At 7:50 AM, Mike parked his car in a spot in the 78th Precinct’s backyard, an empty yogurt pouch dangling from his mouth.
Frank was already leaning against the driver’s side door of the patrol car, tightening the cap of a silver thermos.
“Hope you brought your brain today, rookie,” Frank said, pulling the door open and shoving the thermos into the cup holder next to the driver’s seat.
“Time to start some real work.”
“No problem.
I just stayed up a bit late.
Also, I brought coffee.” Mike had bought two iced Americanos on the way.
“Oh!
You actually got one for me?
Thanks!” Frank took it with a look of pleasant surprise.
Exchanging banter, the patrol car pulled out of the precinct and merged into the morning Brooklyn traffic.
Frank reached out and turned up the volume on the center console’s radio.
“7-Adam-12, respond to 145 Metcalf Street.
Domestic disturbance.
Caller reports husband is drunk and disorderly.”
“7-Boy-3, code 30, Kings Highway and Union Street.
Jewelry store alarm triggered.
Need you to respond immediately.”
“All units, code 91, a blue Honda Accord, partial plate covered, traveling westbound on Union Parkway.
Related to the convenience store robbery from early this morning…”
Various codes and numbers flowed from the dispatch center over the car radio.
Mike frowned, trying to decipher the information.
The second one was for a robbery, and code 91 meant a vehicle was involved in a crime?
“Forgot what you learned in the academy that fast?
It’s fine.
Don’t expect to remember it all in one day.” Frank kept one hand on the steering wheel and took a sip of his coffee with the other.
“I never went to the academy, but I took the entrance exams back in the day.
Some things felt impossible to memorize then, but after a few days on the street, you’ll feel like you’ll never forget them as long as you live!”
Just as Mike was reflecting on those words, the radio crackled again.
This time, they were called directly: “7-Adam-5, please acknowledge.”
Frank immediately keyed the mic.
“7-Adam-5, go ahead, Dispatch.”
“7-Adam-5, proceed to Lafayette Street and Hollander Plaza for a traffic accident.
Two vehicles involved, no reports of injuries.
Code 78-31.”
“7-Adam-5, en route.” Frank hung up the mic and cranked the wheel left to pull a U-turn.
“This is our daily legacy—acting as referees for two idiots who don’t know how to drive.”
The scene was exactly as Frank had predicted.
An old Chevrolet and a Toyota Camry with a dented door were squeezed together at the intersection.
The two drivers were standing by their cars, red-faced and screaming accusations at each other.
The patrol car pulled over, and the two officers stepped out.
Frank patted Mike on the shoulder.
“Be patient.”
Mike took a deep breath and stepped forward, flashing the shield pinned to his belt.
“NYPD!
Gentlemen, calm down.”
He used his body to separate the two men, who were practically nose-to-nose.
“I’ll make this quick.
Stop shouting; you’re blocking the whole road.”
Following the procedures he’d learned at the academy, he checked both drivers’ licenses and registrations, examined the marks at the scene, and recorded the vehicle information and statements from both parties.
One insisted the other ran a red light; the other maintained the first was speeding.
No cameras.
A “he said, she said” case.
Frank leaned against the patrol car’s hood, hands resting on his belt.
As Mike approached, he reminded him, “Don’t forget the scene sketch.
Also, ask if that Camry has a dashcam, though I bet it doesn’t.”
Ultimately, Mike could only file a simple traffic accident report, stating that fault could not be determined at this time and suggesting they resolve it through their respective insurance companies.
The two drivers drove off, grumbling and cursing.
“How’d that feel, future Great Detective?” Frank asked with a grin as they got back into the car.
“More…
patience-draining than I imagined.”
Mike rubbed his brow and buckled his seatbelt.
“Welcome to the NYPD!”
Frank started the engine and patted the steering wheel.
“Remember, even in the most boring dispute, someone could suddenly pull a gun.”
The car turned onto a highway ramp leading toward Brooklyn Heights.
The spectacular skyline of Lower Manhattan came into view without warning.
“I’ll show you something different, rookie, so your impression of New York isn’t just gangs and trash cans.” Frank jerked his chin toward the view ahead.
It was a cluster of unique skyscrapers.
Among them, two buildings with vastly different styles caught Mike’s eye.
One was a sleek, futuristic spiral tower topped with a massive “STARK INDUSTRIES” sign.
The other looked somber and ancient, adorned with Gothic spires, featuring a giant “OSCORP” lightbox at its peak.
“That’s Stark Industries, and the Oscorp Tower.”
Frank noticed Mike’s gaze, his tone carrying its usual sarcasm.
“One sells the most advanced missiles to the military, and the other spends all day behind closed doors tinkering with genetic and chemical crap nobody understands.
I heard the old geezers at Oscorp have been fighting internally so hard lately that their stock price has dropped so low even their mothers wouldn’t recognize it.”
Mike nodded, momentarily lost in thought.
Stark Industries…
Tony Stark was likely still traveling the world enjoying his life as an arms dealer and playboy, completely unaware of the fate awaiting him.
And Oscorp…
Norman Osborn was probably trapped in board meetings and struggling against his family’s hereditary disease.
The madness of the Green Goblin had not yet descended upon this city.
To Frank and the vast majority of New Yorkers on the street, those were just two famous corporate office buildings, names that occasionally popped up on the television news.
But Mike knew that inside those seemingly peaceful buildings, storms were brewing that would be enough to overturn this ordinary world.
But for now, they were just part of the city skyline.
“What’s it got to do with us?”
Mike withdrew his gaze, his tone flat and undisturbed.
At least for now, it had nothing to do with him.
“Haha, well said!” Frank was amused and let out a laugh.
“While those billionaires are sipping champagne on the top floor, we’re down here smelling the freshest piss in the alleyways.
We and them live in two completely different New Yorks.”
A moment later, the patrol car drove down the exit ramp and merged back into the chaotic streets of Brooklyn, leaving the cluster of skyscrapers far behind.
The radio broke the silence again, and this time, the dispatcher’s voice carried a hint of urgency: “7-Adam-5, code 10-10.”
Frank’s expression turned serious instantly.
He grabbed the radio.
“7-Adam-5 received.
Provide location.” He then lowered his voice to explain to Mike, “Gang activity.
Sharpen up.”
“Roosevelt Avenue, outside the ‘Old Place’ pool hall near 9th Street.
Reports of over a dozen gang members gathering, possibly armed.
Exercise caution.
Other units are being dispatched for backup.”
“7-Adam-5, copy.”
Frank put down the mic and slammed on the siren.
The patrol car’s engine let out a low growl as the vehicle began to accelerate.
“Check your gear, rookie.
Chamber a round in your Glock, but keep your finger off the trigger until I tell you otherwise.” Frank’s voice was no longer lazy; it had turned cold.
“We’re not going in for counter-terrorism; we’re just there to control the situation and stop those little punks from making things worse.
Remember, protect yourself and wait for backup.”
“Got it, Frank!”
Mike instinctively touched the Glock in his holster, while simultaneously glancing at the Desert Eagle in his mental system space.
He felt a profound sense of security.