Murder: Fit To A T: Part 1 free porn video

?MURDER: FIT TO A T ? by Rob Grant Cast of Characters Lieutenant Dan Italia, half Italian, the other half mixed Scots-Irish, English and a little German, he was the 'whip' or commander of the Sixth Precinct Detective Unit (PDU), also known as the Sixth Squad. With nearly 20 years in, he was close to optional retirement, even though he was only 43. He held a Bachelor of Arts in History from a small state university in his native Pennsylvania and a Master of Arts in Television and Film from Temple University. After retirement, he hoped to enter the college teaching field. A diabetic, he was in fairly good shape and was well respected by both his detectives and his superiors. Sergeant Al Wohlen, about as German as you could get without coming over from the ?Old Country?, Wohlen had over 25 years in and was the 'second whip', or assistant squad commander. He and Italia had been friends for nearly 15 years, having worked in several assignments together. Wohlen was a trusted confidant and second in command. Detective First Grade Robert Harris, a tall, thin and angular black man of 45, he was known throughout the job as a first rate technical investigator who rarely left a case go unsolved once he had the scent. He?s earned his 'grade money' on a series of murders in the South Bronx several years before. There were only 64 First Grades in the entire thirty thousand man police department, a distinction not lost on Harris. Detective Second Grade Phil Andrews, privately known to Lieutenant Italia as being a closeted gay man, was a good investigator. He was white, 37 years old and had been a detective for 12 of his 15 years on the job. He was quiet, introspective and a good listener ? often good qualities in an investigator. Detective Second Grade John Ryan, assigned to the 75th Precinct Detective Unit. Ryan, who formerly worked with both Wohlen and Italia in past assignments, gets caught up in the homicide investigation. Detective Third Grade Jerry Kelso was the quintessential stereotype of an Irish cop. Overweight and known for his penchant for both donuts and taking a drink or two, Kelso was often loudmouthed. Italia believed his behavior was a cover up for some basic insecurities, including the fact that he?d been divorced twice and was again living with his mother. At 40, most men don?t live at home. Kelso took a lot of ribbing about that, and didn?t like it. But, he was a good detective, often doggedly following through on tips and made excellent contacts with the locals in the precinct. At first glance, most would dismiss him as being prejudiced towards the large gay, lesbian, bisexual and transgendered population of the West Greenwich Village area. But, most of the residents he came in contact knew that for all his bluster, Kelso harbored no grudges and would defend them as he would any other citizen of America?s largest city. He was trusted by most people, if not exactly endearing himself to them in the process. Detective Third Grade Anitra Torres was the youngest member of the squad at 31, having only earned her gold shield two years before. Of mixed black and Hispanic heritage, she had joined the department eight years before, after dropping out of New York University as a psychology major when she became pregnant. Her then-boyfriend had walked out on her, leaving her to raise her son aloneAs a single parent with a little over two years of college in, the idea of working for the city appealed. While the pay was dismal, compared to other area departments, city benefits were excellent, and allowed her to raise her son with few worries about the medical needs most single parents faced. Detective Third Grade Fulton D. Starrett was not your typical detective, nor your typical police officer for that matter. A holder of a master?s degree in psychology, he?d been on the job for ten years and was assigned to the Hostage Negotiation Team in the Central Investigation and Resource Division. Inspector Phillip Regan, Manhattan Borough Commander of Detectives. A martinet of a commander, Regan was known throughout the job as a man who never stuck his neck out for anyone. He had a powerful 'rabbi', someone who watched over his career and made sure he always got choice assignments. He resents Italia for his intellect, his sense of responsibility and the respect he earned from both his peers and superiors. Chief of Detectives John F. Shannon, an old timer, with a deep booming voice that at time seemed to resonate from his downtown office clear to the farthest reaches of the city. Italia doesn?t know it, but Shannon is the rabbi everyone throughout the job believes he has. Shannon took an interest in Italia years before, when he was first assigned to the Detective Bureau and earned a commendation for solid investigative work on a difficult case. Shannon, a man who rarely threw his weight around, quietly pulled strings behind the scenes to make sure Italia?s career advanced in the right ways. Deputy Inspector Paul X. McCarthy, commanding officer of the Sixth Precinct. McCarthy and Italia are friends. While the precinct commander normally has no authority over the detective squad, they are responsible for providing overhead services to the PDU assigned. Captain Harry Collins, Executive Assistant to the Chief of Detectives. Linda Beane, C.S.W., works for Gay, Lesbian, Bisexual and Transgender Outreach, a New York City social service agency providing outreach services to the community. Beane, 40, was tall for a woman, about six feet, but sported the build of a runway model. Strikingly beautiful, she had auburn hair, was outspoken, blunt and opinionated. She becomes involved with Dan Italia while working on a series of brutal murders involving members of the transgender community. Chapter One It was cold and wet, as Dan Italia drove through the streets. It had rained earlier, and the temperature had started to dip. Winter was coming on quickly, he thought, an involuntary shiver ran through him. The heater in the car wasn?t working, as usual. He turned west on 14th Street from Seventh Avenue and saw flashing lights a block ahead. He drove towards them, and made a left onto Ninth Avenue. He brought the car to a halt on the right hand side of the street, his front right tire up on the sidewalk. Italia slowly got out of the car, as if afraid to brave the ever- lowering temperatures of the night. Straightening up, he turned the collar of his leather coat as a brace against the wind and started walking towards the intersection when a cop stopped him. ?Crime scene, fella??, he said. ?Move it over on the other sidewalk.? Italia stopped, fished in his pocket for a second, and then produced a leather folder. Opening it, he took a badge holder from it and clipped it to the collar of his coat. ?Italia. Sixth Squad,? he responded. The badge he?d clipped to his jacket read Lieutenant, City of New York Police. The cop on duty in the intersection was from the neighboring precinct. Fourteenth Street was the border between the Sixth and Tenth precincts. The officer who?d challenged him nodded and turned his attention back to the small crowd gathered on the sidewalk. Italia walked up on the opposite sidewalk. The building situated there was on a triangular shaped plot, similar to the famous Flatiron Building. Only in this case, the building housed an S&M club the basement. The club catered to a wide crowd of 'discriminating individuals', some straight, and some gay, mostly transgendered. In fact, the area was known as a hangout for transvestite hookers. Lately, a series of murders had gone down in the area, all involving the hookers. He walked over to where a group of men and women were standing. A few were rubbing their hands together or clapping them to keep warm. More than one were holding paper cups with coffee, sipping the hot liquid