Green sat down and Ramone did the same, immediately reaching for the phone to call his wife. He did this several times a day and always when he closed a case. There was still much work to be done on this one, especially paperwork, but for now the detectives would allow themselves a small break.

Detective Antonelli and Detective Mike Bakalis took seats nearby. Antonelli, a Gold's Gym enthusiast, was short, broad shouldered, and narrow waisted. He was called Plug to his face and Butt Plug to his back by his fellow detectives. Bakalis, because of his prominent beak, was called Aardvark and sometimes Baklava. Bakalis was there to type a subpoena into his computer, but he hated to type anything and had only been talking about it all day.

Over the desks of the detectives were corkboards, many displaying photos of children, wives, and other relatives alongside death photos of victims and apprehended but unconvicted perps who had become obsessions. Crucifixes, pictures of saints, and psalm quotes were in abundance. Many of the VCB detectives were devout Christians, others only claimed they were, and some had lost their faith in God completely. Divorce was fairly common among them. Conversely, there were those who had managed to maintain strong marriages. Others were players. Some drank heavily and some were on the wagon. Most had a beer or two after their shift and never developed a problem with alcohol. None of them were types. They weren't in their position for the promise of great financial reward. The job wasn't, for the majority of them, a calling. For one reason or another, they were suited to be homicide police. It was where they had naturally landed.

'Everything all right?' said Rhonda Willis, noticing Ramone's frown as he hung up the phone.

Ramone stood, leaned his back against a divider, and crossed his arms. He was an average-sized man with a good chest who had to work hard at his flat belly. His hair was black, still full and wavy, and without gray. He had a dimpled chin. He wore a mustache, the only thing that identified him as a cop. It was unfashionable for white guys to wear them, but his wife preferred him with it, which was reason enough for him to keep it on his face.

'My kid got in trouble again,' said Ramone. 'Regina said she got a call from the assistant principal, something about insubordination. We get calls from that school damn near every day.'

'He's a boy,' said Rhonda, who had four of her own by two different husbands and was now raising them by herself. She spent a good part of her day communicating with her sons via their cells.

'I know it,' said Ramone.

'Spare the rod,' said Bakalis, distracting himself with a stroke magazine he had picked up off his desk. Bakalis had no kids himself but felt he needed to chime in.

Antonelli, who was divorced, tossed a set of Polaroids onto Bakalis's desk. 'Check these out, you want to see something.'

They were the death photos of Jacqueline Taylor. In the photos she was laid out on her back, naked on a large sheet of black plastic. By the time the sister had identified her, she had been cleaned up, but these were the shots taken when she had first arrived at the morgue. The stab wounds were most prominent on her neck and one of her breasts, which was nearly severed. Her eyes were open, one more widely than the other, which made her appear to be inebriated. Her tongue was swollen and protruded.

'Look at that hair trail,' said Antonelli, putting his feet up on his desk. His trouser hiked up, revealing an ankle holster and the butt of his Glock.

Bakalis studied the photos one by one without comment. The mood was not festive, despite the fact that they had caught a killer. No one could be happy with the results in this particular case.

'Poor old gal,' said Green.

'Him, too,' said Ramone. 'Guy was a solid citizen up until a year ago. Loses his job, falls in love with the pipe, watches his wife shack up with an asshole who parks his laundry in the same place Tyree's kids are sleeping…'

'I knew his older brother,' said Green. 'Shoot, I used to see William out there when he wasn't nothin but a kid. His people were good. Don't let no one tell you that drugs don't fuck you up.'

'Even if he pleads,' said Rhonda, 'he'll catch eighteen, twenty-five.'

'And those kids'll be messed up for life,' said Green.

'She must have been some woman,' said Bakalis, still studying the photos. 'I mean, he was so torn about losing that thing he had to kill it so no other man could hit it.'

'If he hadn't been smoking that shit,' said Green, 'he might have thought straight.'

'Wasn't just the rock,' said Antonelli. 'It's a proven fact, pussy will compel you to kill. Even the pussy you can't have.'

'Pussy can pull a freight train,' said Rhonda Willis.

Bakalis dropped the Polaroids on his desk, then touched the pads of his fingers to the keyboard of his computer. But his fingers did not move. He stared stupidly at the monitor.

'Hey, Plug,' said Bakalis. 'How'd you like to type up a subpoena?'

'How'd you like to suck my dick?'

The two of them went back and forth for a while until Gene Hornsby arrived with the bag of evidence. Ramone thanked him and got to work on the booking and attendant paperwork, including the entering of the case details in The Book. This was a large tablet detailing open and closed homicides, officers assigned to the cases, motives, and other elements that would be helpful to the prosecution effort and also serve to memorialize basic city history.

By the time the detectives had checked out for the day, they had worked a full shift and three hours of overtime.

Out in the parking lot of the VCB, located behind the Penn-Branch shopping center in Southeast, Gus Ramone, Bo Green, George Hornsby, and Rhonda Willis walked to their cars.

'I'm gonna take a nice hot bath tonight,' said Rhonda.

'Don't you need to run your sons somewhere this evening?' said Green.

'Not tonight, praise God.'

'Anybody up for a beer?' said Hornsby. 'I'll let y'all buy me one.'

'I got practice,' said Green, who coached a boys' football team in the neighborhood where he'd come up.

'What about the Ramone?' said Hornsby.

'Rain check,' said Rhonda, who knew what the answer would be before it came from Ramone's mouth.

Ramone wasn't listening. He was thinking of his wife and kids.

Diego Ramone got off the 12 bus near the Metro station and walked over the District line toward his house. It had not been a good day at his middle school, but it had been a typical one. He had caught trouble, like he had caught trouble a couple of times every week since he started going there. He wished he could have stayed at his old middle school in D.C., but his father had insisted he transfer into Montgomery County, and things had not gone too well since.

Mr Guy, the assistant principal, had called Diego's mother earlier in the day to tell her that Diego had refused to give up his cell phone after it had rung inside the school. The truth was, Diego had forgotten it was on. He knew it was against school rules to have it on inside, but he hadn't wanted to give it up, on account of his friend Toby had got his phone taken away for weeks after a similar thing went down. So he'd told Mr Guy, 'No, I'm not gonna give it up, 'cause it was an honest mistake,' and then Mr Guy had taken him down to the office and called his mother. Mr Guy had said that he could have suspended him for insubordination and that he was cutting him a break. Some break. Diego was still going to hear about it from his father. Besides, being suspended was more fun than being in school. In that school, anyway.

Diego walked through a short tunnel under the Metro tracks and crossed Blair Road. He wore a long black T-shirt showing the Tasmanian Devil hand-screened by a friend, one of the Spriggs twins. Under the T-shirt he wore a Hanes wife-beater. It was autumn, but still warm enough for shorts, and his were Levi Silvertabs worn a few inches below the knee. Beneath the Silvertabs he wore SpongeBob boxers. His shoes today, one of three pairs of sneaks he owned, were Nike Exclusives, the white and navy.