1

ONE GOOD THING about working on cold cases was that no one dragged your ass out of bed at three in the morning to look at a still-warm body. The only warm bodies in cold cases were the investigators', and occasionally there was some reasonable doubt about that. Today everybody was cold, but that was due to the weather, which wasn't likely to change anytime soon. The sky over Manhattan was dull gray, thick, and impermeable. The air held so much moisture, her skin felt wet as she walked to 137 Centre Street from the subway.

The police surgeon had given Jane Bauer, forty years old and newly promoted to detective first grade, the OK to return to work from sick report after the holidays. He suggested workouts at the gym and walking to work to get the muscles back into condition, but it was too cold to follow the second directive. She had returned last week to a desk full of paperwork and an office almost crackling with incipient spasms of electricity. Her partners disliked each other—she smiled at her understatement of the situation—and she was actually relieved to find them both alive and sniping when she first set foot in the office.

"Morning, Detective," Annie, the police administrative aide, said, brushing past her on the run.

"Morning."

Gordon Defino was hanging his coat on the hook when she entered the office. "New case this morning," he said.

"About time. Another day of paper pushing and I might ask for a transfer."

Sean MacHovec, as expected, crossed the threshold at exactly eight forty-five, the start of the 9x5 tour, nine to five in ordinary speech. How the hell does he do it? Jane wondered. They exchanged good mornings.

"Annie says we get a new case today. Old enough to smell bad. Coffee?"

Defino grunted. Jane articulated a syllable. MacHovec, happy to have an excuse to leave the office, departed.

"Nothing changes," Defino said.

Jane laughed.

Defino gave a grudging grin. "Sharpens your sense of humor."

MacHovec with coffee and Annie with nothing in hand arrived simultaneously.

"You're wanted in the whip's office pronto," Annie said. She looked at all of them but let her eyes rest on MacHovec, whom she hated. MacHovec returned her message and stare with a grin that told her he outranked her and she served him, regardless.

They took their Styrofoam cups and ambled over to Captain Graves's office. He leaned over the desk to shake Jane's hand.

"How're you feeling?"

"I'm fine, thanks. But I think I'm scarred for life." She said it lightly, although it bothered her whenever she looked in a mirror. A faint discoloration marred her right cheekbone, proof of the beating the rest of her body had recovered from.

"A little plastic surgery'll take care of that. I can give you a name if you'd like."

"I'll think about it." She wondered if the handsome Graves knew from personal experience.

"This isn't exactly a cold case, Detectives." He laid a palm on a thick file sitting on his desk. "A schizophrenic man in his thirties, Anderson Stratton, lived over near Tompkins Square Park—Alphabet City. He was known in the neighborhood, apparently liked, usually approachable, although he had his down times, spent some time in hospitals. Bottom line: He was found dead in his room, emaciated, apparently having starved to death."

"Autopsy?" MacHovec asked.

Copyright © 2005 by Lee Harris