ANGEL BLUE [1]

LEAD 21: nypd red

      I show my right wrist to the S4 and they raise theirs in return so I can see the thick yellow band of rubber. Two men stand on either side of the large doors with one hand to their intercom and the other resting on their gun holster. Their two teammates have the rosters of admittance, one with pictures, the other with names―Banks and I are the only females on the security detail.

      We all look like FBI in unmarked black suits, white button-ups and black ties. I, of course, deviated from the dress code slightly by wearing Sam’s blue tie since he continues to insist on me keeping it. I’m an epitome of blue, a beacon of S5, I swear if anyone asks me for confirmation of what Squad I’m on, I will punch them in the nose.

      “What do you mean I’m not on the list?” a voice travels up the stairs towards the plush carpeting of the entryway where me, Banks and Adams are standing. “I have my ID and everything!”

      I excuse myself from Banks and Adams’ company since they’re both still enthralled in conversation and head towards the doors. Both men guarding the entrance make their move towards Sam, whose currently throwing a hissy fit and flashing his FBI credentials. I hold up my hand to them.

      “He’s with me,” I call to the two S4 Officers that’re flipping frantically through their sheets. They give me an odd look before motioning for Sam to come inside. The reason he wasn’t on the list is because he’s (technically) not on Angel Blue anymore.

      “I had no idea the NYPD hated the Bureau so much,” Sam huffs.

      There’s sweat trickling down his brow and Sam looks utterly dishelved. His bronze hair droops over his eyebrows and his black tie is askew. It looks like he ran from the precinct up to Central Park, knowing Sam; I wouldn’t put it past him.

      “You could say that,” I walk over to Banks and Adams, “Prat’s here now we can get this party started.”

      “Officer Marino Adams,” Adams extends his hand.

      “Special Agent Samuel Pingelly,” both men shake in greeting.

      “FED?” Adams raises an eyebrow.

      “FBI,” Sam pouts.

      Once we’re all acquainted, we walk through the hallway towards the large main ballroom where people are drinking champagne or wine and eating horderves from silver platters. Since I’m not allowed to drink, I walk around with a glass of water and try to pass it off as schnapps. 

      There’s a soft pound of music from the orchestra that’s been hired. They play by the large white table that holds the horderves and ice buckets of alcohol. Great, if this night’s a failure, we all can get wasted―well planned Dad. The thought of Dad makes my lips turn down; I have to interview him regarding the Shellac for the flooring in the apartment and his whereabouts at said time.

      “Lieutenant Hotsuga, this is my daughter Akira Stevens,” I feel Dad tug harshly on my shoulder and I’m pulled away from S5. I’m turned in front of a small semi-circle of people who are of hire rank and stature, most oriental.

      “Ah, Officer,” the Japanese man extends his hand for me to shake, “your father has told me lots about you. From what I know, you’re good at your job.”

      “Detective, actually,” I say with a polite smile on my lips and release Hotsuga’s hand. The man’s bushy brows rise at Dad in question. The party of people must know how old I am because Dad clears his throat.

      “The proof is in the pudding folks,” Dad says.

      “Actually I was hoping to speak with you,” I lean into Dad. He’s dressed formally in his uniform with all four gold stars on his shoulder. There’s a medallion with an eagle on his cap.