from them. A female detective was dressed up in two scarves, a large fur hat and huge fur mittens. Incongruously, she was wearing a nylon stadium jacket, where a long fur coat would?ve been more appropriate to the rest of her costume. talia thought she looked like she could be either Gorbachev?s wife or 'Nanook of the North' in that getup. But it was cold, there was no doubt about it. ?Whaddayasay, Lou?? one of the men asked, leaning over slightly to drink from his coffee cup without spilling it. Others raised their chins in greeting, as if afraid to expose any flesh at all to the bitter winds. The woman just stared from beneath her large hat. ?My, what a beautiful evening we?re having, the nice, crisp, clean air makes one want to take a nice, long walk in Central Park!? Italia said to the assembled group of detectives. ?Sarcasm don?t become ya, Lou,? the same man who greeted him replied. ?Well, whaddaya expect? It?s damned near freezing out here, we got a buncha people over there on the sidewalk gawking at us standing around and we got a stiff laying here? getting stiffer every minute. So tell me? whaddawegot?? Italia lapsed into the vernacular of the job, sounding every bit the street cop. In actuality, he had a Masters degree from Temple University in his native Philadelphia. Not in criminal justice or anything to do with the job, but in film and television. On top of that, he was half way through his doctorate and hoped to segue into a neat career teaching when he threw his papers in and retired. His real love had always been media, but somewhere along the way to a great career as a director he?d gotten sidetracked. Something about paying the bills. The detective who had been doing all the talking pointed to the body on the ground against the wall as he took a notepad out of his coat pocket. ?We got the call about 1:10 ayem, anonymous call into 9-1-1. Central dispatched an RMP to check it out. You know how it is, around here someone?s always pullin? our chain.? He shrugged, as if to say ?who knew?? Radio Mobile Patrol cars were always being dispatched to phony calls, the locals looking on it as 'fun'.? ?Anyway, Car 2-3-4-1 arrived on scene about ten minutes later and at first didn?t see nothin? out of the ordinary. They stopped on the other side of the building, where the entrance to the dungeon is. Bouncer said he didn?t make no calls, so they asked a couple a people inside the entrance. Place was packed to the gills, boss. You know how it is with these joints on a Saturday night? everybody AND his mother are out for a good time.? ?Yeah,? Italia replied. He thought to himself, you?re right, buddy? some guys would bring their mother here with them. ?Anyway, when they didn?t see nor hear nothin?, they started back for their unit when the recorder says to his partner that they should take a walk around the block, just for ?snicks and grins?. That?s when they saw her ? or ? him or ? whatever.? Italia glanced again towards where the body lay crumpled up against the wall of a doorway. It was seldom used by the surface tenants and nearly out of sight, unless you were looking for it. There was a fairly large amount of scaffolding piled up near the doorway, as a lot of renovation had been going on in the Meat Packing District lately. New clubs, buildings being converted to condos and offices with the big boom in Chelsea from the computer revolution. Lots of money from the new ?Silicon Alley?, as it came to be known, all of it looking for a place to be spent. ?Any ID? Anything at all?? Italia asked. This time, the female detective answered. ?I checked the body out pretty good, searched the purse and everything. Nada. You know how it is, Lou. A lot of these guys come down here in drag and never carry anything to ID them if they?re picked up. Most of ?em are married from up in Westchester or someplace, for Chrissakes.? While they were talking, two of the detectives shook themselves loose of the group and ambled across the street and past the small crowd into an all night grocery. Shortly, they appeared walking back across the street, each carrying a large bag. ?Coffee, Lou?? one of the detectives asked, using the diminutive favored throughout the job for Lieutenant. He extended a paper cup with a lid towards Italia. ?Yeah, light and extra-sweet? you got any pink stuff or blues?? ?Got you some Equal off the counter right here, boss.? The entire squad knew Italia was a diabetic, although he took great pains to keep it under cover. With only a few years to retirement, he didn?t want the police surgeon trying to put him out on a medical. Besides, everything was under control. He ate right, exercised as much as possible and took his medicine religiously. At least he prayed to God that it would keep his sugar under control every time he swallowed the handful of pills. He wasn?t in too bad shape for a 43 year old man, although he always had to fight a weight problem. He used to run three or four times a week, until diabetic neuropathy caused nerve damage in his feet resulting in a loss of feeling. His podiatrist warned against running outside, as he could easily step on a stone or into a hole and not even feel it until it was too late. Now, he confined his runs to a treadmill at the Midtown YWCA, whenever he could find the time. There were other clubs, but few had pools and he liked to swim a few laps after his runs. So, it was put up with the limited hours available to men or give up swimming, unless he wanted to join a crowded swim club. Few men used the YWCA pool, and as it was fairly close to his apartment, it was convenient for him. ?So anyway, we did a canvass of the area, but didn?t come up with nothin?, just like we expected.? It was one of the other detectives taking now, while Italia daydreamed to himself. ?What?s that?? he interrupted the detective speaking. ?Yeah, right. Nobody ever sees anything.? Without thinking about it, he was back into the uptown world, all business. Gone was any semblance of street cop verbiage from his voice. The female detective pointed across Ninth Avenue to where a small group of women were standing. Even with the cold weather, they were all dressed in short skirts and had even shorter coats. Nothing to conceal the merchandise, Italia thought to himself. ?You?d think they?d have seen something, right? They?re on the stroll all around here this time of night, but nobody?s talking.? she said disgustedly. ?Hey, what do you want? One, they?re pros. Two, they?re in drag. And three, they don?t want to get involved,? Italia explained. ?Which is a damned shame, cause this is probably one of them or someone they knew.? He looked down at the body again, just as a black station wagon pulled up to the curb. ?Look out, boss! It?s Doctor Jekyll!? one of the detectives said, as the Medical Examiner heaved his great bulk out of his vehicle and started towards the group. ?I heard that, Kelso!? The M.E. said, pointing his finger at his tormentor. ?Or is it evil Mr. Hyde tonight?? Kelso went on, effecting a strange pseudo-British accent, probably something he?d seen on television in a bad movie once.. ?Fuck you, Kelso. I gotta job to do, just like you guys.? The M.E. went on. He pushed the crowed of detectives apart, causing Kelso to spill his coffee. ?Hey asshole! Watch what the fuck you?re doin?, okay?? ?Sorry? maybe if you?d a brung me a cup, I?d a been more careful.? Italia looked at the assemblage of New York?s Finest and New York?s Grimmest and smiled inwardly to himself. Retire? From this place? Who?d be crazy enough to want to retire and leave all of this? ?All right, Kelso? let our friendly neighborhood ghoul do his job.? Italia said, then turned towards the medical examiner. ?Ernie, see if you can give me something we can use, huh?? ?Whatever you say, Lieutenant. You want a fairy story or do you want me to try for the