When O'Brien returned to the 103rd Precinct, dusk had already fallen.
The fluorescent light at the precinct entrance, which never seemed to get fixed, was the same as always, flickering on and off as if rolling its eyes at everyone who came and went.
He pushed open the door, and a mixture of coffee, disinfectant, and cheap air freshener hit him... It was a smell he had known for twenty years. He could no longer tell whether it was pleasant or unpleasant.
There were only two people in the duty room.
The officer on duty at the front desk was chewing on a sandwich. He glanced at O'Brien and mumbled a greeting.
At the desk beside the duty roster, Sergeant Morales frowned at his computer screen, his fingers tapping slowly at the keyboard as if struggling with some stubborn system.
Morales was fifty-two years old and had spent twenty-six years with the NYPD, working his way up from patrol officer to sergeant.
His hair had already gone gray, and the wrinkles on his face made him look at least five years older than he was. That was probably standard for the 103rd Precinct in Jamaica; everyone seemed to age a little faster after staying there long enough.
The Jamaica Community was a Black neighborhood at a transit crossroads in Queens. It wasn't the worst neighborhood, but it wasn't great, either.
Especially after last year's financial crisis, headquarters had ordered the 103rd Precinct to crack down on crime without increasing its budget by much. The precinct had been given a heavier workload than before.
So when O'Brien stood in the doorway, he hesitated.
The precinct was short-staffed and overworked, and now he...
Two thousand three hundred bucks.
O'Brien let out a heavy sigh.
"Knock, knock, knock."
"Sergeant Morales."
Morales looked up and took off his reading glasses. He glanced at O'Brien, then at the clock on the wall.
"O'Brien? Aren't you supposed to be off duty?"
"Yes, sir. But... I'd like to take tomorrow off."
"Tomorrow?"
Morales leaned back in his chair and tapped the desk twice with his fingers.
"What's the reason?"
It was a routine question. The NYPD leave request form had a box for "Reason for Leave," and most of the time, writing "personal matters" was enough. Nobody asked any follow-up questions.
But the 103rd Precinct's patrol workload was heavy, and one of its veteran officers suddenly asking for a day off was another straw on an already overloaded department's back.
So there was a distinct "you'd better give me a good enough reason" edge to Morales's voice.
O'Brien hesitated.
For working people in the United States, having tax problems was a serious matter.
If your supervisor found out, your career would be over, because they could find a reason to dock your pay or even fire you.
And because of the sensitive nature of their work, police officers were even more afraid of that than most people.
O'Brien didn't want his boss to know that he had a major tax problem. It might make him suspect that O'Brien had taken dirty money.
But hiding it was even worse. When the IRS sent a letter to a police officer, Internal Affairs would very likely investigate what was going on, which would eventually let Morales find out.
If he hadn't taken any dirty money, coming clean in advance still left room to salvage the situation. If he waited for his superiors to discover it on their own, things would spiral out of control.
Besides, if he got the day off, he could wait at home tomorrow for Dr. Lin An to come over, and everything would be resolved perfectly. He might even get a tax refund.
So, about this...
"The IRS sent me a CP2000, sir."
He said.
"It says I underreported some income in 2008."
Morales frowned.
"How much did you underreport?"
"Seven thousand four hundred and thirty-one dollars."
"You underreported more than seven thousand? How could you be so careless when you took the money—using your own bank card?"
Morales sounded surprised.
"I didn't underreport anything, sir."
O'Brien's voice grew urgent.
"The money came from selling my father's old things on Amazon after he died, but the IRS letter says I received seven thousand four hundred and thirty-one dollars through PayPal. In reality, I only received about thirty-five hundred.
"The rest was income from things my father sold while he was alive. His PayPal account was linked to my bank account, so the IRS's system counted both amounts as mine."
Morales was silent for a moment after hearing him out.
He'd spent twenty-six years on the job and had seen more reports, disputes, and trouble than he could count.
But tax problems weren't like muggings on the street... At least with a mugging, there was a clear bad guy. With tax problems, you couldn't even figure out where the enemy was.
"If you understand what happened, then you must have found someone to help you."
He asked.
"An accountant or a tax lawyer? How much will it cost to sort out?"
