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  “That sucks,” Mike said, stating the obvious. “What about lunch?”

  “We have to go out of the building to eat. We’ve turned the squad cars into makeshift food trucks, since it’s too damned cold to stand around outside.”

  “I guess you do what you gotta do.”

  “It’s a pretty poor reflection on the city’s building maintenance program,” Ray cut in.

  Mike and Jason just stared at him without speaking. Jason shot Mike a look to say, “This is what I have to put up with from this guy,” then reached for the phone without further comment. He picked up the receiver, then paused.

  “Ray, please brief Detective Stoneman on the case before we call the M.E.”

  Ray looked up, slightly flustered at being put on the spot. He quickly recovered his composure, sat back in his chair, and began his summary. “Well, Mike, it’s pretty routine, I think. Some jogger reported seeing a body floating in the East River. The uniforms and the EMTs fished her out, but she was way dead. We got prints and we’re running them through the national database, but her fingers were pretty bloated, so we’re not sure about getting a match. She was naked except for a pair of red silk panties. Looked to be early 20s. Bruise on her head, but other than that no obvious signs of injury.” Ray looked at Jason, seeking approval for his recitation.

  Jason looked at Mike. “Any questions?”

  “Not yet.”

  Jason dialed the phone and punched a button at the bottom of the ancient device, which blinked once, then stayed lit. The line connected and rang several times before being answered.

  “Medical examiner,” came the voice through the tinny speaker.

  “Doctor McNeill, it’s Jason Dickson from Homicide. I’m here with Detective Raymond McMillian and Detective Mike Stoneman. You sent me a note that you wanted to talk about the Jane Doe that you’ve been examining.”

  There was a pause on the line and the detectives could hear the sound of footfalls. Mike pictured Michelle walking across her examination room to her neatly organized desk, extracting a file from her desktop, and then walking back to the phone. He smiled at the thought, and remembered that he needed to pick up something he could make for dinner at Michelle’s downtown apartment later. “I have the file, gentlemen.”

  Mike said, “Go ahead, Doctor.”

  “We have a Caucasian female between eighteen and twenty-three. Cause of death is drowning. I’d say she was in the water between twenty-four and thirty-six hours. Deceased has a large contusion on her left forehead consistent with a blunt force blow, which occurred several hours before death. She has other assorted scratches and bruises that I can’t say for sure existed before she went into the water. Most importantly, she had a large quantity of opiates in her system, and a single needle scar on her right arm consistent with an injection of heroin shortly before her death. When her system shut down, she stopped metabolizing the drug, so I was able to detect about how much she had in her at time of death, which was pretty significant. Her teeth and nose showed signs of recent use of crystal meth, but the tox screen didn’t find any of that in her system. Her stomach was basically empty. She had semen in her vagina but no indication of trauma or tearing, so it does not look like sexual assault.”

  When Dr. McNeill stopped talking, Mike spoke up. “Anything else to suggest foul play, and not just an overdose and an accidental or intentional dive into the water?”

  The doctor was silent for ten seconds before responding. “You know that I can’t speculate. That’s your job. But I’ve seldom seen an overdose case with just one needle mark.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “This woman had one needle scar in her arm. Nothing in the other arm, and no other indication of heroin use. So, if she accidentally overdosed, she did it on the first hit, or at least the first hit in a very long time. That’s not normal for a heroin addict, in my experience. The big bump on her head, which did not happen when she went into the water, suggests that she took a significant impact, and then a few hours later, high as a kite from a big dose of heroin, she ends up in the river. And it’s February and freezing cold, so she’s not skinny dipping. She may have been wearing something when she went in, but it wasn’t anything warm, which would have stayed attached to her. So, either she walked in light clothing to the river while really high, after taking a serious blow to the head, and jumped or fell in, or somebody clubbed her in the head, before or after she took the drugs, and then helped her in where she was sure to drown.”