truth?? One of the detectives grimaced at the M.E.?s 'fairy story' line. Italia knew he was closeted, even now when gays and lesbians were a visible presence in the job. But not everyone was comfortable with their own sexuality, let alone having other people talk about it like it was on the front page of the Daily News. He was a good cop, Italia thought to himself, and it would be a real shame for something like that to come out and cause him problems. Before gay rights, a lot of cops who were gay simply quit rather than be 'outed'. He couldn?t afford to lose this guy, he was too good an investigator. ?What I want, Mr. Medical Examiner, is for you to tell us the time of death, as close as you can come to it, and the cause, too, while you?re at it. At least to best of your ability under these rather primitive conditions, of course.? ?Ok, Lou? I?ll do my best. At least the cold keeps the stiff, stiff? know what I mean??: He chuckled at his own joke before going on. ?That way, at least we have some idea what?s going on here? like there ain?t a lot of blood on either the body or the ground.? ?What the hell?s that gotta do with anything?? It was Kelso again, putting in his two cents worth. He wasn?t about to let the M.E. get off with spilling his coffee. Besides, the two regularly needled each other when on a job. It was almost as if they were brothers exhibiting a bad case of sibling rivalry. ?Simple, lame brain. Jeez, don?t they teach you guys nuthin? in investigation school? When a body looses its natural heat this fast, it slows down and sometimes even stops the flow of blood. Excess blood being spilled means there?s that much less for us to work with in the lab. Besides, the mayor don?t like no messy streets, remember.? ?Ah, whyncha go back and play with your own stiff ones, Ernie?? Kelso chuckled at his own joke. One or two of the others just rolled their eyes. ?Alright, children? play nice. Ernie, as quick as you can, ok?? Italia said, separating the two men. ?And the rest of you guys might as well wrap it up and head for the barn. Who caught the case?? ?I?m up, Lou.? A tall, gaunt, black man replied. Detective First Grade Robert Harris had been with the squad over two years, and was one of the best investigators Italia had ever known. He was thorough, competent and exhaustive in his ability to run down leads. After all, unlike on television, most major crimes are solved by lots of legwork, piecing together of details and an element of luck. The doors to the squad room weren?t exactly being beaten down by people wanting to confess. ?Ok, Robbie. Finish up here and I?ll see you in the morning. Let?s see if we can get a handle on this one, it?s the third in the last two months.? ?Right, boss.? The assembled detectives began to break up and head for their cars. An Emergency Medical Service crew was on scene helping the medical examiner load up the body into his wagon. Italia looked over to where the crowd, smaller now but still in evidence, stood. Jobs like these, he thought to himself, always bring people out. Hell can be frozen over, but they still come out to see what it?s all about. Car doors slammed and engines started, as the squad began to vacate the scene. There wasn?t much else to be done at that time of the morning. God, what was it, almost four o?clock? Great, he thought to himself as he headed towards the car, and I have a meeting downtime in the morning. ?Sorry, Inspector, but if I nod off, just poke me in the ribs. I was out whooping it up with the medical examiner until the wee hours last night. Sarcasm, buddy boy, will get you nowhere,? he reflected. ?Excuse me, officer?? What was that? A voice. From somewhere on the darkened side of the street where the shadows formed under the overhead scaffolding of yet another construction job? ?Who?s there? Come out where I can see you!? Italia commanded, reaching his hand under his topcoat for his pistol. At this hour, and in this neighborhood, you could never tell. Regardless of the fact that two uniforms were standing in the intersection handling traffic and crowd control, anything can happen. ?I?m sorry, I didn?t mean to startle you,? a figure stepped out into the light cast from a lamp post. ?It?s just that I think I know her.? She nodded her head in the general direction of the crime scene and continued, ?The victim...? Italia was looking at a tall, good looking woman, a redhead, wearing an angle length cloth coat with a fur collar. She had on mittens and a scarf, but no hat against the cold. ?Are you sure? How do you know who it is?? ?Was she a blonde, about 25, maybe five foot six?? the woman asked. ?Blonde? Who knows, if he was wearing a wig. What makes you think you know him? er, her?? For all the realities of the job, Italia was still proud that he was one of the last great liberals left. If someone wanted to refer to a man in drag as a woman, who was he to question it. Hell, he thought, people use all kinds of labels. Race, color, sexual preference, sexual orientation, creed, national origin, anarchist, Republican, Democrat. Who cared about labels? He would be just as happy if they didn?t exist. Italia was an anomaly. Half pure Italian, the other half was a mixture of Scot, Irish and a bit of English and German thrown in for good measure. He?d grown up an only son. His father had walked out on his mother when he was two. They?d never married, but when he showed up again about the time Dan was 14, it became clear to him that his mother was his father?s one great, true love in life. Why things hadn?t worked out differently, he couldn?t answer. His father?s family rarely had much to do with him, being strict old-time Catholics. So, he?d been raised mostly by his mother?s family, extended to include uncles and aunts, great aunts and cousins galore. He?d come to identify with the Scots-Irish blood in his veins, which won out over his majority Italian side. Italia grew up in Philadelphia. When he was 13, he and his mother had moved back to her native Northeastern Pennsylvania, after her marriage failed. There, the influence of the old neighborhood in Philly waned, as there were few Italians in his mother?s hometown. ?Funny,? he thought to himself as he stared at the woman confronting him. ?Here I am, almost 44 years old, and I really don?t know who I am, anymore than that poor guy, or girl or whatever they were lying dead over there did.? He glanced back just as Ernie the M.E. slammed the back door of the wagon and slipped behind the driver?s seat. ?Officer?? He turned to face the woman again. Her face, framed in the glow of the overhead street lamp, was not unattractive. In fact, she was downright beautiful. Why he didn?t notice it right off, he couldn?t say. ?I?m sorry. I was just thinking about the case. This is the third murder of a transvestite in the area in the last two months.? ?Yes, officer, I know,? She replied. ?But, if that?s who I think it is, she wasn?t a transvestite.? ?Oh?? Italia?s eyes went up. ?No. If it?s who I think it is, she was a transsexual. Her name was Sally and she was working the streets to raise money for her surgery.? Italia winced inwardly. Even after 18 years on the job, the idea of a man having his, well, his ?privates? cut off like that?it was just too painful to even think about. ?No matter,? he thought to himself. ?It?s not me , so don?t show any reaction. Just find out what this woman knows.? ?I suppose I should help identify the body. I mean, to be sure it?s Sally.? she said, a bit unsure of herself. ?How well did you know her?? ?Fairly well, I guess. At least as good as a counselor can know a client in these circumstances.? ?You?re a counselor? A doctor?? ?No, a clinical social worker, actually. I work with the transgendered community down here on crisis intervention. Sally was one of my clients.? She gazed up at the moon and let out a pent-up