The Blue Helmet - DO NOT ORDER - available in Canada only

One "I thought you guys aren't supposed to smoke on duty." The fat plainclothes cop named Carpino lowered his window an inch. "You're a strange one to talk about rules," he said. The unmarked police car hissed through deserted Sunday morning streets, wipers flapping greasy drizzle from the windshield, the rattling fan fighting a losing battle against condensation. My father would have had a fit if he'd heard the fan, and launched into a rant about proper maintenance. But, as usual, he wasn'taround. I sat up front beside the cop. The car was hot and stuffy and smelled of stale coffee, hamburger grease, and tobacco. With the palm of my hand I squeegeed mist from the side window. Outside, the rain brimmed in the curb gutters, pushing dirt and soggy food wrappers toward plugged sewer grates. My head throbbed and I winced every time the car hit a pothole. I flipped down the visor and examined my face in the vanity mirror. An angry red scab was forming over the split in my swollen upper lip, my nose was puffed and red, and the cheek under one eye was bruised and purple. Disgusted, I pushed the visor back into position. "Anyway," I told the cop, "you're wasting your time. I'll be back." He dropped his cigarette butt out the window, took a left through an orange light, and headed toward the on-ramp for the highway. "Think about it, Lee," he replied. "You've got no choice here. You've burned all your bridges." I said nothing. Maybe he was right, maybe he wasn't. I stared out the side window and let my mind take me back to the night before, to my assignment. I played the scene over and over, searching for clues that would tell me what had gone wrong. "It'll be a piece of cake." "I've heard that one before." "No, really. You'll be in and out in five minutes, ten at the most." Classes were in session and the school parking lot was quiet. I was supposed to be in Math class. "Where is this place?" I asked, zipping my jacket against the frosty breeze. Vernor opened the driver's door of his Mustang and pulled a folded map from the door pocket. He spread the map on the hood, tapped a spot with a finger tip. "Here. On Market Street." "Down by the docks. Near the old distillery." "Right. You get around back through the alley. It's an auto supply store, a small one, with an office on the second floor." "So it'll have a burglar alarm." "My source says not. Here's how it will work. Behind the store, there's a small basement window, almost hidden by a dumpster. It's broken. You go in, make your way to the second floor. Leave through the back door and down the fire escape. You make sure the door is left unlocked." "And then what?" "And then nothing. You just walk away. We'll take care of the rest." "What's in there? Cash?" "Not for you to know." "Why don't I just take what you want while I'm there?" "Not for you to know." "What's the point of me going in through the window and leaving the door unlocked if" "You ask too many questions. That's always been your problem." A gust of wind snatched the map and Vernor lunged to recapture it. He folded iBell, William is the author of 'The Blue Helmet - DO NOT ORDER - available in Canada only', published 2006 under ISBN 9780385662468 and ISBN 0385662467.