  “Thank you, Doctor,” Mike said, determining that Michelle was done. He then looked at Jason. “Any other questions?” Jason shook his head. Mike turned to Ray, who leaned forward, but then waved a hand to indicate that he had nothing to say. “Okay, Doctor. Thanks for the report. We’ll get back to you if we think of any other information we want. By the way, are her fingerprints more legible now than when she came in?”

  “Yes, I think so. Her bloating has subsided some. I’ll take another set of prints and send them up for processing.”

  “Thanks again.” Mike reached out to punch the lighted button and end the call. “So,” he said, looking at Jason, “you’re treating this as a homicide?”

  “We’re treating it as a possible homicide,” Jason responded. “Let’s see what we get once we have an ID on her and take it from there. It’s still possible that she went into the river because she was so high she didn’t know any better. Stranger things have happened to junkies.”

  “The M.E. just told us that she doesn’t think she was a heroin addict. I must say that I tend to agree – it’s pretty rare for an addict to have no track marks.”

  “She can’t know that for sure,” Ray broke into the discussion. “The lady said there was evidence of crystal meth use, and she was high on the smack for sure at the time. Let’s not make her out to be Cinderella yet.”

  Mike frowned, but chose not to respond. Ray was not wrong. Mike would have supported the M.E. loudly, but he didn’t want to seem like he was too deferential. He was pretty sure that Jason got the message. “It’s your case, gentlemen. What can I do to help?”

  Ray started to say something but Jason cut him off. “What do you think, Mike? Where would you go from here?”

  “Well, you don’t know where she went into the river. It could have been anywhere on the Manhattan or Brooklyn side. Without an ID, you have no idea where to look or who to talk to. I’d say you work every angle you can to find out who she was and go from there. Until you have that, you have nothing.”

  “That’s what I was gonna say,” Ray blurted out.

  “That’s good, Detective McMillian,” Mike said, nodding at Ray. “We’re on the same page. Now see what you can do to get a positive ID.”

  “How would you suggest we do that?”

  “You look like a smart guy, Detective. I’m sure you can figure it out.” Mike stood up slowly, careful not to put weight on his left arm as he pushed up from his chair. He shook hands with Jason, then waved in the direction of Ray, who was sitting on the opposite side of the table and who did not stand up when Mike did. Jason walked Mike to the door of the precinct and watched as the older man climbed carefully down the four slippery stone steps to the sidewalk, turned left, and walked away toward Broadway.

  When Jason went back inside, Ray was still sitting in the conference room. “Can we talk about the Sheffield case?” he asked when Jason came in.

  “You think there’s nothing else to do about our unidentified floater?”

  “Nah. Let’s wait to see if the fresh prints come back with an ID. No point spinning our wheels over this junkie until we know something.”

  “You’ve decided you don’t like her already?”

  “Hey, I see a lot of these strung-out losers on the street over in Robbery. They are suspects in a lot of the snatch-and-grab cases; just trying to snag enough for their next fix. They’re disgusting. Maybe the crazy bitch wanted to kill herself. Maybe she fell in. Maybe she thought she could fly and jumped off the
bridge. Maybe a lot of things. I’m not losing any sleep over her.”

  “Is there anything that makes you lose sleep, Ray?”

  “Not really.”

  “I didn’t think so.” Jason turned toward the door to the conference room. “I tell you what. I’m going to go home. We can work Sheffield in the morning. You do what you want.”

  “I always do,” Ray said, smiling and leaning back as he clasped his hands behind his head.

  Jason turned and walked out, muttering, “I know.”

  Chapter 3 – Once a Partner

  Friday, Feb 8

  TWO DAYS LATER, Mike was back on the PT table. His sessions were scheduled for Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays and this was Friday, not that the days of the week mattered that much for someone who wasn’t working. Terry stretched his arm, while Mike bit down and tried not to scream. Dolores had finished with the light weights and was sitting on a large exercise ball next to Mike’s head, waiting for her turn on the table and taking great joy in tormenting Mike.

