lot as she approached and she paused to watch it turn east on Finch Avenue. At 9:20 on Good Friday morning, traffic was sparse and it would be easy to get the mistaken impression that the city had taken this opportunity-a religious holiday observed by only about a third of its population to sleep in. The city, as Vicki well knew, never did anything that restful. If traffic complaints were down, then domestic complaints would be up as loving families spent the entire day together. And in the Jane-Finch corridor, the direction the car had been heading, where there were few jobs to take a holiday from and tempers teetered on the edge on the best of days...
Back when she was in uniform, she'd spent almost a year working out of 31. Remembering certain highlights as she continued toward the station, she found she didn't miss police work at all.
"Well, if it isn't "Victory" Nelson, gone but not forgotten. What brings you out to the ass-end of the city?"
"Just the thought of seeing your smiling face, Jimmy." Vicki set the two bags on the counter and pushed her glasses up her nose with frozen fingers. "It's spring and, like the swallows, I'm returning to Capistrano. Is the Sarge around?"
"Yeah, he's in the ... "
"None of her damned business what he's in!" The bellow would have shaken a less solidly constructed building and following close behind it, Staff-Sergeant Stanley Il-john rolled into the duty area, past Jimmy, and up to the counter. "You said you'd be here by nine," he accused. "You're late."
Silently, Vicki held up the bag of doughnuts.
"Bribes," the sergeant snorted, the ends of his beautifully curled mustache quivering with the force of the exhalation. "Well, stop standing around with your thumb up your ass. Get in here and sit. And you," he glared down at Jimmy, "get back to work."
Jimmy, who was working, grinned and ignored him. Vicki did as she was told, and as Sergeant Iljohn settled himself at the duty sergeant's desk, she pulled up a chair and sat across from him.
A few moments later, the sergeant meticulously brushed a spray of powdered sugar off his starched shirt front. "Now then, you know and I know that allowing you to read the occurrence reports is strictly against department regs."
"Yes, Sarge." If anyone else had been on duty, she probably wouldn't have been able to manage it without pulling in favors from higher up.
"And we both know that you're blatantly trading on the reputation you built as a hotshot miracle worker to get around those regs."
"Yes, Sarge." Iljohn had been the first to recommend her for an advanced promotion and had seen her arrest record as proof of his assessment. When she'd left the force, he'd called her, grilled her on her plans, and practically commanded her to make something of her life. He hadn't exactly been supportive, but his brusque goodwill had been something to lean on when Mike Celluci had accused her of running away.
"And if I catch shit over this, I'm going to tell them you used the unarmed combat you private investigators are supposed to be so damned good at to overpower me and you read the reports over my bleeding body."
"Should I slap you around a little?" Although he stood barely over minimum height for the force, rumor had it that Stanley Iljohn had never lost a fight. With anything.
"Don't be a smart ass."
"Sorry, Sarge."
He tapped one square finger against the clipboard lying on his desk and his face grew solemn. "Do you really think you can do something about this?" he asked.
Vicki nodded. "Right now," she told him levelly, "I have a better chance than anyone in the city."
Iljohn stared at her for a long moment. "I can draw lines on a map, too," he said at last. "And when you line up the first six deaths, x marks the spot just north of here. Every cop at this station is watching for something strange, something that'll mark the killer, and you can bet these reports," a short, choppy wave indicated the occurrence reports of the last