"Neither."
O'Brien said.
"Last night, while I was on patrol with Patrick, I met a PhD student being taken to the subway station on a bicycle by Ni Ge.
"Because of Ni Ge, we stopped the bike, and that's how we met the math finance PhD student riding on the back. I asked him for help today. At the café, he looked through all my documents and immediately figured out what the problem was.
"He said he could help me write an appeal and get the tax issue resolved."
"Really?"
Morales sounded skeptical.
"How much is he charging you?"
"Nothing. He's helping me for free."
Morales raised an eyebrow.
In this country, the word "free" made people more wary than "cheap."
At least cheap things had a price. With free things... you never knew what they would end up costing you.
"Did God kiss you last night and send one of His angels to help you?"
"I don't think so, sir, because the PhD student I met is an international student from China. He probably doesn't believe in God."
"Oh, an international student from China."
The puzzled look on Morales's face softened a little. He leaned back in his chair and folded his hands over his stomach.
Chinese people were always very helpful, so that wasn't surprising.
"Which school does he go to?"
"He's a PhD student at Columbia University. Department of Mathematical Finance. His advisor is Robert Jero."
Morales nodded, and the wrinkles on his face seemed to relax a little.
In his twenty-six years as a police officer in New York, he'd met plenty of Chinese people.
There were good and bad Chinese people, and recently there had also been some idiots who'd come up from South America on the streets.
But aside from those dumb fools, most Chinese people had left him with a good impression... They didn't commit crimes for no reason, and even when there were bad ones, it was usually economic crime, rarely anything involving violence or murder.
Especially Chinese international students. In Morales's mind, they were model students.
He remembered something his daughter had once told him.
When she attended the City University of New York, half her class had been Chinese students. At home, his daughter had complained about all sorts of things: the professors' thick accents, the cafeteria food, the noisy dorms. But she'd never complained about her Chinese classmates.
It wasn't because she didn't want to complain. There was simply nothing to complain about.
Those Chinese students sat at the front of the classroom, spent their time in the library after class, got A's on their exams, and never caused trouble. Once, there was a shooting near the school. American students were too scared to leave their homes, but the Chinese students still went to the library with their backpacks...
They'd checked the police department's website and found the shooting was six blocks away from the library, "within the safe zone."
At the time, Morales had thought those Chinese people were incredibly naive, too ready to trust the police.
The way they thought put them on a completely different wavelength from all the drug dealers, muggers, and troublemakers he'd met.
"Sir, do you know Professor Robert Jero?"
"I don't."
Morales's fingers paused on the keyboard. He turned to look at O'Brien.
"But why not look him up on the computer?"
He turned back and tapped a few keys. The faculty page for Columbia's Department of Mathematical Finance appeared on the screen, and he squinted at it for a while.
"Robert Jero... financial mathematics, asset pricing, risk management..."
He muttered as he read, then scrolled down the page.
"Professor in the Department of Mathematical Finance at Columbia University, the Johnson Graduate School of Management's Investment Management Professor at Cornell University, formerly taught at MIT... PhD from the Massachusetts Institute of Technology, where he studied under Nobel laureate Robert Merton."
Morales pushed his reading glasses higher on his nose and studied the information on the screen.
"It says he's one of the top scholars in international mathematical finance, with pioneering contributions in asset pricing, the term structure of interest rates, and credit risk models."
He stopped there and turned to look at O'Brien.
"Your Chinese friend is this professor's PhD student?"
"That's what he told me, sir."
Morales turned back to the screen and clicked a few times to bring up Professor Jero's list of publications.
"Pricing Financial Derivatives, Modeling Interest Rate Options, Credit Risk, Financial Markets and Risk Management..."
He read out a few titles, then paused and let out a sigh of admiration.
"This guy's written five books and published more than a hundred papers."
He took off his reading glasses, leaned back in his chair, and looked at O'Brien.
"Do you know what that means?"
"No, sir."
"It means your Chinese friend has an advisor who's one of the people in the world who knows the most about financial mathematics."
Morales pointed at the screen.
"It's like... you know how much weight a precinct officer carries if his instructor was a retired police inspector?"
