C. Lawrence: Silent victim

"Okay, then," Connelly said finally, sounding surprised that Morton wasn't arguing with him. Chuck knew from experience that it wouldn't do any good. Connelly cleared his throat again. "Who's the primary on this one?"

"Detective Leonard Butts," Chuck said.

"Oh, yeah, that funny little guy who chews on cigars?"

"Right."

"Okay, Chuck, give me a full report as soon as you have anything, will you?"

"Yes, sir," he replied, and hung up.

Elena Krieger had risen quickly through the ranks to become sergeant, then lieutenant, and now detective. Oh, she was brilliant-and comely enough, so everyone said-tall and red haired and curvy and all the rest of it, but that didn't cheer him up one bit. Connelly's solicitous manner made Chuck suspect that he had slept with her. He pictured the deputy chief's skinny legs poking out from striped boxer briefs as he was straddled by a red-headed Amazon in a push-up bra. The image made him shudder.

There was a knock on the door.

"Come in," Morton barked, gazing with dismay at the mounting pile of paperwork on his desk.

Sergeant Ruggles poked his pink, bullet-shaped head through the door.

"Yes, Sergeant?"

"Message for you, sir-came in just as you arrived."

Ruggles had recently joined the NYPD after a stint as a beat cop in London. His accent was pure North Country, with the wide vowels and truncated consonants of that part of England. Chuck still hadn't gotten used to how polite he was.

"What is it?" he said.

"Detective Krieger called to say she's on her way and will be here in half an hour, sir." Morton frowned.

"The Valkyrie rides again," he muttered. "Damn."

Ruggles's pink forehead crinkled. "Excuse me, sir?"

"That's what they called her at Brooklyn South."

"On account of her being German, sir?"

"That-and other things."

Ruggles coughed delicately.

"I've heard she's very… good looking, sir."

"Yeah, sure-a goddamn Teutonic goddess."

He looked up at Sergeant Ruggles, who was still lingering uncomfortably at the door, his thick fingers wrapped around the door handle.

"That's all, Sergeant," he said stiffly, and Ruggles withdrew, stumbling over his own feet as he backed out of the room.

Chuck frowned and opened the case file in front of him.

A lot of what he did as captain of the major cases squad was calculated to intimidate, impress, and control those under him. He kept the real Chuck Morton deeply hidden. Squad commander was a role, and the script had been written long ago by people other than him. He knew that his success depended upon following it carefully: he must be strong, decisive, and, when necessary, intimidating.

For example, he liked Sergeant Ruggles, and had they met in a bar, might have asked him about his weekend, but as his superior officer he maintained a cool distance between them.

The coffeemaker on the windowsill, a recent gift from his wife, began to spit and pop, and the smell of freshly brewing coffee infiltrated the room. Krieger. How appropriate. He remembered enough from his college German to know it meant "warrior" in that language.

The phone on his desk rang. He picked it up and growled into the receiver.

"Morton here."

"Hiya, Chuck-it's Rob Murphy."

Rob Murphy had worked with Krieger at Brooklyn South, and had just about blown a gasket, according to Tanya Jackson, his ever competent and eavesdropping sergeant.

"What's up, Rob?"

"I hear the Valkyrie is headed your way."

"You heard right. Any advice?"

"Yeah. Play your cards close, and don't take any crap."

"I hear you worked with her on the Strickley Affair."

"Jesus Christ, Chuck, I never came so close in my life to hitting a woman."

The Strickley Affair was a delicate matter involving a corruption sting on a local union official. Krieger was working undercover, but had threatened to blow it all sky high when the official's son hit developed a crush on her and started following her around. He was beginning to get suspicious just as they finally collected enough evidence to round up the whole lot of crooks.

"Let's just say that Krieger wasn't exactly a team player," Murphy added.

"Thanks," said Chuck.

"Let me know how it goes," Murphy said.

"Okay," Chuck said, and hung up. The room suddenly felt overheated; he rolled his shirt sleeves up over his muscular forearms and opened his collar.

There were rumors that Krieger had been transferred because of Murphy's insistence he would never work with her again. And now Chuck was stuck with her just as he was about to investigate two very bogus-looking suicides.

He stared glumly at the full coffeepot on the windowsill. Normally he looked forward to this moment, when he could relax and enjoy a fresh cup of coffee after the long commute to the office. He had even splurged and bought some Jamaican Blue Mountain to mix with his Kenyan AA, but knowing he was about to meet the Valkyrie took away his enthusiasm.

Chuck poured himself a cup of coffee and took a sip, but it tasted bitter.

There was another knock on the door-sharper this time, brisk and businesslike. Chuck took a deep breath and squared his shoulders.

"Come in."

He smiled grimly. Let the games begin.

After Ana had gone, Lee pulled out his cell phone and hit the CONTACTS button, then selected the second name on the list and pushed the dial button. His party answered on the second ring.

"Butts here." The voice was a thick rumble, like a bulldog with a chest cold.

"Hi-sorry I'm late. I'll be there in five minutes."

"Oh, hiya, Doc. Well, I'll just have to order another beer."

Lee smiled as he put on his coat. He and Detective Leonard Butts were an unlikely pair, but the bond they had formed was a strong one. In the course of their relationship, he and Butts had gone from initial wariness and mistrust to a comfortable familiarity and mutual respect.

They didn't always see eye to eye, perhaps, but Lee had learned that Butts could be relied upon in a crisis. The squat detective's gruffness masked a deeply loyal, even passionate nature. The more Lee worked with the NYPD, the more he came to see beneath the masks that cops wore as protective covering. The city was not a soft place to live, and daily contact with criminals and creeps made it necessary to develop a thick outer shell. Otherwise, he imagined, you could be crushed by the harshness of police work in this town.

Virage, the restaurant where he was meeting Butts, was one long block away from his apartment. The rain had slurred to a steady drizzle, the air thick with a hazy mist. Shoving his hands into his pockets, he strode rapidly east on Seventh Street toward Second Avenue.

Sure enough, Butts sat at a corner table, a tall, thin glass of pilsner in front of him. Pockmarks littered his face like craters on the surface of the moon. A smile spread over the detective's homely face when he saw Lee.

"Hiya, Doc," he said, pulling up a chair for Lee to sit.

Physically they could not have been more different. Lee Campbell was tall and thin (overly so, according to his girlfriend, Kathy Azarian), with the clear, pale complexion and deep-set blue eyes of a true Celt. Butts was short and thick and swarthy, his face a minefield of pockmarks, his thinning sandy hair as straight as Lee's was dark and curly.

"Sorry to keep you waiting," Lee said as he settled into the chair Butts offered him.

"That's okay, Doc-gives me an excuse to have an extra beer. It's Belgian, I think they said-pretty good. You want one?" "Sure."

Butts ordered them both a round and smiled at Lee's inquiring look.

"I'm takin' the train home tonight, so no worries."

"Muriel doesn't mind you being out on a Friday night?"

Butts grunted and downed the rest of his beer, wiping his rutted face with the back of his sleeve.