  “You’re a pansy-ass weenie,” Terry teased. “Dolores here doesn’t whine half as much as you, Stoneman.”

  “Yeah, well, she’s given birth, so after that nothing really hurts, right, Dolores?” Mike turned toward his therapy companion for confirmation.

  “You’re damn right!” she agreed. “If you macho men had to go through that, you’d never complain about pain again in your life.” The two men chuckled nervously in agreement.

  Mike climbed down from the table and collected his coat before waving good-bye to Terry and wishing him and Dolores a pleasant weekend. He exited the PT room and walked through the general gym area toward the locker room. As he walked past the rows of weight machines and treadmills, lost in his own thoughts, Mike was startled by the sound of someone calling his name.

  “Yo! Stoneman!”

  Mike stopped and turned in the direction of the voice, then broke into a broad smile as he strode back toward a collection of weights and pullies. Sitting on a low, padded seat with his right leg strapped into one of the machines was Mike’s former partner, who had dark sweat stains around the collar of his gray NYPD t-shirt. “Hey, Darren!” Mike called out. He had been Mike’s partner for two years. “Darren! How the Hell are you?”

  “You just couldn’t stay away from me, could ya, Mike?”

  “Hey, I’m here on legitimate police business.”

  “I heard you had a little scrape. Too bad your partner wasn’t there to watch your back.” Darren reached down to remove the strap holding his foot to the machine, then looked up at Mike, who had made his way to Darren’s bench. “How’s things working out with your new guy, anyway?”

  “Are you doing anything after you’re done here?” Mike asked.

  Darren thought for a moment, then said, “I don’t think so, why?”

  “Want to step out for a beer, catch up a bit? It’s been too long.”

  “Sure,” Darren replied. “I’ll be done in ten minutes.”

  “I’ll wait for you by the front.”

  “Okay. I’ll see you there,” Darren grunted as he strained to lift his left leg against the resistance of the weight machine.

  Ж Ж Ж

  A half-hour later, the two men were seated at a dimly lit bar called One-Ten at 110th and Amsterdam, sipping their second round of beers. Darren was in his mid-thirties, with brown hair clipped short, but not quite a military buzz. His face was youthful, with round cheeks that looked as if he couldn’t grow a beard if he tried. He wasn’t tall, about the same as Mike’s five foot ten, and was stocky without being at all overweight. Mike often envied Darren’s metabolism. Now that he was exercising regularly at the gym as part of his rehab, he was even more buff than when he had been working. Mike remembered how Darren would always squeeze a spring-loaded pair of bicycle handles to build up his upper arms. Mike guessed that these days, Darren didn’t have much to do besides work out.

  “I’m sorry about the dig on your new partner, Mike.”

  “Don’t worry about it. It wasn’t his fault that I was alone. I went in by myself because I had to. Truth is that Jason acted quickly, found me, and saved my life by calling in the ambulance. I have no problems with how he handled it.”

  “Glad to hear it, Mike,” Darren said without much enthusiasm. “Does that mean when I get back on my feet, my old chair won’t be available?”

  Mike looked up from his glass and scrutinized his old partner, who had limped his way from the gym to the bar in twice the time it would have taken Mike by himself. The injury was more than a year and a half old. “Are the doctors saying that you could get back to full strength again?”

  Darren turned his head away. “The doctors don’t always know everything.”

  “So, you’re still in PT?”

  “I’m seeing my therapist once a week. That’s the minimum I need to do in order to stay in rehab status.”

  “Are you progressing at all?”

  “I get a report every month that says I have ‘not yet reached maximum medical recovery.’ So, officially, yes. The reality is that I’m investigating some experimental treatment options. I haven’t given up hope.”

  “Okay,” Mike said, reaching over to give Darren a light punch in the shoulder. “If you get back, I’ll make sure there’s a place for you. Might not be with me, but you were due to rotate away from me anyway.”

