Chapter One
Pratt was digging into a nice plate of pasta at his favorite Italian restaurant. He knew he shouldnât eat the stuff. But so what if a few extra pounds showed on his six-foot frame? He deserved a treat now and then.
He was about to shovel in his third mouthful when he got the call.
âWe need help at a crime scene,â dispatch told him.
The detective looked at his cell phone like it was a traitor. Why couldnât they have called him last night, when heâd just gone home after work?
With a sigh, he put the phone back to his ear. âWhere?â
âNightclub district. A stiffâs turned up stabbed at The Boom Room. Heard of it?â
âYes, but not in a way that makes me eager to visit.â
âWe sent Snow and Gordon down, but Snow has pulled up lame. Gordon is alone and could use help.â
âWhy me?â Pratt asked. Everyone knew there was bad blood between Gordon and him.
âYouâre the closest to the crime scene.â
âHow do you know that?â
The dispatcher chuckled. âWe have our ways.â
âYou rat!â
âHey, Pratt, Iâm just doing my job. Just get a doggie bag for your dinner.â
Signaling for the waiter, Pratt sighed again. âIâll be there ASAP. â
It was true he wasnât far away. But it was Friday, and traffic was impossible. Kids were flooding downtown on this latewinter evening. Pratt could have walked there faster. Even with the magnetic bubblegum light on top of his car, no one gave him an inch.
Finally driving up to the yellow police tape, he got out. The patrolman on duty almost said something, but Prattâs glare shut him up. His cell phone rang again.
âPratt here. What do you want?â
The person at the other end laughed. âBoy, are you in a crabby mood!â
It was Ellis, his still-wet-behind-the-ears partner. The lad had good âcop instincts,â so Pratt had taken him on. Two months later, the fit was still good. He didnât make Pratt always feel like the old fart on the homicide squad.
âWhat do you want?â
âI hear you got called in to help Gordon,â the younger man said.
âBad news travels fast.â
âWant some company? I have nothing on tonight.â
âSuit yourself. You know how Gordon can be.â
âThatâs why Iâm offering.â
âWell, in that case, sure. You might learn something about how not to interact with the public.â
âSee you in half an hour.â
âThe traffic is horrible,â Pratt warned him.
âIt always is down there on Fridays. Iâm taking transit.â
Police tape extended across the street from both corners of the building housing The Boom Room. A large crowd pressed forward against the flimsy plastic strips. Four uniformed cops kept it back.
The Boom Room stank of stale beer and sweat. Two distinct groups crowded around a couple of tables at the back of the long room, looking uneasily at each other. Two more uniformed cops stood nearby, keeping an eye on them. Pratt also noticed three girls sitting in a corner by themselves. One was sobbing uncontrollably. The other two were comforting her.
The club must have been packed when the murder was discovered. Where the hell were all those people? Why hadnât Gordon made some attempt to keep them there?
Pratt knew one of the uniforms and went up to him. âWhereâs Gordon?â
The cop motioned with his head.
âIn the basement. Managerâs office. Crime scene guys are down there too. I have no idea whatâs going on, so donât ask.â
Pratt headed for the door the cop had pointed to. Passing the clubâs small kitchen, he saw a uniform talking with the threeman cooking crew.
Sticking his head in, he asked, âTaking statements?â
This cop turned and rolled his eyes.
âSomething like that. Speaking English is not their strong
C. J. Cherryh
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