New York Dead (Stone Barrington 1)

“That’s right. I wouldn’t be a policeman without a badge, would I?”

“Let me see it.”

Stone produced the little leather wallet and laid it on the table.

She flipped it open and ran a finger around the badge. “It’s gold,” she said.

“A detective’s badge is always gold. It’s what every cop wants, a gold badge.”

The waiter came and refreshed their mimosas from the pitcher, leaning over, eyeing the badge.

Stone flipped the wallet shut and put it back in his pocket.

“I want it,” she said.

“Want what?”

“The badge.”

Stone laughed and shook his head. “To get that badge, you’d have to sign up for the Police Academy, walk a beat for a few years, spend a few more in a patrol car, then get lucky on a bust or two, and have a very fine rabbi.”

“Rabbi?”

“A senior cop who takes an interest in your career.”

“Do you have a rabbi?”

“I did. His name was Ron Rosenfeld.”

“And he helped you?”

“He helped me a lot. I would never have made detective if not for him.”

“Why did he help you?” she asked.

“That’s a funny question. Why do people ever help each other?”

“But there must have been some specific reason, apart from just liking you. Did he help all young policemen?”

“No,” Stone admitted. He thought about it for a moment. “I think it may have been because he was a Jew and I was such an obvious WASP.”

“That

doesn’t make any sense. Why didn’t he help Jewish cops, instead of you?”

“I think because he had been discriminated against when he was a young patrolman, so he felt some empathy with my situation. He saw me getting passed over for good assignments, and it rankled, I guess. Oh, he helped a lot of young Jewish cops, too. It wasn’t just me.”

“Did he retire?”

“He died. It was a lot like losing my father.”

“So who helps you now?”

Stone shrugged. “Nobody. Well, Dino helps me.”

“But he’s junior to you, isn’t he?”

“Yes, but he’s more inside than I am. I think he defends me sometimes; I think it’s made a difference, too.”