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Manifest Destinies
2:45 PM July 12, 1999 New York City(Before the Rise of the Internet and the Fall of the Towers)
Sweltering summer. It says 96 degrees on the bank sign thermometers and the humidity is well over 90 percent. Reporters for the twenty-four-hour news shows are frying eggs on patches of blacktop. The wall-mounted air conditioning units in the FBI field office are howling but it has to be over 8o degrees in the cubicle farm that has taken over the 23rd floor at the Federal Building in downtown New York. Tempers are short. Clothes are sticky. Special Agent Miranda Rees is pretty certain that several of the men are looking at her as if she has a piece of toilet paper stuck to her backside. Shes checked herself a couple of times in reflective surfaces, but as far as she can tell her wardrobe is unsullied. Then one of the executive assistants for the guys with corner offices clues her in.
Theyre taking bets that if it gets any hotter in here, theyll be able to see your nipples through your blouse, Gladys in Accounting whispers at the copier.
Fun aside, its a busy day in the city. Rumors of terrorist plots swirl in chat groups on the Internet. Organized crime low-lives are selling their souls for a chance at redemption in the interrogation rooms in the basement, and there are rumors that the NYPD has a serial killer on their hands. Theres a healthy rivalry between the two police forces in the city and until they ask for help or the crimes cross state lines, the FBI has no jurisdiction over what happens on Manhattan Island. The rumors are unconfirmed.
Rees! Get yer tight ass in here!
Deputy Assistant Director Peter Dawes is middle-aged, overweight, and has been passed by on the promotion ladder so many times he knows he is not going any higher. Its made him angry and petulant. He was always a sexist asshole even before his career collapsed. But hes one of her bosses, and the effort of reporting him for harassment would ruin her own career as well.
At least his office is a good ten degrees cooler than the bullpen. So much for the chance of sweating through her clothing. She can almost hear the groans of disappointment behind her as she closes the door.
Dawes has been shunted aside to be a liaison with the NYPD. Hes not in charge of any of the inter-agency task forces that have been so successful in recent years, but he is the person the police contact when they have to involve the FBI in a local crime usually because some aspect of the crime has crossed a state line and they need federal authority to access another police departments records.
Shes a bit surprised hes picked her to be his gopher. Her skills are more specialized than most and usually it would be one of the newly minted agents that would be dispatched to hold hands. Nevertheless, the relief from the drop in temperature is enough to make her receptive to what he has to say.
Need a medical specialist in the Holland Tunnel, he grunts, tossing a printout on the desk in front of her. Several bodies. Nasty. Some in New York, some in New Jersey. Active scene. What the fuck are you still doing in my office?
The printout is a single sheet:
Detective Jake Morris, Canal Street Station, Broadway and Harris 3:30 PM (212) 678-3322