.
She walked out to see Peabody, and a couple of uniforms who’d just logged in, listening while Jenkinson ran through his rant again.
“Peabody, with me.”
Peabody trotted to catch up. “Jenkinson’s on a tear.”
“I know. He already ripped through it once. Do I need to catch you up?”
“I read the update on the subway. No problem getting a seat this morning. Lots taking a snow day or working at home.”
“I sent our share of the list to your PPC. Start plugging in addresses when we get to the garage.”
“Do you want me to contact the couples first?”
“Let’s just do drop bys, see how it goes. Plug in the bartender/actor. We’ll pay him a visit.”
“Anson Wright—changed his name from George Splitsky when he turned eighteen. I ran through his education—average student, except in drama, theater, and stagecraft. There he excelled. Performed and participated in all the school plays, and even got a couple of walk-ons and minor parts on and off Broadway as a child and young teen.”
When they got to the car, Peabody took out her book, began transferring addresses. “Hit a dry spell, took a bartending class, joined the community players. He’s got an agent, and apparently goes out for auditions. Gets a part now and then. Nothing he could live on, and he lives pretty close to the top line of his income. When I worked my way through the maze, I found out he’s the nephew of the stepmother of the head waitress’s cohab.”
Peabody ordered the in-dash to list the addresses in order of distance. “Looks like our closest is Dana Mireball and Lorenzo Angelini, both artists, Tribeca.”