stank of urine but was at the moment unoccupied, she climbed out of the bright orange jumpsuit, opened the storage box, took out a long flashlight and shoved in the wet jumpsuit, closed and locked the top, and clamped her helmet onto the bike with the rigid lock. She thrust the flashlight into the deep front pocket of her leather jacket and cautiously approached the building.
The front was, predictably, padlocked. She found the entrance currently in use down an alleyway on the side of the building, covered by a sheet of corrugated metal that screeched loudly when she pulled it aside. Over the noise of the wind and the occasional heavy drops, she could not tell if there was any movement inside the building. Trying to reassure herself that this really wasn't so stupid, that even though she felt like an empty-headed female on a late-night movie investigating attic noises with a candle in her hand, she actually was an armed cop (admittedly, with no official reason for being here, far less a search warrant), she stepped through the gap.
She had fully intended to make her presence known in a straightforward manner. After all, she hardly looked like a police officer, and she only wanted a chance to talk with the boy Dio. She even had her mouth open to call a placatory greeting when it began, the cold ripple of the skin up along the back of her hand, over her wrists, and up her forearms to her shoulders and the nape of her neck, the creepy-crawlies that told her something really bad was about to go down. She hadn't expected this, had only planned on talking with some unwashed boys in a squat, had arranged no backup, but the moment it started, she didn't stop to think, only reacted.
Gun up in both hands and ready, back against the wall, every hair alert, and... nothing. Nothing.
There were people in the building, though, she would swear to it, could feel them over her head, silently waiting for - what?
She, too, waited in the darkness, long minutes straining to hear, see, anything, tried to make herself open her mouth and call a friendly "Hello, anyone there?" but the ghostly touch along the tops of her arms did not go away. Finally, moving as stealthily as her heavy boots would allow, she sidled back through the gap, trotted down the alley (keeping a wary eye overhead) for a quick glance at the rear of the building, and then made her way back up the alleyway and through the shadows to the cycle, where she unlocked the storage compartment again and took out her mobile radio. She turned the volume right down and spoke in a mutter.
The marked unit arrived within three minutes, drifting to a stop with its headlights out. The dome light did not go on when the two men opened their doors with gentle clicks, and neither of them slammed his door. Kate was relieved; they knew their business. She cleared her throat quietly and walked over to them.
"Kate Maninelli, Homicide," she identified herself. "What do you know about that three-story building just this side of the garage?"
"It's been a squat for a couple of months now. No problems," said the older one. "We reported it, but the attitude this time of year is, if it stays quiet, let it go. There aren't enough beds for them, in the shelters, anyway," he added defensively.
"I know. But it's been quiet? No sign of Johns, not a crack house, shooting gallery, anything like that?"
"No customers of any kind. Why?"
"I don't have a warrant. I'm just looking for a boy, was told he was in there sick. I went in, but I... I don't like the way it feels inside. Wanted some backup." The younger man looked at her sideways, but the older one just nodded.
"I know what you mean. I'll go in with you," he offered. His voice sounded familiar. Kate looked more closely.
"Tom Rawlins, isn't it? Rawlings?" He seemed pleased to be recognized. "Thanks, but I think I'd better go in alone, I don't want to scare them off. Just watch my back? And maybe your partner here --"
"Ash Jordan," he said, introducing
The front was, predictably, padlocked. She found the entrance currently in use down an alleyway on the side of the building, covered by a sheet of corrugated metal that screeched loudly when she pulled it aside. Over the noise of the wind and the occasional heavy drops, she could not tell if there was any movement inside the building. Trying to reassure herself that this really wasn't so stupid, that even though she felt like an empty-headed female on a late-night movie investigating attic noises with a candle in her hand, she actually was an armed cop (admittedly, with no official reason for being here, far less a search warrant), she stepped through the gap.
She had fully intended to make her presence known in a straightforward manner. After all, she hardly looked like a police officer, and she only wanted a chance to talk with the boy Dio. She even had her mouth open to call a placatory greeting when it began, the cold ripple of the skin up along the back of her hand, over her wrists, and up her forearms to her shoulders and the nape of her neck, the creepy-crawlies that told her something really bad was about to go down. She hadn't expected this, had only planned on talking with some unwashed boys in a squat, had arranged no backup, but the moment it started, she didn't stop to think, only reacted.
Gun up in both hands and ready, back against the wall, every hair alert, and... nothing. Nothing.
There were people in the building, though, she would swear to it, could feel them over her head, silently waiting for - what?
She, too, waited in the darkness, long minutes straining to hear, see, anything, tried to make herself open her mouth and call a friendly "Hello, anyone there?" but the ghostly touch along the tops of her arms did not go away. Finally, moving as stealthily as her heavy boots would allow, she sidled back through the gap, trotted down the alley (keeping a wary eye overhead) for a quick glance at the rear of the building, and then made her way back up the alleyway and through the shadows to the cycle, where she unlocked the storage compartment again and took out her mobile radio. She turned the volume right down and spoke in a mutter.
The marked unit arrived within three minutes, drifting to a stop with its headlights out. The dome light did not go on when the two men opened their doors with gentle clicks, and neither of them slammed his door. Kate was relieved; they knew their business. She cleared her throat quietly and walked over to them.
"Kate Maninelli, Homicide," she identified herself. "What do you know about that three-story building just this side of the garage?"
"It's been a squat for a couple of months now. No problems," said the older one. "We reported it, but the attitude this time of year is, if it stays quiet, let it go. There aren't enough beds for them, in the shelters, anyway," he added defensively.
"I know. But it's been quiet? No sign of Johns, not a crack house, shooting gallery, anything like that?"
"No customers of any kind. Why?"
"I don't have a warrant. I'm just looking for a boy, was told he was in there sick. I went in, but I... I don't like the way it feels inside. Wanted some backup." The younger man looked at her sideways, but the older one just nodded.
"I know what you mean. I'll go in with you," he offered. His voice sounded familiar. Kate looked more closely.
"Tom Rawlins, isn't it? Rawlings?" He seemed pleased to be recognized. "Thanks, but I think I'd better go in alone, I don't want to scare them off. Just watch my back? And maybe your partner here --"
"Ash Jordan," he said, introducing
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