Sacred Sins

through an amber light, Ben drove it into third. “Multiple contusions and lacerations.”
    Reminiscently, Ed smiled. “We got them, didn't we?”
    “They were unconscious.” Ben squealed to a halt at the curb and pocketed the keys. “And I needed five stitches in my arm.”
    “Bitch, bitch, bitch.” With a yawn Ed unfolded himself from the car and stood on the sidewalk.
    It was barely dawn, and cool enough so you could see your breath, but a crowd was already forming. Hunched in his jacket and wishing for coffee, Ben worked his way through the curious onlookers to the roped-off alley.
    “Sly.” With a nod to the police photographer, Ben looked down on victim number three.
    He would put her age at twenty-six to twenty-eight. The sweater was a cheap polyester, and the soles of her sneakers were worn almost smooth. She wore dangling, gold-plated earrings. Her face was a mask of heavy makeup that didn't suit the department-store sweater and corduroys.
    Cupping his hands around his second cigarette of the day, he listened to the report of the uniformed cop beside him.
    “Vagrant found her. We got him in a squad car sobering up. Seems he was picking through the trash when he came across her. Put the fear of God into him, so he ran out of the alley and nearly into my cruiser.”

    Ben nodded, looking down at the neatly lettered note pinned to her sweater. Frustration and fury moved through him so swiftly that when acceptance settled in, they were hardly noticed. Bending down, Ed picked up the oversized canvas bag she'd dropped. A handful of bus tokens spilled out.
    It was going to be a long day.

    S IX hours later they walked into the precinct. Homicide didn't have the seamy glamor of Vice, but it was hardly as neat and tidy as the stations in the suburbs. Two years before, the walls had been painted in what Ben referred to as apartment-house beige. The floor tiles sweat in the summer and held the cold in the winter. No matter how diligent the janitorial service was with pine cleaner and dust rags, the rooms forever smelled of stale smoke, wet coffee grounds, and fresh sweat. True, they'd taken up a pool in the spring and delegated one of the detectives to buy some plants to put on the windowsills. They weren't dying, but they weren't flourishing either.
    Ben passed a desk and nodded to Lou Roderick as the detective typed up a report. This was a cop who took his caseload steadily, the way an accountant takes corporate taxes.
    “Harris wants to see you,” Lou told him, and without looking up, managed to convey a touch of sympathy. “Just got in from a meeting with the mayor. And I think Lowenstein took a message for you.”
    “Thanks.” Ben eyed the Snickers bar on Roderick's desk. “Hey, Lou—”
    “Forget it.” Roderick continued to type his report without breaking rhythm.
    “So much for brotherhood,” Ben muttered, and sauntered over to Lowenstein.

    She was a different type from Roderick altogether, Ben mused. She worked in surges, stop and go, and was more comfortable on the street than at a typewriter. Ben respected Lou's preciseness, but as a backup he'd have chosen Lowenstein, whose proper suits and trim dresses didn't hide the fact that she had the best legs in the department. Ben took a quick look at them before he sat on the corner of her desk. Too bad she was married, he thought.
    Poking idly through her papers, he waited for her to finish her call. “How's it going, Lowenstein?”
    “My garbage disposal's throwing up and the plumber wants three hundred, but that's all right because my husband's going to fix it.” She spun a form into her typewriter. “It'll only cost us twice as much that way. How about you?” She smacked his hand away from the Pepsi on her desk. “Got anything new on our priest?”
    “Just a corpse.” If there was bitterness, it was hard to detect. “Ever been to Doug's, down by the Canal?”
    “I don't have your social life, Paris.”
    He gave a quick snort then picked up the fat mug that held her pencils. “She was a cocktail waitress there. Twenty-seven.”
    “No use letting it get to you,” she murmured, then seeing his face, passed him the Pepsi. It always got to you. “Harris wants to see you and Ed.”
    “Yeah, I know.” He took a long swallow, letting the sugar and caffeine pour into his system. “Got a message for me?”
    “Oh, yeah.” With a smirk, she pushed through her papers until she found it. “Bunny called.” When the high, breathy