Heat on the Street (Home Run Edition)

Chapter 1: On the Rooftops

“You got an anonymous tip your first week on the job?” asked Tim O’Rourke from the driver’s seat of his unmarked Ford Taurus. “You have no idea how unusual that is, Rookie.”

I didn’t know who had sent the email. It alerted me to the sound of gunshots at the abandoned Skypoint Theater. Still, I wasn’t about to ignore it—even if my new partner was sure this tip would lead us nowhere.

“Well, I like being unusual,” I replied. “It keeps things interesting. Doesn’t it, Timmy?” I smiled sarcastically at my new partner. The time was 7:23 a.m.

The car came to a shrieking stop. Tim’s eyes pointed at me like daggers. “If you call me Timmy again, you and I will have a problem.”

It was only my third day. But I could tell my new partner wasn’t a big fan of mine. My name’s Bobby Cortez, and I liked to do things my way. Tim, on the other hand, was an accomplished agent. He’d been with the FBI for more than 20 years. While I had plenty to learn from him, I wasn’t about to kiss up to him. “I didn’t mean to get you riled up, Tim,” I said.

Tim and I were as different as partners could be. He was “by the book” all the way. His father and both of his grandfathers had been policemen. He’d been raised with a strict image of how a lawman was supposed to act. A smart-mouthed rookie like me, who liked to do things by the seat of his pants, got under Tim’s skin in a big way.

Those first few days, Tim never passed up the chance to remind me that there was a right way to practice law enforcement—and a wrong way. Most of our conversations started out with Tim saying something like, “Rookies don’t know squat.”

Because I didn’t take the usual path to the FBI, Tim felt even less confident about working with me. Most agents work in their local police departments or as lawyers before applying to the Bureau. Not me—I was a former high school teacher and track coach in Buffalo, New York.

As a teacher, I had my own style, too. That’s one of the things that made me good at the job. I can no longer influence the lives of New York’s best minds from inside the classroom. But as an FBI special agent, I can try to keep them safe outside of it. Of course, I plan on doing it my way.

We exited Tim’s car, and I led the way up to the abandoned Skypoint Theater in Brooklyn. The place was dark and deserted. We moved carefully through a small hole in the wooden boards covering the front of the building. This was the heart of gang territory, so we were ready to draw our weapons at any moment.

Tim shook his head as we ducked inside. “What a burnout this old place is,” he said.

“Wasn’t always,” I whispered.

“What’s that?” Tim asked.

“Nothing,” I said. “My tip said last night’s gunshots came from upstairs.”

FBI agents are almost never the first on the scene of a crime. Federal agents like us generally come on board after “unis”—regular cops who wear standard uniforms—have already taken stock of a crime scene.
As we moved slowly in the dark, we heard footsteps above us. “Identify yourself,” Tim yelled. There was no response. Then we heard some shuffling, followed by running. “FBI, stay where you are!” he called out.

Without waiting for my partner, I turned right and bolted up the stairs.

“Hang on, Cortez!” Tim yelled in an annoyed voice.

I was long gone, racing after the footsteps I had heard. They stopped suddenly when I reached the second floor. It was pitch-black, except for a small light coming from the projector room. I headed in with my heart racing and my finger on the trigger of my Glock-22. I was ready to fire if my life was in danger—although I hoped I wouldn’t have to.

I noticed a strong smell of paint in the air. This was strange, because it was obvious no one had worried about the walls in here for a long time. I crept toward an open door, which led to a small deck outside. I was trying to avoid the three projector tables in front of me. But then, I nearly tripped and fell flat on my face.

When I looked down, I noticed a body lying on the ground in front of me. The few strands of light pouring in revealed a puddle of blood. The man was lying in the middle of it. My heart nearly stopped. I had never been so close to a dead person.

“Hello?” I asked, trying to confirm what I already assumed. There was no answer. I felt behind his ear to check for a pulse. There was none. The body was cold and stiff, which meant it had been there a while. The dead man’s shirt was covered with blood from two gunshot wounds. His neck was cut, too. It was a terrible scene.

“Cortez, where are you?” Tim yelled from downstairs.

I shouted down, “We got a body up here.”

Just then, I heard a noise coming from the other side of the open door. Someone was definitely out there. Springing to my feet, I headed for the door. I exited onto a small outdoor deck.

I noticed a ladder going up to the roof of the theater and quickly stepped onto it. I hustled up to the rooftop.

Once up there, I saw a man in a white hoodie standing about 50 feet away from me. He was holding a can of spray paint. I moved slowly across the roof and made eye contact with him. “I didn’t do it,” he yelled.
I took a deep breath and dug my fingernails into my palms.

“I believe you,” I yelled back, reaching slowly for my gun. “Come with me and let’s talk about it.”
It’s never that easy, though. A second later, the guy took off running. I started after him toward the other end of the rooftop. There was another, shorter building next door. I walked toward him, waiting for him to fall to his knees so I could take him in.

“You got nowhere to go!” I screamed. I raised my gun and shouted, “Put your hands over your head and—”

Right in the middle of this sentence, I watched him take off like a bird. He leapt over the 5-foot gap between buildings and skidded onto the next rooftop. I couldn’t believe he’d tried the jump, or that he’d made it. Now, I had a decision to make: to jump or not to jump?

There was no time to think. I moved to the ledge and saw the man run across the next rooftop and head for the other end. Nobody outruns Bobby Cortez, I thought. I couldn’t let this guy get away.

