The Ice Maiden by Edna Buchanan

here?”
    â€œI’m sorry,” I told Ida Sweeting, and rose to leave.
    â€œYou better be!” Lakisha screeched, as the smaller girl screwed up her face and began to cry. “You be a lot sorrier, I catch you bothering me or my family again!” In my face, full of fury and outrage, she herded me unceremoniously out the door, slamming it hard behind me. Not the first time I’d been cursed at, threatened, or given the boot—and certainly not the last—but I regretted Lakisha’s lousy timing. Just as I was getting somewhere. Damn.
    She continued to shout, her voice carrying down the hall as I trudged to the stairwell. Ida Sweeting had known a lifetime of grief, and I regretted bringing her even a moment’s more.
    Mad Dog, his cousin Parvin, and Cubby Wells, I thought. Not much, but it was something. I called to bounce them off Craig Burch as I drove back downtown.
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    Ryan was at his desk, directly behind mine.
    â€œBritt?” he said softly, as I checked my messages. “My name is on your story.”
    â€œI saw,” I said crisply.
    â€œHow did that happen?”
    â€œAn unsolved mystery,” I said.
    â€œWell, it’s a great story,” he said. “I’ve had nothing but compliments all morning.”
    Villanueva stopped by my desk minutes later, dark eyes perplexed, the A-section in his hand. “I thought you wrote this.” His big voice turned heads.
    â€œI had nothing to do with it,” Ryan piped up, face flushed.
    â€œWhat the hell’s going on?” the photographer asked.
    I shrugged. “Life is cheap and editors are treacherous,” I said. “Great picture, by the way.”
    Ryan answered his phone. “Hi, chief,” he said cheerfully. He shrugged as Villanueva and I turned to stare. “You’re welcome, glad you liked it.” He rolled his eyes at us. “Anytime, chief, your guys did a great job.”
    â€œThe fire chief,” he announced, hanging up. “He loved the story.”
    Lottie arrived a short time later with the 411 from her buddies on the national desk. Gretchen had altered the story, but the front-page editor didn’t like her changes and had restored the original copy.
    Having a bad hair day, nearly frozen while being ignored by Sunny, given the boot by Andre Coney’s cousin, unappreciated by my editors and the world at large, my psyche already bruised and bleeding, it seemed a perfect time to call on K. C. Riley.
    We first met when I was a rookie reporter. K. C. had rescued her husky, seriously injured male partner by shooting his attacker in the knee. The headline writer had dubbed her a Hero Cop. Yet she’d reacted angrilyto my story. How was I to know? Kathleen Constance Riley seemed a perfectly good moniker to me, and News style is to use full names rather than initials. But she took offense and warned me in no uncertain terms to never ever use her given name in print again.
    Like most female cops, K. C. Riley had to fight for rank and respect, but her macho attitude always struck me as over the top.
    I went to headquarters and called from the parking lot. Her secretary checked with Riley, who agreed to see me briefly, between meetings—in ten minutes. Her usual MO. Agree to an impossible appointment, forcing the reporter to risk death or dismemberment, desperately racing through traffic only to be—too late.
    â€œGreat,” I said sweetly. “I’ll be there.” A PIO officer escorted me to my approved destination, no detours allowed. What would happen, I wondered, if I suddenly broke into a run? Would they lock down the station? Set off a terrorist alert? Call out the dogs to hunt me down?
    The Cold Case Squad’s small office—several desks, computer monitors, and three metal filing cabinets—was adjacent to Homicide on the fifth floor. The lieutenant’s glass-enclosed office on the north wall provided a view of Overtown, a