O'Brien nodded. He understood that comparison.
"And..."
Morales turned back to the computer and typed a few words into the search box. He hit Enter, and more results appeared on the screen.
He opened a page and read aloud.
"Professor Jero received the 1997 Financial Engineer of the Year Award from the International Association of Financial Engineers for his outstanding contributions to financial mathematics, and was inducted into the Fixed Income Analysts Society Hall of Fame and the Risk Magazine Hall of Fame..."
He stopped there.
"Jeez... This guy's a big deal."
He closed the browser window, turned around, folded his hands over his stomach, and gave O'Brien a scrutinizing look.
"So you really met a student of a professor that famous?"
"Yes, sir."
Morales was silent for a few seconds, then turned back to face the computer screen.
"O'Brien, what's your Chinese friend's name?"
"Lin An, sir."
"How do you spell it?"
"L-I-N, A-N."
Morales typed in the name. His fingers paused over the Enter key for a second, then pressed it.
While the screen loaded, he took off his reading glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose.
The New York police system was comprehensive. With Sergeant Morales's access, he could look up a person's arrest record, criminal record, traffic tickets, parking violations, and even citations for drinking in a park.
When the system refreshed, Morales glanced at the screen and frowned.
"What did you find, sir?"
Morales didn't answer right away. He leaned forward again and entered some new search terms... the DMV database, New York City records, and even the federal criminal database interface.
The results were the same every time.
He closed the DMV window and opened another page: the municipal property system, utility registrations, voter registration, library card applications.
Nothing.
He leaned back in his chair, stared at the screen, and tapped the desk twice with his fingers.
"Guess what, O'Brien?"
He said.
"What, sir?"
"Dr. Lin An has nothing in the system. No arrest record, no criminal record, no traffic tickets, no parking violations, no driver's license, no property, no utility bills, not even a library card."
He paused.
"He's so clean he's practically a blank slate."
The duty room went quiet for a few seconds. The officer at the front desk had finished his sandwich and was licking sauce off his fingers, his ears perked up.
O'Brien's throat bobbed.
"Sir, what could be the reason?"
"I'm not sure yet. I'll look into it again."
Morales thought for a moment.
"He's an international student from China, and his name's different from ours. Maybe his name is spelled differently in the system.
"Chinese names can be spelled Lin, Lam, or Lynn. The system might not recognize them. I'll try again."
Morales turned back and typed in a few more entries, trying several different spellings this time.
This time, he did get results, but those people were clearly not the Lin An O'Brien had described.
"Hey, could he be an illegal immigrant?"
The front desk officer had somehow come over to listen. His comment made even veteran cop Morales suspicious.
"O'Brien, tell me exactly what happened at the café. Be specific..."
O'Brien nodded and explained what had happened at the café. He focused on how Lin An had only needed to look for a little while to spot the key problem in a pile of documents, and how his incredible math skills had let him calculate O'Brien's tax figures in the blink of an eye.
That kind of ability made Morales doubt his own judgment. He thought it over and found an explanation.
"If Dr. Lin An is a new student, it's normal for his name not to show up in the police system. But is this the enrollment season at Columbia University?"
"Wait a second. I'll call my daughter and ask."
He picked up the phone from the desk, found her in his contacts, and called. It rang three or four times before she answered.
"Dad?"
"Caitlyn, I wanted to ask you something."
Morales leaned back in his chair. His voice was much softer than it had been when speaking to O'Brien.
"Does your school admit new students in March?"
There was a brief silence on the other end.
"Why are you asking?"
"Could you check whether a doctoral student in Columbia's Department of Mathematical Finance could start in March?"
"The Department of Mathematical Finance?"
Caitlyn's voice rose a little.
"Dad, you're not investigating someone again, are you?"
"Just tell me if it's possible."
Caitlyn sighed—the kind of sigh that said, "I can't do anything with you."
"Fine, I'll ask around. But I should tell you, doctoral programs usually start in the fall, in September. March isn't a normal time to enroll."
Morales frowned.
"So it's impossible?"
"I didn't say that."
Caitlyn's tone turned serious.
"I said it's unusual. Give me a moment. I have a... uh, friend doing a PhD at Columbia. I'll ask."
