“Fine,” Cal answered, “Owen Calhoun, and I’m staying at the Waldorf.”
“The Waldorf?” the cop answered, his surprise evident.
“Yes,” Cal said, tired and dizzy again now that his momentum had been lost.
“I’m Officer Peters from the One-Three,” he told Cal, as though the information would mean anything to him.
“Okay, Officer Peters. Can I go now?” he asked.
Peters hesitated, trying to figure out if keeping hold of this potential witness was his duty or whether he should wait for orders. He weighed up the pros and cons of the decision; if he let the guy go and he disappeared, then he would’ve walked away from a witness or maybe even a suspect. If he didn’t get to the station house four blocks away on 21st Street, then he would never live it down.
He wasn’t due on duty until the following Monday, but there was an unwritten rule that when something big happens, you got your ass to the house and rolled out. Eventually deciding that he could spare a couple hours at least before he walked into the precinct to report for extra duty, he stood and relaxed his stance.
“Yeah, but I’m going to see that you get back to your hotel first,” he told Cal as he stooped to pick up the heavy bag and loop it over his shoulder. “We’re about twenty blocks away. Reckon you can make a couple miles?” he asked Cal, who nodded and limped next to him as fast as was sustainable.
The panic in the streets was sometimes obvious, sometimes less so. All around people were crying and trying to make phone calls, and the steady flow of first responders heading south with lights and sirens blazing had a clear effect on Officer Peters, who seemed to want to leap into action like a superhero and save the world. Other people wandered almost nonchalantly, as though panicking was beneath them.
“You’re new, aren’t you Officer Peters?” Cal asked him, the question coming out a little less politely than intended.
“I’m in my second year with the NYPD,” he replied, clearly taking no offence. “Moved here four years ago.” Cal couldn’t place his accent but he had guessed he wasn’t native.
“My family’s from New Hampshire,” he said, anticipating the question. “I kind of upset the family tradition by wanting to be a cop,” he admitted.
“What’s the family business then?” Cal asked, not out of anything other than to pass the time as they skirted Grand Central Station and the crowds trying to get on trains which weren’t running.
“Wines and beers,” Peters said. “My father’s company owns a large distribution network and expected me and my brothers to take over the empire,” he told Cal with a smile. Something told the Englishman that the kid enjoyed upsetting the apple cart. “Told my dad I wanted to be a cop, and he went nuts. Then I told him I wanted to be a New York cop and he popped his cork. And it’s Jake.”
“Cal,” Cal replied. “So, he kicked you out and you went and did it anyway?”
“Kinda,” Jake replied, “my mom set me up with enough money to get a place here and didn’t tell my dad. She understands why I wanted to do this.”
“Why did you?” Cal asked, now interested in the answer as to why this young, rich kid wanted to be on the frontline.
Jake sighed before answering. “I was in the first grade when 9-11 happened. I remember watching it on TV and seeing what the first responders did to save people. Ever since then I wanted to be like them: someone who runs toward the danger instead of away from it.”
He stopped talking, making Cal suspect that the word ‘hero’ was on the tip of his tongue but he didn’t want to say it for fear of embarrassment.
“Well I think that’s noble,” Cal said, feeling embarrassed himself at having spoken his thoughts.
“Thanks,” Jake said, smiling at him, just as a scream pierced the afternoon air and sliced through the cacophony of a city in panic. Jake dropped his bag and drew his compact Glock 26 from the holster under his left arm; every man and woman of his squad carried a weapon off duty, wherever they were in the state, the only exception being when they were partying. Even then, their designated drivers usually had their off-duty carries with them.
“Stay here,” he hissed over his shoulder as he moved to the corner and peeked around it. Whipping his head back into cover he took three deep breaths and spun back again, disappearing into the side street. Cal moved to the corner where Jake had been and looked around. He saw the young cop moving low and using the cover of a dumpster to mask his approach, but in the background, he saw a woman struggling with a man far taller than she was, both fighting over her purse.
“Gimme the bag, bitch!” Cal heard, just as Jake stood up from cover and shouted, “NYPD, FREEZE!”
The would-be robber didn’t freeze. He fled without hesitation, deciding that the night would probably have far better spoils than just this one purse. He had no way of knowing that Jake was off-duty and had no backup; he just ran. Cal limped out into sight having picked up Jake’s bag and followed as he saw the young cop approach the woman. She was sobbing on the ground as she tried to put the spilled contents of her purse back in.
“Ma’am, are you alright? Are you hurt?” Jake said, holding his badge out to show her but still scanning the street ahead with his gun raised. The woman tried to wipe her tears away but they were replaced as quickly as they were gone. She was sobbing and terrified, but tried to smile and nod her head to say she was okay.
By the time Cal had caught up with them he saw her nod turn into a shake of her head and the tears flowed again.
“We need to get you inside somewhere,” Cal said to her, bending down and offering her a hand.
Jake holstered the stubby, compact sidearm behind inside his jacket again and picked up the bag. “Ma’am, I need to call this in only I can’t get through when I try.” He turned to Cal. “We’re only a couple blocks from your hotel, we should get there, and I’ll try to get a unit to us.” For the first time Cal saw real concern on Jake’s face, like his bravery and bravado was a front and, just like everyone else, he was scared. Cal also noticed that he had failed to mention not being able to contact his precinct by phone. Coupled with the man who dragged him away from the helicopter wreckage saying that the 911 phone system was down, Cal began to suspect that the bombs may just be the start.
“Come on,” Jake said to them both before turning to the woman who was attempting to straighten her disheveled appearance. “Ma’am, I’m Officer Jake Peters and this is Mr. Owen Calhoun from England,” he told her, introducing Cal so formally that he actually felt a little ashamed of his shabby and battered appearance.
“We’re going to get you to the Waldorf hotel where I can call for a bus to check you both out.” She nodded weakly and walked with them. Jake turned to Cal and thanked him for his help.
“I didn’t do anything!” Cal told him, thinking that if Jake hadn’t been there then he wouldn’t have been able to offer much in the way of protection.
“Maybe not,” Jake told him, “but you came with me and saved my gear. I appreciate that.”
Cal said nothing in response, embarrassed at being told he had done a good thing. The three walked slowly the remainder of the way to the Waldorf, mainly due to the crying woman with her shaking legs. Arriving at the entrance they found it locked. Jake banged on the glass, showing his badge to the nervous-looking security guard inside.
Another man, taller and wearing a crisply cut gray suit, strode over, and shot the bolts back.
“Cal?” he said. “What the hell happened to you?”
The three of them piled inside and the doors were locked again.