Cold Hit by Stephen J. Cannell

By Stephen J. Cannell

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Four strange symbols were tattooed on each lid. The coroner's wagon pulled in just as the sun was beginning to lighten the sky. A slight man made his way down the flagged trail toward me. As he neared, I recognized Ray Tsu, a mild-mannered, extremely quiet, Asian ME known widely in the department as Fey Ray. He was so hollow-chested and skinny, his upper body resembled a sport coat draped on a hanger. Straight black hair was parted in the middle and pushed behind both his ears. " Ray whispered in his distinct, undernourished way as he knelt beside me.

We had taken over a space once occupied by the expanding Crimes Against People section. Assaults in L. A. were so high that CAPS had been forced to move to larger quarters on the second floor. We inherited their old area and some of their furniture. The squad room was divided into different criminal sections by colored wall partitions stolen from other floors. No effort had been wasted on decor and no two pieces of office furniture seemed to match, but a lot of good police work was done here. I walked toward Cal's corner office, the only enclosed room on our section of the floor.

It's in your eyes. " "That's not true," I lied. But it was so true it was laughable. "Okay, I'm on the case," he said. " "Good. " "This new vic is crawling with clues," he grumbled. "The contact lens, the bullet, the eyelid tats. We'll have the unsub hooked and booked in no time. We gotta concentrate on this last kill. Forget the others. " Then he picked up the last shot glass and drained it. The Trojan tradition is a lot more than a bunch of brass in the trophy case at Heritage Hall," Pete Carroll said.

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