The sound of typing came from the other end, along with faint voices. Morales set the phone on the desk and turned on the speakerphone so O'Brien could hear, too.
About five minutes later, Caitlyn came back on the line.
"Dad, are you still there?"
"I'm here."
"I asked around. The situation in the Department of Mathematical Finance is this: normally, doctoral students start in the fall, but there are a few special circumstances where they can come in at other times."
"What kind of special circumstances?"
"The first is when an advisor has an urgent project and needs people."
Caitlyn sounded as though she were reading from a list.
"For example, a lab might receive emergency funding, or someone might suddenly leave a project and a new person might be needed to finish it. In those cases, an advisor can apply to the department for an exceptional start date."
Morales glanced at O'Brien.
"What's the second?"
"The second is a predoctoral visiting researcher."
Caitlyn explained.
"That one's a bit of a gray area. The student isn't officially enrolled, but joins the group early as a visiting researcher. The advisor pays them a stipend from their own funds and has them start working. Once the formal admissions process is complete in the fall, they become an official doctoral student.
"But it's a little risky. If the official offer doesn't come through after March, the student is an undocumented researcher who's overstayed their visa."
"Does that happen often?"
"Not especially often, but it's not unheard of. I know a Chinese student studying physics who came six months early. His advisor had an urgent project and needed someone, so he brought him over ahead of time."
Morales tapped his fingers on the desk twice.
"Are there any other situations?"
"Yes, but they're pretty rare," Caitlyn said.
"Some projects are run in partnership with the government or other organizations, and they need students to start at a specific time. For example, the climate finance group works with FEMA. Every March, they recruit people to run stress tests ahead of hurricane season.
"But that usually isn't called enrollment. It's called a pre-research position."
She paused.
"Dad, who exactly are you investigating?"
"A Chinese man who says he's a doctoral student in Columbia's Department of Mathematical Finance. His advisor is Robert Jero."
There was about three seconds of silence on the other end.
"Robert Jero?"
Caitlyn's voice changed.
"You mean Professor Jero, the one who wrote Pricing Financial Derivatives?"
"You know him?"
"I don't know him personally, but I've heard of him."
Caitlyn sounded a little strange.
"Dad, do you know what kind of person Professor Jero is?"
"I know. Hall of Fame, five books, more than a hundred papers."
"Do you know he was poached from MIT by Columbia last year?"
Morales raised an eyebrow.
"What do you mean?"
"I mean Professor Jero came with his whole team. He brought three postdocs and two doctoral students with him from MIT.
"That's rare in academia. When a top professor changes universities, sometimes they bring their students along."
She paused.
"So if the Chinese man you're investigating is Professor Jero's student, he might have transferred with his advisor from MIT last year. Transfer paperwork like that can take more than six months, so it's possible he arrived in March this year."
Morales nodded slowly.
"So you're saying it's not impossible for him to have started in March?"
"It's not impossible. It's just unusual," Caitlyn said.
"But someone like Professor Jero can recruit students whenever he wants, and the department will accommodate him. Think about it: if a Nobel laureate's student followed him from MIT to Columbia, do you think the department would turn him away just because he enrolled a semester late?"
She chuckled.
"Dad, in your police system, if a big shot transfers from a precinct to headquarters, would he be allowed to bring along the officers he's used to working with?"
Morales didn't answer, but he glanced at O'Brien. He understood the comparison.
"There's one more thing," Morales said.
"Why would a doctoral student in mathematical finance be riding around the streets of Jamaica with a Ni Ge on a bicycle?"
There was a long silence on the other end.
"Dad, if he were American, I'd think he was crazy. But if he's Chinese... there's a good chance he's trying to get to know New York."
"Get to know New York?"
"Yes, I had a Chinese classmate studying physics who took the ferry to Staten Island on a weekend and rode it back and forth four times, just because someone told him it was the best place to see the Statue of Liberty.
"And another one, a computer science student, went all the way to the Bronx just to photograph graffiti walls. When he got back, he wrote a blog post called 'The Other Side of New York.'"
She paused.
"Chinese people can be like that sometimes. They come to the United States not just to study. They want to see what the country is really like.