breath. ?I suppose it was bound to happen. It was just a matter of time.? ?What do you mean by that?? Italia asked. Suddenly, the wind picked up, blowing papers and debris from the construction site all over the street, swirling around them. ?Listen, I know it?s late, but do you have time to go somewhere to talk?? Italia asked. There?s an all night diner at 43rd and 11th Avenue, we could get a cup of coffee. I?d really like to know more about this ?Sally? person, if it is her.? ?Well, first of all, I have to be sure that it is before I reveal any information. Please understand, my clients trust is based on total confidentiality, and if anyone even suspected I was talking to the police about someone? unless, of course? ? her voice trailed off. ?Unless they were dead?? ?Yes,? she replied in a low voice. ?Listen,? he said, fishing a business card from his wallet. ?My name?s Lieutenant Dan Italia, Manhattan South Detectives. It?s late anyway. Or early, or something like that. Why don?t you give me a call tomorrow sometime, that?s my private number there on the card. We should have some preliminary results in by late morning and hopefully a photo that you can look at to help identify the body. My detectives said there was no identification.? ?Most of the girls don?t carry ID, Lieutenant. It saves them a lot of trouble at home, especially those who have other lives.? ?I can understand.? ?I have meetings with clients in the morning, perhaps I could call you about 2:00 p.m.? Would that be convenient?? She asked. ?Perfectly. I?m tied up in the morning as well.? He handed her his card, as she responded with one of her own. ?Linda Beane,? he read off the card. ?Sounds Irish.? ?It is. Until tomorrow, Lieutenant.? She turned and disappeared back into the shadows. Italia watched for a moment. The crowd had all but disappeared; the uniforms had vanished also. He stood there lost in thought for a moment, then got into his car, started the engine and pulled onto the street. What a night he thought, glancing at his watch. Four-fucking-thirty! There?s gotta be a better life than this! Chapter Two The day broke early, as the still warm late October sun came in Italia?s bedroom window. He rolled over in the bed and tried to shake himself awake. Struggling to focus on the alarm clock, he noted with disgust that it was only 7:05 a.m. ?What the hell,? he thought to himself as he swung his legs out of bed, ?an hour and a half is good enough for anybody.? He silently padded to the bathroom to relieve himself of last nights? or was it early this mornings?? coffee. Tippy, his gray-haired Tabby, was purring and rubbing about his legs. ?What?s the matter, Kitty Girl? Want some breakfast for kitties?? He reached down to scratch her ears, but she scampered out of reach. Almost ten years old, she never stopped being playful and often the two would chase each other around the apartment. He called her Tippy due to just a hint of white hair evident on the very tip of her tail. Other than that, except for her belly fur, she was a deep, rich gray color. An ex-girlfriend had given her to him after the cat who had ?owned? him previously died at 20 of a heart attack. That cat, a Maine Coon named Pushkin, was more like a dog than a feline. He had taught him to fetch the paper, open the screen door to get out, back when he still lived at home with his mother, and other things. They say cats have personality, and if that were true, Pushkin had it in spades! He headed down the hallway, past the long row of closets towards the kitchen. His morning rituals seldom varied. First, and foremost, perform his blood sugar test. He learned long ago that keeping it in check was the only way to prevent complications. Still, they came anyway. He hoped to stave them off as long as possible. He?d a cousin back in Pennsylvania who had been chief of police for one of the state universities who was also diabetic. Dick had lost a leg to the disease, after nearly 20 years of foot patrol on a medium-sized campus. It took him several years to get over the depression of the loss and get on with his life. He was doing good now, walking with his prosthesis and driving to his favorite fishing hole, now that he had retired from the job. It took about 45 seconds for he blood meter to give a reading, and while he was waiting, opened a packet of the soft food he fed Tippy two or three times a week. With Pushkin, he had developed a distinct distaste for the odor of canned food, so other than dry boxed food, the only thing Tippy got was that which came in the pouches. He rotated her food flavors every meal, morning and night, believing that a cat was entitled to just as much variety as a human in their food. The tone went off on the meter? 122, not bad, he thought to himself. He removed the spent test strip, disposed of it and closed the meter back into its case. Opening the refrigerator, he reached for a bottle of Ruby Red grapefruit juice, his favorite breakfast beverage? hell, it was his favorite beverage for anytime, especially as he couldn?t drink alcohol. One of the squad?s regular ?watering holes? always kept a supply on hand for him, out of courtesy for his position. He stopped for a second, trying to think what day it was. ?Wednesday? Thursday? I seem to be losing track of time,? he thought. ? Of course, that?s what comes of keeping these long hours. What was it they said, ?You can?t soar with the eagles, if you hoot with owls!' He hadn?t done much hooting last night, but it was well after 5:00 when he stumbled into bed. Glancing at the calendar, he noted that he had written his meeting with the Borough Commander on the block for Wednesday. As he at least remembered he had the 11:00 a.m. meeting, then it stood to reason that today must be Wednesday. If it was Tuesday, he chuckled to himself, then he would?ve been in Belgium, recalling the title of an old movie. Wednesdays were special. He was allowed his once weekly egg for breakfast. Being diabetic meant keeping track of your meals, and managing them carefully. While his cholesterol count was excellent, well under 200, diabetics tend to build up plaque in the bloodstream anyway, causing blockages within the arteries of the heart. He wasn?t about to take chances on that. He opened the freezer door and took a box of artificial sausage patties out, made of soy or some such grains. They weren?t half bad, he admitted, although he had a taste for the real stuff, born of being raised in farm country. Now and then, when visiting home, he?d buy a pound or so of the country cured smoked sausage and savor its richness as he ate it. Not often, as he rarely got over to the ?old neck of the woods.? Just often enough so he never forgot the taste. He took a frying pan from the cabinet and, placing it on the stove to heat and went back to the refrigerator for the egg. One. Singular. That?s all he allowed himself. While he gave in to the requirement for a low fat, low cholesterol diet, he hated the taste of the artificial eggs, let alone egg whites on their own. He would either scramble or make an omelet. Which would it be? An omelet sounds like just the ticket, he thought. While he went about his preparations, dicing some red onion and a little broccoli, his mind went back to the night before. The phone had rang at 1:20 a.m. It was the Manhattan South duty captain, reporting a homicide in the Sixth Precinct. Italia was the whip of the precinct detective squad, and as such would be informed of major cases caught during the night. He had climbed out of bed and ran a cold washcloth over his face to wipe the sleep from his eyes, before heading downtown to the crime scene. Italia had an apartment on the Upper East Side, in the trendy 60s off of Third Avenue. He?d lived nearly ten years in the pre-war building, and enjoyed the apartment immensely. Especially the high