Inherit the Dead

passing one of his well-heeled neighbors, more often a member of the army that served them: nannies, maids, dog walkers, delivery guys. The well-heeled neighbors took cabs on days like this.
    Turning right at the corner of Sixty-seventh and Lex, Perry pulled up his collar again and tied Nicky’s scarf around his neck, took a breath, and trotted up the sidewalk. He was early for his eight a.m. appointment, but he knew Henry would be early, too—not waiting for Perry, just getting a start on his work. Slick with February rain, the 19th Precinct again loomed before him. He stopped, not quite ready to go in, and surveyed the majestic old building for the umpteenth time—a delaying tactic, his looking at the decorative brickwork, elaborate cornice, old-fashioned wood windows. At least, majestic and old was what it looked like. Behind the landmarkfacade, which had been supported like a stage set during the building’s reconstruction—which he’d lived through—the 19th was totally new: concrete, vinyl, fluorescent lights. Perry wondered if there was such a thing as a reverse metaphor, because the NYPD itself worked the other way. Every few years, new policies and new procedures made it look like the department was starting fresh. Inside, not a damn thing ever changed.
    Enough delays.
    The sergeant at the desk was too young to be from Perry’s day. Perry braced himself anyway, but the sergeant didn’t react when Perry stated his name and his business, just handed him a card.
    “You’ll need this. Watson left it for you.”
    “Right,” said Perry.
    The sergeant nodded to the stairs, and said, “Squad room, second floor.” Perry knew that—both that the detectives occupied the second floor, and that Henry would be up there, waiting for him. He took another breath—he’d learned that in a yoga class Nicky had dragged him to: to breathe deeply whenever his heart started pounding—and headed up. The concrete stairs in the concrete block staircase hadn’t actually gotten steeper or longer over the past five years, he was sure of it.
    It only seemed that way.
    He swiped the card to get onto the second floor then pushed his way though the heavy steel door into the squad room. Three of the guys sitting around inside were nodding acquaintances of Perry’s, though he couldn’t have dredged up their names. Not that any of them nodded. They just followed him with their eyes as he crossed the room to Henry’s desk. Perry wished he remembered who at least one of them was, then he could give him a hearty, “Hi, Joe!” and watch him crap his pants. Just the idea that people might know you knew Perry Christo was enough to give a cop nightmares.
    Unless the cop was Henry Watson. “Hey, Perry,” Henry grunted, tipping his chair forward and standing, sticking out his hand.
    As they shook, Perry felt eyes slip from him as the other detectives scuttled back to their work. Except for Mr. Donald Duck tie, who walked in and gave Perry a sneer then sagged behind his desk and started typing. Perry returned the sneer.
    “Damn,” Henry said. He looked Perry up and down and scowled. If Henry hadn’t been born scowling, then he’d been the only kid in history whose features actually did freeze when his mother warned him not to make that face. “You look like crap, buddy. You get any sleep since I saw you?”
    “Not much. Been driving back and forth to the Hamptons. Exhausting.”
    Watson nodded and looked down.
    “Shit, and you’re still wearing the old dress uniform shoes. What the hell did you do to them?”
    Perry shrugged. “Been wearing them around. And it’s been raining, you notice? But why the hell not? Don’t have much other use for them.”
    Henry gave him a laser look, then dropped himself into his desk chair. It groaned under the load.
    “How many of those things do you go through in the average year?” Perry asked, sitting opposite.
    “Ignore it, it’s just looking for attention. So, really, how’re you doing?”
    “I’m vertical. You manage to get me anything?”
    Another brief stare from Henry; then he grunted and opened a file folder. Perry had asked the favor only yesterday, but the folder was already creased, bore two coffee rings, and was smudged from the only writing instrument Henry ever used: a blunt pencil.
    “I got your girl,” Henry answered. Perry’s heart leaped ridiculously,but before he could say anything, Henry went on, “At least, I got her Visa card. She bought an LIRR ticket