  “Yeah, I know. I just feel like our tour was left unfinished.”

  “It was. But there’s no point in crying over spilt milk. And speaking of spilt milk, how are Tony and Jenny doing? It’s been a while since I saw them.”

  “Yeah. Marie was asking me whether you had called. But don’t worry. I know how it is. It’s not your job to look after me anymore. But thanks for asking. Tony and Jenny don’t spill their milk much anymore.” Darren broke into a grin. Mike noticed that his top row of teeth showed some brown blotches, and wondered if he had dropped his dental insurance because of the cost. “Tony’s going to be in middle school next year.”

  “Really?” Mike said with genuine surprise. “Shit. The time gets away from me.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  “You need to have me over for dinner so I can say hello to Marie.”

  “Sure,” Darren said, sipping his beer and avoiding eye contact with Mike. “I’ll mention it to her and give you a call.”

  “I mean it. I feel awful about not keeping in touch more. Last time I saw you was, what, last June?”

  “July, at the fireworks.”

  “Right. Well, it’s too long. We spent a lot of time together for two years. We should stay in touch.”

  “Don’t worry about me, Mike. I’m fine.”

  “Well, you should never have taken that bullet in the first place,” Mike mumbled.

  “Drop it, Mike.”

  “Fine. You keep working on your rehab. We’ll worry about the rest when you get back to work. Is the Department taking care of you financially?”

  “I’m fine,” Darren responded. “I’m drawing disability.”

  “That’s only seventy-five percent of pay.”

  “Sure, but I have no commuting expenses,” Darren said with a wry smile.

  “You let me know if you need anything.”

  “I will.” Darren downed the last of his beer, reached into his pocket, and tossed a twenty-dollar bill on the bar as he carefully hopped down from his stool onto his right leg.

  Mike quickly reached out and slid the bill back toward Darren. “I got this.”

  “It’s not a problem, Mike. I’m not hurting for cash. I got it.”

  “Listen, you stubborn bastard, I invited you for a beer and I’m paying,” Mike fixed a stern gaze on his friend.

  “Fine. You got this one. I’ll get the next one. You’re at the rehab center a few times a week, right?” Mike nodded. “Great. Next time, then.” Darren took back his twenty and put on his coat. Mike reminded Darren to talk to his wife about setting up a dinner. The two men shook hands at the
door and Darren hopped off to the north, while Mike turned south. As he walked toward his apartment, Mike bent his head down against the cold wind and thought about the day that Darren had been shot and injured. Mike had alternated between being angry with Darren for being so careless and being angry with himself for not preventing it. Today was no different. He couldn’t make up his mind. All he knew for sure was that it was a damned shame.

  Chapter 4 – Racial Profiling

  WHILE MIKE WAS SIPPING A BEER with his old partner, Jason Dickson and his temporary partner, Ray McMillian, were in a briefing with Captain Edward Sullivan. Sullivan had a ruddy face and a large nose that was perpetually red. He looked like a Central Casting model of an Irish cop. And, like every other cop in history named Sullivan, all his officers and detectives called him “Sully.” He was a bulldog in supporting his detectives, but he would also call them out if they made him or his homicide unit look bad. In his police uniform, the detectives in the bullpen liked to joke that he looked like the Captain from Gilligan’s Island. Dickson and McMillian were back in the cramped and donut-less conference room along with Sully, staring at the ancient speaker box hooked up to the telephone. On the other end of the line, Deputy Mayor Kendrick Williamson and the chief communications officer for Mayor Frederick Douglass were explaining the public relations issues and the consequential urgency of a new case.

  “There is already a huge memorial springing up outside the bodega,” Williamson said, clearly agitated but trying to hold it together. “The local TV stations are all over it and Al Sharpton has already implied that the police will not take the case seriously because the victim is Hispanic, and also that the police will be looking to pin the murder on a minority suspect even if there’s no evidence. It’s a shit show and we’re only on day one.”