"So they do things that... Americans find baffling."
"Like riding around Jamaica on a bicycle?"
"Like riding around Jamaica on a bicycle," Caitlyn said.
"Especially if he's a Chinese student who just got here. He's new to New York and doesn't know his way around. What better way to see the city than to ride around on a bike?"
She chuckled.
"And you said a Ni Ge was giving him a ride? Maybe the guy was showing him around.
"When I was in school, my Chinese classmates liked having locals show them around, too. I even took one of them around Flushing once."
Morales snorted.
"All right, I get it."
"Dad, you still haven't told me—"
"Goodbye."
"Dad!"
Morales hung up and set the phone on the desk. He looked at O'Brien, his expression somewhere between relieved and something else.
"You heard all that."
"I did, sir."
"So your Chinese friend probably transferred from MIT to Columbia in January, and by March... his paperwork was likely done and he'd started wandering around."
He leaned back in his chair and laced his fingers behind his head.
"Riding around on a bicycle with a Ni Ge showing him around Jamaica. Trying to see what this country is really like."
He said it slowly, as if savoring some particular meaning in the words.
"O'Brien."
"Sir?"
"Do you know what I concluded after looking into all this?"
"What's that, sir?"
"My conclusion is..."
Morales took off his reading glasses and set them on the desk.
"Dr. Lin An really is Chinese."
He paused.
"An ordinary, normal Chinese man who likes riding around on a bicycle."
He put particular emphasis on the words "normal" and "ordinary," as if they were something to be grateful for.
"He's not an illegal immigrant, a fraud, or anyone suspicious. He's just a Chinese student who transferred from MIT to Columbia to pursue his doctorate.
"Then you happened to have a tax problem, asked him for help, and he agreed to take a look at your tax return. After that, you came running to me for leave like a drowning man clutching at a lifeline."
He shook his head, but the corners of his mouth curved almost imperceptibly.
"O'Brien, you know what? You really were kissed by God last night."
With that, he picked up the leave request, glanced at it, signed his name, and put it in a drawer.
"Be here on time the morning after tomorrow."
"Yes, sir."
"And one more thing..."
Morales called after him.
"Next time you see him, ask what his name is. Not how it's spelled in English—his Chinese name. Chinese names have meaning. A name is a poem. Make sure you get it right so you can call him by the right name next time you meet."
He paused.
"Don't make him think New York cops are a bunch of uncultured brutes."
"Yes, sir."
O'Brien turned to leave. When he reached the door, Morales's voice came from behind him.
"O'Brien."
"Sir?"
"When you see him tomorrow, thank him for me... Oh, right. Ask him if Dr. Lin An likes shooting guns."
O'Brien froze.
He stood in the doorway with one hand still on the doorknob and turned to look at Morales. The question had come out of nowhere, like a ball flying at him from the side. He hadn't been ready to catch it.
"Shooting guns, sir?"
"Yeah."
Morales leaned back in his chair, his fingers interlaced over his stomach. He looked casual, as though he were simply asking, "Nice weather today, isn't it?"
"A doctoral student from China who rides around New York on a bicycle must be curious and like to have fun.
"If he's interested in guns, I can take him to the shooting range. The precinct gets shooting slots every quarter, and officers can bring family or friends."
He paused.
"It'd be a way to thank him for helping you with your taxes."
O'Brien opened his mouth, unsure what to say.
He thought of the young man at the café... polite and scholarly, speaking in an unhurried manner, looking at the tax return like he was reading a newspaper. A man like that and a gun just didn't go together.
"I... I'm not sure, sir. He seemed like a typical Chinese student, very cultured."
Morales nodded, as if he'd expected that answer.
"Then ask him tomorrow," he said.
"Chinese people sometimes feel awkward about asking for what they want. You have to ask them directly. I once knew a Chinese restaurant owner. I invited him to dinner and he kept saying, 'No, no, I couldn't.' So I dragged him along anyway, and he ate three bowls of rice."
He chuckled.
"So just ask him, 'Dr. Lin An, are you interested in guns? Our precinct has a shooting range. We could go have some fun on the weekend.' Just say it plainly. Chinese people sometimes don't understand the way Americans beat around the bush."
