On The Run

Chapter Two - "Nine Lives at Suzie's"

Sarah

 

The best thing about Sundays for me was the slight emptiness of the world from my bedroom. The view of the parks through my window was much less crowded than it looked any other day of the week, combined with an increased rarity of traffic – less tooting horns with everyone at church or at brunch, and a couple out and about. That is, at least until I headed out into the center of Manhattan; then it became continuous tire screeching, harried shoppers, and the endless hustle and bustle.

The thing about cops was – especially in New York – we never got breaks. There was always a murder to solve, a fraud to expose, a heist to stop, a missing child to find; and the day of the week never really made a difference. But it was niceto see that there was indeed a difference in the days. I couldn’t help but appreciate the calmness, as I jogged through the park one Sunday evening.

As a kid, I usually spent my Sundays with my mother, who worked as a merchandising manager at Barneys, so she got her Sundays off. Unlike my father, who spent every waking minute at his law firm. So anyway, my mom and I would stroll to the deli down the street, and spend all afternoon stuffing our faces with all kinds of junk food. And then, when it got late enough, we’d go up the Empire State building, and just wait till the sun went down, all the while watching couples frolic and try to create remarkable memories. My own memories were filled with me trying not to barf up my lunch, from a mild fear of heights – certainly not as bad as my mother’s. But, every Sunday, we went back – watching new cracks form in the walls and floors, until the concrete became a pale shade of grey, and the hopeful lovers became less hopeful in my eyes, and until I didn’t have my mother to share the memories with.

I went up the elevator at the NYPD 6th Precinct about an hour after my jog, and even though all I had to do were case reports, I couldn’t help the anticipation of burying my head in my work. The department was pretty empty, with the exception of Devon Jones and Sam Branford, who I’d grown close to; they were handling the interrogations on another case.

I sat at my desk, after I grabbed a coffee from the break room, and opened up a case file. Building case reports was a rather cathartic process for me, as it meant that the case was forever erased from my mind, never to be thought of again.

I know that was a bit insensitive, but it was the best mechanism for survival, under the burden of the world of crime. And honestly, I think it helped me work better when new cases came up, and really, that was the most important thing – to move forward.

I was just reading the interrogation script when my phone rang.

“Parks, where are you?” Jake Finchley, my partner, asked when I picked up.

“Precinct. Why?” I could almost hear the words before he said them.

“We’ve got a case,” he replied, “Meet me at Suzie’s Restaurant on Bleecker.”

I groaned internally, and muttered, “I’ll be right there.”

I loved my job, despite the constant trauma from the fear of not getting to a kid on time. But sometimes, I longed for a minute of pure, unadulterated peace. No sounds. No people. No thoughts. No worries. Just peace.

I trotted down the sidewalk, heading to the restaurant, not really paying any attention to where I was going. It had gotten dark, and the eerie glow of the street lamps against the shiny wet sidewalk reminded me of observing cells through a microscope in high school. My mind was drifting off to my dorky lab partner whose name I couldn’t even begin to recall, when I slammed right into somebody a couple inches shorter than me. She had a hood on, and was breathing heavily, slightly out of breath.