ceilings, with the tall windows and window seats. You just didn?t find apartments like that in the City without trying really hard, or paying through the nose. He had been lucky. The building had gone co-op a few years before he moved in. The previous owner was a distant relative who died without issue, as they say. Family rumors had it that Uncle John had not been ?too interested in women, if you know what I mean.? John Italia was his father?s brother and, as such, he had never seen very much of him while growing up. Now and then, someone from that side of the family would invite him and his mother to a dinner or a wedding. It was there that he met his Uncle John, who lived in the ?big city'. When John Italia died, his will stipulated that everything he had was to go to his nephew. It was his way of repaying what he saw as the injustice done by his brother to Dan?s mother. So, Dan inherited a two bedroom, two bath apartment in an excellent location. It had taken him less than 20 minutes to get to where he garaged his car and drive down Tenth Avenue to the crime scene. At that hour, traffic had been light and he could make good time even without using the red light or siren. He rarely put those items to use, preferring to feel his way around the City in a more circumspect manner. He felt it drew less attention, and he thus observed ? and learned ? more that way. The body of what appeared to be a transvestite hooker had been found in a doorway of a building housing a sex club on the corner of Fourteenth Street and Tenth Avenue. The area, adjacent to the Meat Packing District, was notorious for hookers of all kinds plying their trade. Recently, however, some of the buildings in the area had been converted into trendy nightspots, like ?Hogs and Heifers?, an upscale biker bar on Washington Street, off of Fourteenth. thers were invading the slowly declining warehouse area, as most of the wholesalers moved out of the city to avoid the high real estate prices. He?d met a young woman as he was leaving the scene after the preliminaries were done. What was her name again? While his omelet cooked, he went to his dresser and retrieved her card. Linda Beane, C.S.W., GLBT Outreach of New York, Inc. That was it, no address, and only a phone number. I suppose that makes sense, he thought. Years ago, he had worked with an abused women?s shelter. They had no addresses on their business cards either. No way for angry spouses or boyfriends to track down their quarry. He?d call her later, he thought, dropping the card back on his dresser. After finishing breakfast and loading the dirty dishes into the dishwasher, he headed for the shower. Forty-five minutes later, he was on his way downtown. Traffic was already a mess. He?d cut across town at 53rd Street, before turning down Tenth Avenue. Trying to navigate downtown at 8:15 in the morning was a nightmare in general, but today, for some reason, it was brutal. Forty minutes later, he pulled into his spot in front of the Sixth Precinct on West Tenth Street. As he got out of the car, he spotted Kelso ambling down the sidewalk carrying an overly large bag. Probably full of donuts, if I know him, Italia chuckled. Kelso was the stereotypical Irish cop. A penchant for taking a 'taste', he also was addicted to donuts ? especially those of the cream filled or powdered sugar variety. Invariably, he either looked like he had just snorted cocaine, his nose and moustache covered with white sugar, or worked in a bakery with his heavily spotted tie full of donut cream. Italia thought back to the old joke about the man who hollers upstairs to his wife to get him his spotted tie. She replied, ?Which one, beer or gravy?? Italia walked into the squad room just in time to watch Kelso shove one of his powdered sugar tummy bombs into his mouth. ?How the hell does he do that?? he wondered. Walking into his office, he hung his jacket on the coat rack and then went back out into the main room. It was fairly large, this being a fairly new vintage house, about 35 by 20, not including his office. There was a holding pen in one corner, four desks arranged in pairs, back to back, along with numerous file cabinets. A low counter separated the interior of the room from the entrance way. Unlike in the some of the old time station houses, this squad room was bright from a bank of windows along the south wall, as well as having ample lighting. Some of the squads Italia had worked in over the years were housed practically within a closet. Dank, dingy and usually dark to boot. Perched atop a low, two drawer filing cabinet, shoved against the south wall, was a drip coffee maker and a tray containing a stack of paper cups, a few mugs and the assorted other necessities. Attached to the wall above the coffee maker was a shelf holding the command log. Italia signed himself in for duty and ruled off the entry. So far, Jerry Kelso was the only one on the board. The others in the squad hadn?t drifted in yet as they?d also been out just as late as Italia had been. Italia retrieved his mug from his desk and went back out into the squad room for coffee. ?Mornin?, Lou,? Kelso mumbled between bites of donut. It came out more like ?Momblin, Ewe? to Italia?s ears. gain, he shook his head just thinking about Kelso?s eating habits. He tore open two packets of Equal and poured them into the mug, opened the cube refrigerator and retrieved a carton of milk. Regardless of how often he?d tried, he couldn?t bring himself to drink coffee, much less tea, with powered creamer. It left an aftertaste in his mouth that he couldn?t get rid of for hours. He walked back in and sat down at his desk, took a sip from the mug and sat it on the edge of his desk. He reached over and flipped on the power to his desktop PC, and as it booted up, remembered the old joke about the computer company tech support specialist who took the call from the little old lady complaining that her 'coffee cup holder' was broken. After quizzing her for several minutes, the techie determined that she was referring to the CD-ROM carrier. Not being an experienced geek, she naturally assumed it was there to hold her morning coffee cup! Italia absent-mindedly pushed the button opening the CD-ROM drive and looked at the carrier, then glanced at his mug. Nah? He reached into his In Basket and retrieved a stack of papers that had been left by the precinct clerical assistant. Most were copies of incident reports taken by the patrol force, referred to the squad for investigation. There was the sixty sheet, a chronological report of the cases the squad had caught overnight. A few were follow-up reports for ongoing investigations. Most of the remainder was interoffice and interdepartmental correspondence. here was one invitation to a retirement racket for a lieutenant he vaguely knew from his days working Brooklyn North. He kept the sixty sheet and the follow ups, written on form DD-5 Supplementary Investigation Report, and tossed the rest back into the basket for later. Twenty minutes later, Sergeant Al Wohlen poked his head in the door, interrupting his reading. ?Morning, Boss,? Wohlen began. ?Heard we caught another one last night.? ?Yeah?? Italia looked up, then motioned Wohlen into his office. Wohlen, who hadn?t been at the scene the night before, came in and dropped heavily into the padded metal chair in front of Italia?s desk. ?What?s this make, three?? ?Three.? Italia confirmed. ?Two for us, one in the Tenth.? ?The Big Building isn?t gonna like this too much.? ?Like it? They?re probably pissing their pants right about now. I can see the PC wringing his hands, with the mayor on the phone screaming at him to do something,? Italia replied. Wohlen chuckled at the mental image of the portly police commissioner being bulldozed by the overbearing mayor of the city. ?Al? To tell you the truth, we ain?t got a thing to