"Yes, sir," O'Brien said, though his mind had already moved on to something else... Was Dr. Lin An in the country legally?
If he'd transferred from MIT with his advisor, he should have a visa, a student ID, and a Columbia ID card. Taking him to the shooting range should be fine, right?
Morales seemed to see right through him.
"Don't overthink it, O'Brien."
he said.
"He's a Columbia PhD student. What could be wrong with that? My daughter said he transferred from MIT with Professor Jero.
"MIT is one of the best schools in the world. Anyone who gets into a place like that has had their background checked eight hundred times over."
He waved a hand.
"I just want to meet him. A Chinese PhD student who transferred from MIT to Columbia, got a ride around the streets of Jamaica on someone's bicycle, and is willing to help a cop with his tax return for free... He's the kind of person I'd like to get to know."
He said "get to know" lightly, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
"And besides."
he added.
"Do you know how terrible the 103rd Precinct's shooting scores are right now? In last quarter's assessment, only seventy percent of the whole precinct passed. If this keeps up, Headquarters is going to come down on us.
"A PhD student from MIT, in mathematical finance—his math must be good. People who are good at math can't be bad at shooting."
O'Brien thought it over. The logic seemed wrong somehow, but he couldn't say why.
"I'll ask him tomorrow, sir."
"Mm."
Morales nodded.
"Find out for sure and come back to me. If he's interested, I'll take him to the precinct shooting range next Saturday morning. It'll be quiet then, with fewer people around."
He took a sticky note from his desk drawer, wrote a few words on it, and handed it to O'Brien.
"This is my cell number. If he's willing to come, have him give me a call. My last name's Morales; he can just call me Morales. None of that 'lieutenant' or 'sir' stuff. It sounds so formal."
O'Brien took the note and glanced at it. It had a string of numbers and a name: Frank Morales.
"Frank?"
O'Brien was surprised. He'd worked with Morales for over a decade and had never known his first name. At the precinct, everyone called him "Lieutenant Morales" or simply "sir."
"What, am I not allowed to have a first name?"
Morales said, sounding a little impatient, though there was a smile in his eyes.
"All right, stop standing there gawking. Be here on time the day after tomorrow."
"Yes, sir."
"What did you call me?"
O'Brien froze for a moment.
"...Yes, Lieutenant Morales."
Morales shook his head and sighed.
"Go on."
O'Brien opened the door and stepped into the hallway. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, and the wanted posters on the wall had yellowed under their glow.
He passed the locker he'd used for ten years, the coffee machine that never managed to produce hot water, and the chart on the window labeled "First Quarter 2009 Crime Statistics."
He pushed open the door and went outside.
The flickering fluorescent light was still blinking. The March wind swept in from the street, carrying the sharp smell of rain. He stood in the doorway, drew a deep breath, and smiled with relief.
Suddenly, he felt that things really might be turning around. A $2,300 fine had become a tax refund he might actually receive.
He pulled the sticky note from his pocket and looked at it again.
Frank Morales.
He folded the note and put it back in his pocket. Then he took out his phone, scrolled to the number he'd saved not long ago, and this time, without hesitation, pressed the call button.
The phone rang three times before someone picked up.
"Hello?"
"Dr. Lin An."
O'Brien said, sounding more relaxed than he'd expected. "This is O'Brien. I'll be home tomorrow at three in the afternoon."
"All right, Mr. O'Brien. I'll be there on time."
"One more thing."
O'Brien said. He hesitated, then blurted it out.
"Our lieutenant asked me to ask you—are you interested in guns?"
There was silence on the other end for two seconds.
"I'm quite interested, but shooting ranges in New York have refused to let me in."
"Then this works out perfectly."
O'Brien said.
"Our precinct has a shooting range. The lieutenant said that if you're interested, he can take you there next Saturday to try it out. Consider it... a thank-you for helping me."
Two seconds of silence.
"All right, Mr. O'Brien. Please tell Lieutenant Morales... I'm very interested."
O'Brien breathed a sigh of relief.
"See you tomorrow, Dr. Lin."
"See you tomorrow."
The call ended. O'Brien set off toward the parking lot, his steps light.
Before you continue