Sara Paretsky - Sisters on the Case

The precinct house’s claim to fame is that it was featured in the 1948 film The Naked City .

Officers Mirabel Castro, a twenty-eight-year-old redheaded Latina with a nice nose job, a booming voice, and a deceptively relaxed manner, and Anthony Warbren, thirty-four, former Little League pitching champ, who got as far as a Yankee farm team and is still recognized with a lot of Yo, Tonys around Fort Greene in Brooklyn, have just come off cooling a couple of hot tempers in a parking dispute in front of Loehmann’s.

They are already on 18th and 7th, three long blocks from the area where the body was sighted.

‘‘So whadja say then?’’ Tony said, making tracks. He intends being First Officer on the scene.

‘‘Said, Felipe, you gotta respect my career.’’ Mirabel’s sweating like a fool in this heat, taking three steps for his every one to keep up. Felipe’s her live-in boyfriend. He has a good job with Home Depot in the Bronx and’s been bugging her about kids. ‘‘Tell the truth, Tony, you see me wiping asses?’’

Tony laughs. ‘‘You already dealing with crap on the Job.’’ He’s crossing 9th Avenue, leaving her behind. What’s she got to bitch about? All these women on the Job get special attention and it burns a lot of guys. But he has no complaints. He’s gay and out and no one at the 10th says boo to him about it. He and Larry, a dental surgeon, have been together for nine years. They’re in the process of adopting a multiracial kid.

They get beat to the scene by the fire department. An EMT fire department bus, lights swirling, is pulled up next to the red fire emergency vehicle in a parking lot below the thirty-foot rise. Metal stairs lead up from the lot to the High Line. Two EMTs are taking the stairs fast. An FDNY fire marshal is on the top of the rise, waving the medics up. He sees Tony first and draws his hand across his throat, like he’s slicing.

‘‘See that?’’ Tony says. ‘‘I’m calling it in.’’ He talks into his cell. ‘‘Yeah, looks like something. FDNY beat us to it. Better get someone from Crime Scene over before they fuck it up.’’

‘‘Hey, up there,’’ Mirabel yells. ‘‘Don’t mess up our crime scene.’’ Her voice is so loud they all turn.

On his cell, Tony says, ‘‘Gotcha, Sarge. Everyone stays till the detectives get here, and no one else goes up there.’’ He clicks off. ‘‘You heard?’’

‘‘Yeah.’’ Mirabel folds her arms across her chest.

Pigeon crap coats everything, including the staircase, which is fenced off at entry by a gate with a padlock. It wouldn’t be easy to get to the top of the rise without climbing over the fence, unless someone has a key to the padlock of the gate. The padlock hangs loose now, either broken by the perp or by the FDNY.

The EMTs come back down the stairs, hauling their kits. First, black woman, her curves almost, but not quite, hidden under the regulation uniform. Simone Norwood, Corporal, National Guard, served two tours in Iraq as a medic and could be called back any day now, which doesn’t make her happy, her being a single mother with two kids under ten and her own mother whining all the time about taking care of kids again at her age. Simone’s wire-rimmed glasses have slid down her nose on beads of sweat. She pushes them up and gives her gear to the probie Ryan Moore to load into the bus.

‘‘You gotta hang out till the detectives get here,’’ Mirabel says. She has her notepad out.

‘‘Yeah.’’ Simone leans against the bus and gives Mirabel her name, serial number, time of arrival, time of pronouncement of death, then motions for Ryan to do the same. Boy, she’d like a cigarette, except she’s trying to quit. Pack she carries in her pocket is burning a hole in her Windbreaker.

‘‘What’s the word?’’ Tony says. He’s unrolling the yellow crime scene tape around the staircase area.

‘‘Not a pretty sight.’’

Fire Marshal Richard Fergussen comes clanking down the stairs. He ducks under the tape. He’s done. He hates this kind of call, dead girl, beaten to hell and back. Nothing he can do for her. Makes him worry about his Anna Marie, who’s going off to Boston College in August. Wouldn’t listen about Fordham and living at home. At least he could protect her from some of the bad stuff out there. She’s such a sweet, trusting kid. The ulcer starts grinding his gut. He’s got his bottle of Maalox in the car. He can’t hold back the shudder, can’t shake the image of that poor girl up there, something he can’t do a goddam thing about. His job is saving lives. Now it’s up to the NYPD.

An unmarked screeches to a stop next to the FDNY bus. A radio car follows.

Fire Marshal Fergussen joins the patrol officers.

‘‘Homicide?’’ Officer Castro asks.

‘‘Possible,’’ Fire Marshal Fergussen replies.

‘‘What do we have?’’ Detective First Grade Molly Rosen, wearing a white shirt, black linen pants, climbs out of the passenger side of the unmarked, while her partner, Greg Noriega, pops the trunk and collects camera and booties. She’s sweating right through the shirt she paid too much for at Banana Republic, even though it was on sale.

‘‘First Officer?’’ she says.

‘‘Foot Patrol Officer Anthony Warbren.’’

Rosen tilts her Mets cap upward. She takes in the scene. The EMTs, the fire marshal, the staircase to the High Line, the loosened padlock. The sun like a fucking ball of fire overhead. The parking lot with scattered vehicles. ‘‘Okay,’’ she says. ‘‘Let’s have it.’’

Tony Warbren reads from his notepad. ‘‘Call came in at nine twenty. Chopper 6 reported what looked like a body on the High Line, around 19th Street. Castro and I were three blocks away and arrived on the scene at nine forty-two. Two FDNY EMTs, Norwood and Moore, running up the stairs.’’ He nods to Norwood and Moore, who lean against the bus. ‘‘Fire Marshal-’’

‘‘Richard Fergussen,’’ the fire marshal says. ‘‘Got here first. Dead woman. Face down. Didn’t touch anything except her wrist for a pulse. EMTs turned her on her back.’’ He blinks as Noriega begins taking photos.

‘‘I want the scene extended,’’ Molly Rosen tells the two uniforms from the radio car. She points. ‘‘There. There. There.’’ Barriers are set up and the taped area is widened. ‘‘The plates on every car. Get me a printout.’’

‘‘The padlock was hanging loose,’’ Warbren continues.

‘‘Like it was when I got here,’’ Fire Marshal Fergussen says.

‘‘In order to preserve the integrity, Castro and I didn’t climb the stairs or enter the crime scene,’’ says Warbren.

‘‘Good. Warbren, you stay here. Castro, canvass these buildings.’’ She nods at the commercial buildings and a tenement across 10th, facing the High Line. ‘‘See if you can round up a few witnesses.’’ She eyes the gathering group of the curious held back by the wooden horses and yellow tape strung around by the patrol officers. ‘‘Let’s get some additional personnel here to make nice with the crowd and maybe come up with something valuable.’’

Molly Rosen slides the latex gloves on heat-swollen hands and ties the booties over the black pumps, which have begun to pinch. She opens the gate and climbs the rattling stairs. She’s sweating buckets. Doesn’t like that she has to stop at the top to catch her breath, for chrissakes, and to quiet her stomach. Her mouth tastes like raw fish. She is forty-one, a fifteen-year veteran NYPD, gold shield eight years. Anyone would tell you, she’s tough, knows her stuff. Worked her way up butting heads with the good old boys in the department. Has great kids-Josie three, Del Jr. five, and Mary eight. Great kids thanks to Del, who quit his teaching job to be a stay-at-home dad. It was a case of who wanted what more.