go on in these jobs?? Italia sat back in his chair, gazing up at the ceiling. ?From what I read in the fives, nobody even knows the victims down there. It?s like they don?t exist. You?d think at least one of them had been arrested or in the Army or something, for Chrissakes!? ?Shit, Al, I nearly forgot! A woman I met last night at the scene claims she might?ve known the one from last night.? Italia leaned back in his chair and reached into his pants pocket, retrieving the business card he?d been given the night before. ?Who? Another TV hooker?? ?Read this.? Italia replied, tossing the card across the desk to Wohlen. ?Linda Beane, C.S.W., GLBT Outreach of New York, Inc. with a 212 number, 736-4499. This the woman you met?? ?Yeah. Says she?s a counselor who works with the hookers in the area doing outreach and community service stuff.? ?Tough job. Most of them people don?t seem to want no help,? Wohlen observed. ?Well, she seems to think this one?s name was Sally. She also says, assuming it is this Sally person, that she wasn?t a transvestite, but a transsexual. Working the streets to earn money for sex change surgery.? Italia glanced over at Wohlen who involuntarily crossed his legs in a protective gesture. ?No different than my reaction last night, pal,? he thought to himself. ?What the hell?s the difference, they?re all just guys wearing women?s clothes.? ?I don?t know much about it, Al, but I don?t think so. I recall reading somewhere that most transvestites don?t want to go through the sex change thing. But, I really don?t know what the difference is. Maybe this lady can shed some light for us.? Wohlen handed the card back across the desk to his boss. ?You gonna reach out to her?? ?Yeah,? Italia replied. ?But later this afternoon. I gotta meeting with the Borough Commander at eleven this morning.? ?Over this?? ?I don?t really know for sure. His office called yesterday to set it up. Didn?t really say much, just that the Inspector wanted to see me at eleven this morning.? ?Probably some other piece of shit detail they ain?t got nobody else to do,? Wohlen complained. ?Who knows?? Italia replied, shrugging his shoulders in agreement with the second whip. ?Who we got on the chart today?? ?Kelso, Torres and Harris. Plus me, of course.? ?Of course, how could I forget you?? Italia rolled his eyes in mock amazement at the near oversight. ?But of course, ?sides? who else?d cover your ass every time you went off on your own little adventure?? ?Why, nobody but that fine specimen of investigatory prowess, Sergeant Albert Gustavus Wohlen!? Wohlen heaved himself out of the chair, flipped Italia the bird and walked from the office. Italia shook his head, reached for his now empty mug and decided to follow Wohlen into the squad room while on a search for more coffee. ?Al,? he said, motioning with his mug towards his office. ?Let?s get everybody in there for a few minutes.? As the detectives were summoned, Italia filled his mug with fresh coffee, and proceeded back into his office and took his place behind his desk. ?Ok, you all know about the case we caught last night.? There were nods and murmurs all around the room. While the squad room was fairly large, the whip?s office had to be one of the smallest Italia had every worked out of. Barely ten by ten, it had a standard issue gray metal desk, a standard issue gray metal desk chair with wheels, a standard issue telephone set, a standard issue set of gray filing cabinets. And a non-standard issue white board hanging on the outside wall. Italia had bought the board, about five by seven, when first assigned to the precinct out of the 'contingency fund'. He felt outlining a case on the board often helped his detectives, and him, to see things that were subliminal or hidden from normal view. He liked to draw flowcharts showing the sequence of events leading up to cases like these, as an aid to the investigation. Often times, he had found over the years, such a chart helped the detectives see where the missing pieces fit in, as well as helping to identify which pieces were, in fact, missing. ?Robbie, why don?t you take your turn at the board today?? he said, tossing the tall, angular, black detective a red, dry erasable marker. ?Ah, teacher, I cleaned the erasers last night. Can?t Anitra do it?? Detective Harris intoned, in mock complaint. At six feet two, and weighing about 140 pounds, Harris presented the picture of a man not unlike Ichabod Crane of literature. All angles and thrusting elbows, Harris walked purposefully wherever he went. He was a Detective First Grade with more than 22 years on the job, and known as an incessant investigator, once he got the bit between his teeth. He was a man to be counted on. ?Jeez, Harris, Torres can?t do it? she?s way too fuckin? short to reach the top of the board!? Kelso chimed in. ?Fuck you, Jerry. What don?t you stuff another donut into your cake hole?? Anitra Torres responded, her dark eyes flashing with anger. She was sensitive of her height and weight, barely making department minimums. ?Cuz I ate ?em all already. Man, was them jelly creams good!? Kelso answered, wiping the back of his hand over his mouth. He still had some powdered sugar on his tie, which he looked down and contemplated for a second, then promptly brushed into the material. ?Ok, class? let?s get back with the program.? Italia extolled, raising a hand to stop all the bickering. The room quieted down, as Italia stood up to look out the window. It had begun drizzling, the kind of cold rain that often precedes the onset of Winter. Raindrops bounced off the ledge outside his window, rising up slightly before settling back down to roll off onto the sidewalk below. ?Alright. Harris? we need to get the M.E.?s initial report as soon as possible. Torres, you said you checked the victim last night for ID and found none, right?? Harris wrote 'M.E. Report' on the white board as Torres nodded to the whip?s question. ?Add ?No ID? to the list, Robbie,? Italia said to Harris. The black man continued to write on the board, while Italia ticked off various points. "No ID, obviously working the street, throat slashed, just like the others." Harris wrote each of these down in turn on the board, drawing neat boxes around each one. His handwriting, while precise, was large enough to read, making one think he had been school teacher at some point in his life. Most people, finding themselves forced to write on a board, tended to print in small letters, just like the would on a piece of paper. Harris? work, on the other hand, was nothing short of beautiful. A perfect organizational chart, complete with boxes and connecting lines. Kelso piped up, ?Boss, what about the fact that none of the other hookers in the area came forward? That?s significant, ain?t it? Maybe nobody knew her.? ?I don?t think so, Jerry. Besides, after most of you pulled out, I was approached by a woman who works as a counselor in the community,? Italia replied. ?Really?? Torres asked. ?When did that happen?? ?Right after you and Jerry left last night. I was walking back to the car when a woman approached me.? He picked her business card off the desk. ?Linda Beane, GLBT Outreach of New York, Incorporated. Robbie, add that to your chart.? Torres leaned forward in her chair. ?What did she want?? ?She thought she might know the victim. Thinks it was a transsexual client of hers who went by the name of Sally. She didn?t give me a last name, as we don?t have a positive ID yet. She said she had to protect the confidentiality of her clients. The M.E. had already left with the body, so she couldn?t make the ID for us.? ?Is she going to cooperate?? Torres asked, clearly interested now. ?Yeah, I think so. I told her I had a meeting this morning, but would try and call later. She offered to call me after two.? Italia replied. ?It?s nine-thirty now,? Kelso