The elevator doors rattled open, and Bennie stepped off into a narrow, grimy hallway. “Man, this place never gets any prettier, does it?”
“No,” Mary answered, following Bennie around a hall that curved to the right, following the shape of the building. The walls were scuffed, the fluorescent light flickered, and the brown tile felt gritty underfoot, with some of the tiles cracked and broken. The Roundhouse had been built in the sixties, when its space-age design looked modern, and it was way overdue for a renovation. Politicians had promised to build a new police headquarters uptown, but that had yet to materialize. Welcome to Philadelphia. And every other major American city.
Mary and Bennie went down the hall, passing a lineup of battered gray file cabinets on the left, and on the right, a dimly lit bathroom with its urinals on full view, since its door was propped open by a plastic trash tub. Mary’s nose twitched at the odor but she tried not to breathe, and they reached the end of the hallway and a door with a window of bulletproof glass, under the sign, Homicide Division. Bennie pushed the buzzer, the door buzzed open, and they let themselves in.
Bennie took the lead, ignoring the low railing that enclosed the waiting area and beelining to the front desk, while Mary followed, glancing around the waiting area, which was small, dirty, and unoccupied. Black-plastic chairs lined the walls on either side under a slew of Wanted For Murder posters, arranged like a nightmare portrait gallery. They were the most lethal fugitives in the jurisdiction, men and women of all shapes, sizes, and ethnicities, their facial expressions defiant, angry, or affectless. Mary wondered if one of them had killed John, which made her shudder.
Bennie identified them to the desk officer, who was young, tall, and African-American, while Mary checked out the squad room, which was empty except for one detective on the phone. She used to expect that a homicide squad room would be bustling on a Saturday night, just like on TV and the movies, but the opposite was true in reality. More murders were committed on the weekend and at night, so the detectives were out on “jobs” at those times. In fact, the Homicide Division had unofficial sweatshirts that read Our Day Begins When Yours Ends.
Meanwhile, the squad room was even crappier than the last time Mary was here. It was long and skinny, one continuous line of connected rooms, with the far wall curved like the building itself and its long panel of windows barely covered by broken blinds. The desks that filled the room were mismatched and shoved in together, and old gray, brown, and black file cabinets lined the wall. The computers were ancient with big boxy monitors, the floor looked grimy, and the dropped ceiling showed water damage, with brownish stains marking its white tile in shapes like the continents of the world.
“DiNunzio,” Bennie said, over her shoulder. “Officer Lloyd needs to see your ID.”
“Of course.” Mary got her ID from her wallet and showed it to him, and Officer Lloyd reacted immediately when his gaze dropped to her pregnant belly.
“Oh, sorry, I didn’t realize.” Officer Lloyd rose and came around the desk. “I’m not gonna let you wait in the waiting room. Let me show you to the interview room. You can wait for Detectives Krakoff and Marks in there.”
“Thanks,” Mary said, pleased, since her pregnancy hadn’t been good for anything except a baby, until now.
They walked with Officer Lloyd through the narrow pathway that led to the three interview rooms on the right, and he unlocked the middle room, a windowless box the size of a prison cell, containing four mismatched chairs and a typing table with a tan Smith-Corona typewriter and a stack of Miranda waivers. Officer Lloyd gestured them inside. “Ladies, please. I’ll let them know you’re here as soon as they get back.”
They thanked him, sitting down in the hard chairs, and after he had gone, Bennie leaned over. “DiNunzio, you think I was too hard on Carrier? About dating Foxman?”
Suddenly a young detective walked by the open doorway, followed by an older, beefy detective in a tan suit and loosened tie. The older one paused when he spotted Mary, and Mary did a double-take. It was Detective Thomas Azzic, who had worked with her on one of her first murder cases. His blond hair had grayed and thinned, and his aviator glasses had acquired a bifocal window, but his big grin was the same.
“Is that Mary DiNunzio? As I live and breathe?” Detective Azzic entered the room. “All grown up and with child?”
“Hi, how are you, Detective Azzic?” Mary rose, smiling back, and Detective Azzic helped her to her feet and gave her a great big hug.
“Please, call me Tom. It’s so good to see you! It’s been forever! You were just a young lawyer back then!”
“I know, I could barely drive!” Mary laughed, and Detective Azzic joined her, glancing at Bennie.
“Hey, the famous Bennie Rosato. Good to meet you.”
“Good to meet you too.” Bennie smiled in a professional way.
Mary said, “I’m Bennie’s partner now. Got my name on the door and everything.”
“Whoa, legit. Congrats.” Detective Azzic beamed, then turned to Bennie. “You’ve got quite a partner here.”
“I absolutely agree.”
Detective Azzic returned his warm gaze to Mary. “So when did you get married?” He hesitated for a panicky moment. “Wait, er, you’re married right?”
“Of course, you know me.”
“I know, nice Catholic girl like you. Your mother would kill you.” Detective Azzic gestured to his partner, who came up behind. “Hey, Mary, Bennie this is my partner, Francisco Becerra. Francisco, her family is awesome. You should meet her mother. She made me peppers and eggs once. Oh my God, it was amazing.”
Detective Becerra looked confused. “A frittata.”
“What?” Detective Azzic scoffed. “Don’t embarrass yourself. A frittata isn’t peppers and eggs. It was delicious. And the coffee, it was perked, in a percolator. So what are you doing here, Mary? You got a client?”
“No actually, it’s very sad. One of our coworkers was murdered tonight, an associate named John Foxman.”
“Oh, no. I’m so sorry.” Detective Azzic’s face fell, pained. “The name’s Foxman? I heard about that case. Krakoff and Marks caught it.”
“We know. Bennie met them at the scene.” Mary saw an opening, since Detective Azzic was one of the friendliest detectives in the division, warm and talkative, even blabby. “You see, John, the victim, didn’t have any family in town, and we knew him pretty well, so we thought we would come in, let you all know what we know, and find out anything we could.”
“Good idea. I don’t think they’re back yet.”
“They’re not. We’re waiting for them, but we don’t even know how it happened. Can you tell us?”
Detective Azzic frowned. “Yes, but it has to stay confidential. You saw the press outside.”
“Of course, we’d never say anything.”
“Nothing’s official yet, but they figure your friend was killed in the course of a burglary. Best they can tell, he interrupted the burglar.”
“Oh no.” Mary heard herself moan.
“It happens all the time. More often than you think.”
“How do they know that’s what happened?”
“His electronics were gone and there were signs of a struggle.”
Mary fell silent for a moment, imagining the horrifying scenario.
Bennie didn’t miss a beat. “How was he killed, do you know?”
“Blow to the head.”
“With what, do you know? Did they find what was used?”
“I don’t know.”
“So I assume there was forced entry?”
“Yes.”
“Poor John.” Mary shuddered to think of him fighting for his life, struggling to survive, and in the end, being killed so brutally and cruelly. John was so brilliant, possessing a magnificent legal intellect. She felt tears come to her eyes, but willed them away.
“Mary, you okay?” Detective Azzic touched her arm, his gaze sympathetic. “Why don’t you sit back down?”
“Thanks.” Mary sank into a chair.
Bennie remained standing. “Do you know if they have any suspects?”
“Not yet. It’s way early.”
“So nobody saw anybody running away or anything like that?”