Heat on the Street (Touchdown 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, alerting 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 as I took the last sip of my morning coffee. The time was 7:23 a.m.

My question was still hanging in the air when the car came to a shrieking stop. The engine fell silent and 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, and I could tell that 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 a true veteran. He was an accomplished agent who’d been with the FBI more than 20 years. While I had plenty to learn from him, I wasn’t about to kiss his butt. “I didn’t mean to get you riled up, Tim,” I said, smirking as I undid my seatbelt.

Tim and I were about as different as partners could be. He was one of those guys who had no style, no swagger. He was “by the book” all the way. His father and both of his grandfathers had been policemen, so 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.

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

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. And although I can no longer influence the lives of New York’s best minds from inside the classroom, as an FBI special agent, I can try to keep them safe outside of it. Of course, I plan on doing it my way. But doing it my way with Tim “Don’t Call Me Timmy or Else” O’Rourke on my case 25 hours a day was bound to cause some problems.

We quietly exited Tim’s car, and I led the way up to the entrance of the abandoned Skypoint Theater in Brooklyn, New York. The October sun had only been up for about 30 minutes, and 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 guns 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 under my breath.

“What’s that?” Tim asked.

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

“I can’t see anything,” Tim whispered grumpily as we walked in.

FBI agents are almost never the first on the scene of a crime, and Tim was less than happy about responding to the tip I got. 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 up the stairs. 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 in pursuit of the footsteps I 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 jeopardy—although I hoped I wouldn’t have to.

Strangely, I noticed a very strong smell of paint in the air, even though it was obvious no one had bothered to worry about the walls in here for a long time. Tiny strands of light were streaming in through an open door. I crept toward the door, which led to a small deck outside, trying to avoid the three projector tables in front of me. Then, I nearly tripped and fell flat on my face.

When I looked down at what had tripped me up, I noticed a body lying on the ground in front of me. The few strands of light pouring in revealed a puddle of blood, which the man was lying in the middle of. 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. Sure enough, there was none. The body was cold and stiff, which meant it had been there a while. My eyes adjusted to the darkness, and I could see that the dead man was on his back with his arms at his sides. His shirt was covered with blood from two gunshot wounds, and his neck was cut. It was a gruesome scene.

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

“I’m all right,” I shouted down. “We got a body up here.”

“Wait up,” Tim yelled, making his way up the stairs.

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 looked both ways and exited onto a small outdoor deck, where the movie theater’s employees used to come to escape for a few moments from the tiny projection room—to get some fresh air and sunlight.

I noticed a small, metal ladder going up to the roof of the theater and quickly stepped onto it. I made sure not to slip in my dress shoes. Clicking and clanking loudly, I hustled up the eight or so rungs 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. He shook his head. “I didn’t do it,” he yelled over to me.

I took a deep breath and dug my fingernails into my palms. I looked around and saw Bayline Park in the distance to my right, and the Pinewood Projects just to the north. The familiar street below was starting to wake up. In just a few hours, the smell of crispy pies from Original Pizza would overpower the air.
“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, slowing up as the man in the hoodie reached the end of the rooftop. 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, leaping over the 5-foot gap between buildings and skidding 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. Even with a huge leap and a three-story drop to contend with, 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 as 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 between these two buildings was even larger than the last one. As the man flew through the air, I saw the can of spray paint fall from his pocket into a dumpster in the alley below.

At this point, 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. Looking across to the other rooftop, I took about 10 steps back and tried to keep my breathing steady. I’d made the last one by about 2 feet. But this gap was easily 2 feet longer, if not more.

I started sprinting toward the ledge, not a hundred percent 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 onto the concrete surface, assessing the huge holes I had made in my brand-new pants. Then I walked toward the mysterious man, 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 without a word, 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. I moved in closer. His hands and neck were covered in gang tattoos. His skin was olive like my own, and it looked to me like we shared Puerto Rican heritage.

“Don’t do this, chaval,” I said, pointing the gun at him. “Put the knife down!” I yelled. “Do it now!”
I released the safety on my gun. We each stood for a moment without moving. He sized me up. Would I shoot him? I wondered. I was ready to do what I needed to. Or, at least I thought I was. He held the knife out menacingly.

“¿Por qué mataste a ese hombre?” I spoke to him in Spanish, 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 concrete roof. I took a deep breath of relief and unclenched my fist. I’d almost broken the skin of my right hand by digging my fingernails into my palm, 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 in his direction, he leaped 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 as I looked down, I saw him land, pause for a moment, then stand up and run away with a slight limp. He disappeared from my view, blocked by a row of houses and trees on East 94th Street.

I briefly considered trying the jump myself. But every second I stood there thinking about it, my chances of catching him dwindled. He was gone—and I didn’t have a death wish. 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 in front of his unmarked Ford a short time later. “What took you so long?” asked Tim.

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

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

Just before putting the key into the ignition, Tim turned to me with a very 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, Bill Daugherty,” Tim said. “They patrolled together for 24 years.”

I didn’t know what to say. I had no idea why Tim was telling me this.
Tim got very close to my face. “You don’t leave your partner alone—ever. That’s rule number one, and rule number two, and rule number three. 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. Now, let’s go.” Maybe I shouldn’t have been upset, but I was. 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, 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.