offered. ?Right. I have an appointment at eleven with the Borough Commander. Hopefully between now and when I get back, we can get the preliminary from the medical examiner, get our paperwork together and start sorting this thing out. I've got a feeling that Regan?s taking some heat from the Big Building on this one, and the shit is gonna come down squarely on us. Two of the killings took place in the Sixth.? Italia explained. ?Ok, that?s it. Let?s get to work. Al, you stay.? The others all left the office while Wohlen remained in the desk chair he occupied, leaning back against the wall. ?So, whattawe do now?? he asked. ?We do the best we can. Harris caught the case, once he gets the M.E.?s report, he can get his paper together. The other case is in order, albeit going nowhere,? Italia replied. ?So, unless I miss my guess, there isn?t a hell of a lot we can do other than what we?ve been doing.? ?What do you think Regan wants?? Wohlen continued. ?Who knows? Like I said, he?s feeling the pressure from downtown. Sure as hell, he wants to pass it off on somebody else. I?m the logical choice. I?m the whip of the squad that caught two of the cases, and so far we?ve come up blank.? ?Maybe he?s going to offer us some extra bodies, so?s we can make a little more progress.? ?Doubt it, Al,? Italia said, dismissing Wohlen?s speculation with a waive of his hand. ?Regan usually doesn?t work that way. Unless, of course, somebody tells him to.? At the moment, the phone on Italia?s desk rang. He caught it up in his left hand, reaching for his coffee mug with the other. ?Sixth Squad, Lieutenant Italia.? ?Lou, this is Sergeant Ramirez in Inspector Regan?s office.? ?Yeah, Sarge, what?s up?? Italia responded. ?The Inspector would like to know if you could move your appointment with him up a half hour. He has an engagement at downtown at noon.? The voice on the telephone sounded wary, as if something wasn?t quite right. ?Sure, no problem. Any idea what he wants, Ramirez?? ?No, sir. I?ve no idea what?s on the Inspector?s mind.? With that, Ramirez hung up. ?Yeah,? Italia thought to himself. ?Neither does anyone else ? including Regan himself.? ?Who was that?? Wohlen asked. ?Regan?s assistant. Wanted to tell me the inspector moved the meeting up to ten thirty,? he answered, glancing at his watch. ?Looks like I better beat feet if I?m gonna make that.? ?Shit,? Wohlen said, dismissing the phone call with a scowl. Italia got up from behind his desk, reached for his jacket on the coat tree and checked his pockets to make sure he had his car keys. He didn?t. Too often, he removed his wallet, keys and shield case from his pockets when sitting at his desk, then forget to pick them up if he had to leave. More than once, he?d gotten all the way down to his car before finding out he had no keys in his pocket. He looked for and then picked up the keys from the desktop. ?Good thing, huh?? Wohlen asked, nodding towards the keys in Italia?s hand. ?Yeah. Al, I?m getting too old for this shit.? Wohlen harrumphed at the suggestion, then turned and preceded his boss out of the office. Italia took his topcoat off the tree and followed him out. ?I?ll phone the M.E.?s office and see if they got anything yet,? Wohlen announced as Italia headed for the door. ?Good. Coordinate with Harris and see that he gets his paper in order before I get back.? With that, Italia was out the door and headed down the steps towards his car, which was parked a block away on Hudson Street. The neighborhood around the house was so crowded, even with the small parking lot the precinct had, he often had to park a block or two away. It would take him close to a half hour to drive the twenty blocks or so to the Manhattan Borough Detective Commander?s office, located in the 13th Precinct on East 21st Street, two blocks from the Cabrini Medical Center. Again, he glanced at his watch. Five minutes to ten. With luck, he might make it in time. Regan was a martinet of a commander, a stickler for punctuality. Hopefully, there?d be a space close to the house. He found his car and headed up Hudson to Eighth Avenue, then on up to 22nd Street where he made a right. Even numbered streets in Manhattan ran West to East, while the odd numbers ran one way in the opposite direction. The avenues were a different story. Eighth and Sixth ran North, while Ninth, Seventh, Broadway and Fifth ran South. Tenth and Park ran both directions in some spots, one way in others. It was confusing enough for natives. For out-of-towners, it was murder. Traffic slowed as he threaded his way across 22nd Street, getting caught at nearly every intersection with a traffic signal. He mindlessly listened to the radio, occasionally glancing out the window at somebody walking by. The rain has slowed to a trickle, surprising for this time of year. It was almost like a gentle spring shower, he thought, as the worn out windshield wipers made a vain attempt to clear his view. He finally crossed the bottom end of Lexington Avenue and prepared to make a right onto Third Avenue, planning on turning right again onto 21st Street. He spied a spot open close to the corner of Third and 21st and grabbed it, pulling in to the curb. He took the vehicle identification placard from beneath the sun visor, threw it on the dash and opened the door to get out. At that moment, the rain intensified again. It was going to be one of those days. Chapter Three ?Thank you for coming in on such short notice, Dan,? Inspector Michael J. Regan began, motioning Italia into a chair by the coffee table in his office. ?Not a problem, Inspector. I can always make time for the Borough Commander.? Italia replied, taking a seat. The Inspector joined him at the coffee table, taking a chair opposite Italia. ?So, tell me? how are things in the Sixth?? Regan asked, as he leaned back in his chair and made a tent of his fingertips. ?You know, I had that squad oh, about ten years back.? ?No, sir. I didn?t know that,? Italia lied. He knew that Regan had been the whip of the Sixth Squad some years before and that he?d been transferred out in the wake of a scandal involving sloppy paperwork, a low arrest rate and generally poor performance. The word was Regan had a rabbi in the job, someone who watched over his career. He?d made sure that Regan had been moved before the shit hit the fan, leaving the second whip to take the brunt of the fallout. From what he?d heard, the second whip didn?t survive the shit storm from the Big Building, throwing in his papers instead of taking a demotion. Italia had inherited the squad a little over a year ago. Measured by today?s Comp-Stat results-driven standards, the Sixth was a model squad. The solve rate was high, overall crime rates were down and the paperwork was in order. They even managed to crack a few 'moldy oldies', cases that had been hanging around for a long time, seemingly going nowhere. All of this would generally make the whip of such a squad a good candidate for promotion. Or, at least someone the Borough Commander might leave alone so he could do his job. Italia harbored no illusions there. Not with Regan. ?Oh, yes. Let me see, it must be ten, eleven years ago that I left,? the Inspector pontificated. ?I was just getting the shop in order when I was transferred to headquarters to work on the DCPI?s staff. I made Captain about six months after that.? Italia knew the story. Regan?s rabbi managed to find him a safe place on the staff of the deputy commissioner for public information, acting as one of a half dozen departmental spokespersons. He had, indeed, been fortunate enough to earn his captaincy about six months later. With a further assignment to Commissioner?s staff. From what he?d heard, Regan had never actually worked the streets for more than three of his over twenty years on the job. ?That must have been some experience, sir.? Italia replied, hoping