LaGuerta turned pale green and then bright red. “Captain, I just wanted—” she said. But Matthews had already turned away. He straightened his tie, combed his hair back with one hand, and chased down the stairs after the reporters.
I turned to look at the altar again. It hadn't changed, but they were starting to dust for prints now. Then they would take it apart to analyze the pieces. Soon it would all be just a beautiful memory.

I trundled off down the stairs to find Deborah.

Outside, Rick Sangre already had a camera rolling. Captain Matthews stood in the wash of lights with microphones thrusting at his chin, giving his official statement. “. . . always the policy of this department to leave the investigating officer autonomy on a case, until such time as it becomes evident that a series of major errors in judgment call the officer's competence into question. That time has not yet arrived, but I am monitoring the situation closely. With so much at stake for the community—”

I spotted Deborah and moved past them. She stood at the barrier of yellow tape, dressed in her blue patrol uniform. “Nice suit,” I told her. “I like it,” she said. “You saw?” “I saw,” I told her. “I also saw Captain Matthews discussing the case with Detective LaGuerta.” Deborah sucked in her breath. “What did they say?” I patted her arm. “I think I once heard Dad use a very colorful expression that would cover it. He was ‘reaming her a new asshole.' Do you know that one?” She looked startled, then pleased. “That's great. Now I really need your help, Dex.” “As opposed to what I've been doing, of course?” “I don't know what you think you've been doing, but it isn't enough.” “So unfair, Deb. And so very unkind. After all, you are actually at a crime site, and wearing your uniform, too. Would you prefer the sex suit?” She shuddered. “That's not the point. You've been holding back something about this all along and I want it now.” For a moment I had nothing to say, always an uncomfortable feeling. I'd had no idea she was this perceptive. “Why, Deborah—”

“Listen, you think I don't know how this political stuff works, and maybe I'm not as smart about it as you are, but I know they're all going to be busy covering their own asses for a while. Which means nobody is going to be doing any real police work.”

“Which means you see a chance to do some of your own? Bravo, Debs.” “And it also means I need your help like never before.” She put a hand out and squeezed mine. “Please, Dexy?”

I don't know what shocked me more—her insight, her hand-squeezing, or her use of the nickname “Dexy.” I hadn't heard her say that since I was ten years old. Whether she intended it or not, when she called me Dexy she put us both firmly back in Harry Land, a place where family mattered and obligations were as real as headless hookers. What could I say?