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under the “team approach,” where everyone—and no one—was responsible for all the cases. Other types of requests could come in, too, at any minute: “We got a rape and some clues and a witness—can you come and take over the investigation?” Homicide cops, like all members of the Investigations Division—Assault, the bomb squad, others—had backup duties for the uniformed division. Street cops had the same Procedure Manual, which they were supposed to read, but a lot of them didn’t or wouldn’t. It was easier to call out the detectives. And they went. Because that might be the difference that got a conviction. But things could be worse; Wager could be in Assault, the pressure cooker, where 90 percent of the crimes had a suspect and witnesses right there, and every suspect had to be charged or cleared within seventy-two hours. Now that was paperwork.
    Wager finished his report and glanced over the dry paragraphs that it all boiled down to. Then he put it in the basket for the typist. “I’m going down to Records.”
    Max was shrugging into a sport coat that was too tight across the shoulders. “Say hello to Jo for me.”
    “Right.”
    He started that way, taking the stairwell instead of the oversized elevators. But the closer he came the slower he walked, because he wasn’t quite sure what he wanted to say and, more important, he wasn’t sure what she would say. That had been the problem with that routine report—rather than focusing on the shootings and the woman’s broken statements, his mind had been framing words to Jo. And, the thought twisted the corners of his mouth, both narratives, the one on the page and the one in his mind, had the odor of death to them. Finally his feet stopped on the gray pebbled rug that hushed the constant traffic and tried to hide the street dirt that was tracked in by pair after pair of black shoes. He still hadn’t answered his own question of what the hell he had to apologize for. She was the one who got wound up over what he said—and he hadn’t meant it all that seriously anyway. But the way she took it, well, that indicated she probably did mean something when she kept harping on his accumulated vacation time. He damned well knew he stood to lose it; he’d lost more than a few weeks of vacation over the years because it seemed to pile up so quickly. And besides, he didn’t like vacations; he’d tried one once and it was lousy. Lorraine never could understand that, either, so now she was married to a guy who was always taking vacations—some kind of stockbroker or something. And one thing Wager didn’t need in his life was another Lorraine nagging about his damned vacation time.
    With mingled loss and relief, Wager turned from the glass-faced entry of the records section and trudged back to the homicide office. Max was gone, the stand for the radio-pack empty on his desk, and Wager was glad. All morning he had felt the questions the big man had been on the verge of asking. And whenever Max neared Wager’s desk, he would hunch lower over the scattered papers and memos and quick-reference telephone numbers to fend off Max’s curiosity. Nosiness he’d call it in anyone except his partner. But Wager was having enough trouble trying to explain his feelings to himself without having to explain them to someone who had no business in it anyway.
    He stared at the telephone on his desk; the records section was four numbers away—that close: just dial four numbers and ask for Officer Fabrizio. But first he had to make his arm move, and he felt the same kind of palsy that had silenced him last night and which had just slowed his steps outside her office. If he called and apologized, she would win that vague but very real thing Wager felt was threatened—the thing she labeled his insecurity or his macho. And all those complexities would be back again. He had been given this opportunity to regain a simple, untangled life. Now, if he wanted to, he could live without a