the Inspector would get on with whatever brought him in that morning. ?Yes, very interesting work,? Regan said, getting up from his seat to walk towards his desk. He turned suddenly to face Italia. ?And very important work, too, I might add. Most people don?t appreciate the importance of the public information effort to this department.? ?Yes, sir.? ?But, other things are important, too.? Regan picked up a file folder from the corner of his desk. ?Like this. Three homicides in two months ? two of them in the Sixth. All of them prostitutes? in drag.? Regan almost spit the last part out, showing obvious disgust. ?Now, I could care less about what happens to a bunch of pansy-ass queens down there. But I don?t need a bunch of unsolved homicides blotting my record!? Regan continued, his voice rising in pitch and crescendo, almost as if the thought of the blemish to his record were more important than the loss of human life. Italia sat facing him from his seat by the coffee table. Better to say nothing than make excuses, he thought to himself. This guy really takes the cake. He?s only worried about his fucking record! What about the people who were killed? What about their families? Doesn?t he give a damn about them? No, of course not. Guys like Regan never did. ?Now, obviously something has to be done about it. And, just as obviously, the PDU?s aren?t up to the task. No leads. No arrests. No nothing.? Regan continued, pacing the floor back and forth in front of his office window. Italia wondered what his problem was with the precinct detective units under his command. A commander usually doesn?t berate his entire division to a subordinate. It?s bad form and breeds contempt. He turned to face Italia. ?Well, it?s out of my hands now. The chief is forming a task force. Seems the PC wants this cleaned up quickly, the mayor?s been taking a lot of heat in the papers.? ?Sir, maybe a task force is the right way to go,? Italia offered. ?They can dedicate enough bodies to work full time on this. As you know, in a precinct squad, we?ve got more than one case to worry about. I?ve got every man on my chart carrying a full load.? ?Task forces! All that does is serve to placate the press. It?s a bad excuse for sloppy investigative practices!? Regan exclaimed, shaking his finger at Italia, who tried hard to show no reaction to his commander?s tirade. ?No matter. It?s your baby, now, Lieutenant,? he continued. ?What?? Italia asked, stunned by the announcement. A task force was being formed to investigate the homicides and he was going to lead it? Is that what this idiot was talking about? ?You heard me. The Chief of Detectives thinks you?re the best man for the job. He?s assigned you to run this task force. But, believe me, Dan? if you think this?ll fast track you for promotion, you?ll be sadly mistaken if you don?t produce!? The Inspector?s voice and mannerism told Italia every thing he needed to know. He was the scapegoat, the guy set up to take the heat if things went wrong. ?What kind of resources do I get?? Italia asked, letting the full force of what he?d just heard settle in. Regan picked up a piece of paper from his desk and consulted it momentarily. ?Authorization is for five detectives, including you. ou?ll work out of the Sixth. An order?s already been sent to prepare some space for you.? ?Can I take any of my people from the squad?? Italia asked. He wanted the absolute best, if this task force idea was going to accomplish anything. So far, the detectives he?d worked with since coming to the Sixth were some of the finest he?d ever met. ?No more than two. The Chief?s putting the arm out to all the borough commands for additional manpower. You should hear something within a day or two. Of course, you have the final say on who gets assigned. Just make sure you pick the right people. Understand, Lieutenant?? Regan stood in front of the window with the sun, shining now, silhouetting him in what could almost be described as a malicious glare. ?Ok. I guess I can work with that. Who do I report to?? ?Not me!? Regan spat out, almost visibly relieved that he wouldn?t be soiled if the investigation went sour. ?You report directly to the chief?s office on this one. I don?t want any part of it.? He paused, and stared out the window a moment, drew in a breath and almost hissed, ?That?s all, Lieutenant. Good luck.? Italia stood, ready to shake his commander?s hand, but Regan remained standing with his back to him. It was a subtle, but apparent indicator that he was distancing himself from his now-former subordinate. No shit hanging off him, Italia thought, as he turned to leave the office. Back on the street, the sun was shining brightly now. What had happened to the rain? Maybe this was a good sign, he thought to himself as he walked towards where he had left his car. He unlocked the car door and got in, fastened his seat belt and checked his mirrors. Old habits die hard, he thought to himself. He had been wearing seat belts and checking mirrors since he was sixteen years old. He?d had a couple of bad accidents as a teenager, although never seriously hurt. He firmly believed that the belts were the reason why. He took a lot of good natured ribbing from friends and other cops about his habits, but stuck to them nonetheless. He signaled first ? another habit from driver training days ? and pulled out into traffic, heading down Third Avenue. He glanced at his watch? 10:50. He?d been with the Borough Commander less than twenty minutes. Reflecting on that, he wondered if he?d have been able to take any more time than he did. The man was irritating. Over the years, Italia had developed a strong distaste for incompetence and the incompetent. Regan fit the bill to a T. Day time traffic slowed his return to the precinct, as delivery trucks and city buses crowded the streets and choked off the thoroughfares. It was nearly 11:30 by the time he found himself on West 10th Street in front of the house. Luck was with him, a space was available in the side lot. He slid the car into the spot beneath a sign that read ?6TH PRECINCT DETECTIVES ONLY? and turned off the engine. He sat in the car for a few moments, thinking about what had just transpired. It was obvious to him that someone was being set up as the fall guy, in the event the case went south. Was it to be him? He always thought he?d had a good reputation in the Detective Bureau and, in fact, had several commendations on his record. Why was he picked to head up this special detail? And, more importantly, whose idea was it? Italia got out of the car and headed into the precinct by the side entrance. He started up the stairs to where the squad room was located on the second floor when a voice stopped him. ?Dan!? He turned to see the precinct commander walking towards him. ?Got a minute?? Deputy Inspector Paul McCarthy asked. ?Sure thing, Inspector. What?s up?? Italia replied, turning to head back down the steps to where the other officer stood. ?Let?s go in my office,? McCarthy said, touching Italia on the right arm. The two men entered the commander?s office, located nearly in the middle of the first floor of the building at 233 West 10th Street. ?What?s up, Paul?? Italia asked. The two men had been friends for years and, in spite of the difference in ranks, they were on a first name basis. Italia always maintained a certain correctness in public, for he believed that over-familiarity breeds contempt. It was something he remembered reading once, maybe said by the late General George Patton or someone like him. But, in fact, it was often true in his experience. A commander, to be effective, has to maintain a certain distance from their subordinates. And while the squad was technically not subordinate to the precinct commander, the fact that the he provided for the squad?s overhead dictated a certain modicum of respect. McCart