Free Burn (Michael Bennett 7) by James Patterson Page A

GOT OUT OF the house at an extra-early six-thirty the next morning to beat the traffic.
    Not the commuter traffic in the street so much as the always-heavy bathroom traffic in my apartment on weekday mornings.
    From the corner deli, I grabbed a breakfast sandwich and a coffee and the paper. The Post wasn’t in yet, but the Daily News was, so I picked up a copy, which I perused in the front seat of my Chevy as I ate my ham, egg, and cheese.
    After I read the sports section, I flipped the paper over. I skimmed through what Kanye was up to these days, and then I read something interesting on page four.
    There was a story about a jewel heist at some high-end jewelry shop out in Brooklyn.
    The criminals seemed sophisticated. Rushing in wearing ski masks and brandishing handguns, they’d forced the store staff to the ground before smashing display cases with ball-peen hammers and grabbing the most expensive items. The smash-and-grab gang had struck thrice and was always in and out in minutes and got away without a trace.
    It really did sound like an interesting case, I thought as I put down the paper and started the car. A crew of professional thieves was something a cop could really sink his teeth into. I imagined the stakeouts and suspect interviews, the adrenaline-laced thrill of the hunt.
    Then I stopped fantasizing as I reminded myself that my involvement with high-profile cases was now a thing of the past.
    I was first one in at the ombudsman office at 125th in Harlem. After I keyed myself in, I turned on the lights and parked myself at my desk. I was drinking a coffee to the sound of a soothing Mozart horn concerto from YouTube and going through more complaints when a woman poked her head in the doorway.
    “Detective Bennett?” she said.
    It took me a few seconds to realize that it was the clerk I’d sent home yesterday. It was hard to recognize her, what with the long-sleeved blouse and tailored pants and no gaudy makeup. The only earrings she wore were in her ears this morning, I noted happily. She looked quite respectable and professional. Well, what did you know? Day two and I was already making some headway.
    “Yes, Ms. Ramirez?” I said, taking note of her name tag.
    “I just wanted to apologize for my appearance and behavior and stuff yesterday. I read the manual like you said, and I’m going to follow it. I actually like my job, and I’d like to try to show you that I’m actually really good at it if you give me another chance.”
    “Sounds good, Ms. Ramirez,” I said.
    “Oh, please call me Roz,” she said, smiling.
    I didn’t smile back. The last thing this tattooed young lady needed was to be more casual in the workplace.
    “That’s OK,” I said. “I’ll just stick with Ms. Ramirez for now, Ms. Ramirez.”

CHAPTER 21
     
    FIRST UP ON THE day’s agenda was a squad meeting I called and held in the small conference room next to my office.
    By a little after nine, around the battered laminate table that was almost too big for the room sat the squad’s full retinue of un usual suspects.
    Gung-ho Jimmy Doyle was present and accounted for on my left, beside a happy Arturo Lopez and the stylish Noah Robertson. On my right was wired-a-little-too-tight Naomi Chast, sitting beside a new female cop who’d been in court testifying the day before.
    The new cop’s name was Brooklyn Kale, and she was a nice-looking and very tall young black woman. I’d read in her file that the six-three Brooklyn had played basketball with the University of Connecticut Lady Huskies and was one of the point guards on the 2009 NCAA championship team. She was also a Harlem native who’d grown up six blocks north up Adam Clayton Powell Boulevard.
    Which I liked. Brooklyn knew the area, the community, had some skin in the game. I just hoped her policing skills were comparable to her accuracy from the three-point line.
    I started off the meeting by handing out the current docket of complaints I’d had Ms. Ramirez print