Holstering my gun, I took a long and deep breath. Without another thought, I sprinted toward the ledge…
It felt like I hung in the air forever. I flew toward the other rooftop and landed with my hands behind me like a long jumper.

Standing up quickly, I started running again. The man in the hoodie had almost reached the other side of the rooftop. Without stopping, he turned back to see if he had lost me. When he saw that I was still after him, he leapt to the next rooftop. The gap was even larger than the last one. I saw the can of spray paint fall from his pocket into a dumpster in the alley below.

I was sure there was nowhere for him to go, except the street, three stories down. The next rooftop over was way too far for him to jump to. But to arrest him, I’d still have to make this last jump myself.

I started sprinting toward the ledge, not sure I would make it. The man in the hoodie reached the other end of the roof just as I took off. He was running out of options and knew it. I hung in the air again for what felt like an hour, reaching my arms toward the next building…

I made it—sort of. My upper half landed softly. But my legs crashed into the front of the building with a painful thud.

I pulled myself up and walked toward the mysterious man. I was still trying to catch my breath. He was standing at the other end of the roof. “It’s over,” I said, flashing my badge. “Put your hands in the air.”
He turned away from me and looked down at the street below. I noticed an orange handkerchief hanging from his back pocket. He’s a Tigre, I thought, recognizing that bandana instantly. He turned back toward me, reached into his other pocket, and pulled out a knife.

I took a step back, pulling my gun from its holster. At that moment, I started to realize that this was more of a boy than a man. He was 17, maybe younger. His hands and neck were covered in gang tattoos. His skin was olive like my own. It looked to me like we shared a Puerto Rican heritage.

“Don’t do this,” I said, pointing the gun at him. “Put the knife down!”

I released the safety on my gun. We each stood for a moment without moving. Would I shoot him? I wondered. I was ready to do what I needed to. Or, at least I thought I was.

“¿Por qué mataste a ese hombre?” I spoke to him in Spanish. I was asking him why he’d killed the man in the projector room.

The kid in the hoodie looked confused. “I speak English. And I told you, I didn’t kill nobody!”

“Then put down the knife,” I said. “And let’s talk about it.”

A sense of relief rushed over me as I watched him toss the knife onto the roof. I’d almost broken the skin of my right hand by digging my fingernails into my palm. This was a nervous habit I’d had since childhood.
Sighing loudly, I put my gun back into its holster. “Good decision,” I said. But before I could take another step, he leapt off the rooftop to the street below. It must have been a 30-foot drop.

I hurried toward the ledge and watched his arms flail in the air and his legs run in place. I thought there was no way he’d make the jump without a major injury. But I saw him land, pause for a moment, then stand up and run away with a slight limp. Then he disappeared from my view.

I considered trying the jump myself. But every second I stood there thinking about it, my chances of catching him dwindled. Just then, I heard Tim’s loud voice call to me from three rooftops away. “You might as well jump, Rook, because I’m gonna knock you out for this. Meet me back at my car!” he shouted. “And take the stairs or I’ll arrest you.”

“Arrest me for what?” I asked.

“Stupidity,” he replied.

I knew I’d broken quite a few rules by leaving Tim alone and risking my life on these rooftops. Now I’d have to face the wrath of my angry partner, and our boss, the director.

Yes, what I did seemed totally reckless. But the truth was, I knew this place very well. I’d been in that theater a hundred times as a kid. The Skypoint neighborhood of Brooklyn had been my home for the first 14 years of my life.

I joined Tim downstairs a short time later. “What took you so long?” asked Tim.

“I was dumpster diving,” I told him. I held up the can of spray paint that the guy in the hoodie had dropped.

“Let’s go take a better look at the crime scene.”

“No,” Tim said. “That’s what I was doing while you were playing Spiderman up there. I got all the info we need already.”

“Listen, Tim, I know I went too far, but I had to try to—” I started to say.

“It was a dumb move—and you’re lucky you didn’t end up dead.” Tim’s intensity turned softer. “You’ve got heart, kid. The way you chased that guy and jumped those rooftops was impressive. Stupid and dangerous, but impressive,” he said.

“Thanks, I guess,” I said as I got into the car.

Tim turned to me with a serious expression. “You know where my grandfather is buried?” he asked.

“What?” I had no idea where he was going with this.

“He’s buried to the left of my grandmother, and to the right of his partner,” Tim said. “They patrolled together for 24 years.”

Tim got very close to my face. “You don’t leave your partner alone—ever. My partner of 21 years retired last month—which is why we’re together now. And in 21 years he never left me like that. You do something like that again, I’ll eat you for lunch,” he said.

“All right,” I said. “I’m sorry. But why can’t I go look at the crime scene?”

“’Cause I’ve already called in the unis. They’ll have a photographer in there soon,” Tim said. “You can see the pictures later. Believe me, Rookie, you’re not gonna catch anything I didn’t.” I couldn’t believe that Tim wasn’t even going to let me have a look at the crime scene. Tim saw my frustrated expression and continued lecturing me. “You’re in the heart of gang country. You’re chasing some hoodlum alone across a bunch of old rooftops that he knows like the back of his hand. That’s a good way to end up dead.”

I silently slunk back into my seat as Tim drove away. There was a lot that my partner didn’t know about me. I also knew those rooftops—all too well.