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justice from John Jay. She’d been assigned right from the Academy to undercover narcotics work in East Harlem, and she’d made third grade by the end of her second year on the job. That was legitimate. That was not unusual. But, one week before being transferred to the 112th, Miranda Torres was promoted to detective second grade. This was guaranteed to cause hostile feelings among her new colleagues. Her promotion canceled the squad’s vacancy in that grade. Not only had she used up the available promotion, but some guy in plainclothes lost a slot in third grade.
    Everyone knew that these days it wasn’t necessarily an individual who was transferred to a prime assignment, awarded a promotion, given a medal. The recipient of these Department perks was more often than not a representative, a statistic to satisfy the endless demands for equal opportunity, affirmative action for the underprivileged and overlooked of history.
    By squad calculation, Miranda Torres was someone’s idea of a triple whammy: she could be cited as being female, Hispanic and black. However, when O’Connor asked around, it did not add up. Torres was no activist, and the organizations were not pushing loners.
    The black organization would not settle for Miranda because in her case black was questionable, at least visually. She was bronze with a high-cheeked American Indian look. And she had been born a woman. If the women wanted in, they had to take care of themselves. And she was a Puerto Rican Hispanic. Let them claim her.
    The Hispanic organization wasn’t backing her or even settling for her. They were also concerned with male promotions. Women were taking jobs away from men. Women didn’t need any help.
    The women’s group wasn’t happy with Miranda’s promotion. Let the Hispanics claim her, or the blacks. Their ideal candidate would be someone no other organization had claim on.
    She was not a member of the Holy Name Society or any other religious organization affiliated with the Department. She was floating out there alone, unattached in a department that was virtually run by its separatist organizations.
    No matter how much discreet and serious inquiry was set in motion, the only word on Miranda Torres was, Who the hell knows? Which in police parlance meant, Watch out. She’s connected somewhere, somehow, in some way to someone apparently strong enough, big enough, to maintain not just a low profile but no discernible profile. The available information on Torres, the official record, proved her an excellent narcotics cop with an outstanding activity record. However, word was that she and her partner had been made or were in imminent danger of being made. That, in itself, did not explain her transfer to the 112th. Rumor was that her partner was an alcoholic who was drying out for a while before reassignment. Whatever the story, Torres maintained a silence about anything that wasn’t strictly official knowledge.
    For which, of course, she had to be respected. Obviously, this did not make her popular with the guys at the 112th. What they knew they didn’t like; what they didn’t know bothered the hell out of them.
    There was a light finger-tapping at his door, and Miranda Torres came in and took a seat next to her partner. She had that alert, wary look, her head held just slightly to one side, as though she was listening for more than just what was being said. She was a beautiful girl and she made the captain uncomfortable. He wondered if Dunphy had had any thoughts about her: fantasies, daydreams. He doubted Dunphy would make any moves; he was too smart for that. Probably.
    “Good report,” he said to Torres. She waited politely. “Okay,” O’Connor said, “what the hell are we dealing with here? No signs of robbery or attempted robbery. No signs of sexual assault or attempted; guy stalks her and attacks her right out in the middle of the street, under the lights. No attempt at concealment. The guy is yelling his head off at her,