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high?”
    Lido was still on the ground. He was about to pursue the assailant when he felt Stokes’ hand clutching his arm. He looked over. Blood drizzled from a narrow gash in his partner’s throat. Lido heard a metallic clink and turned to see the assailant squeeze through the fence and race down the street.
    “Jesus,” Lido said as he assessed the injury. “Lie still. Let me take a look.” The knife had cut through the windpipe. He could hear breath whistling through the wound, the fluttering sound of air rustling past blood and tissue. “Don’t try to talk.” The sound of a siren became audible. “You’ll be all right, Mark, but you’ve got to sit up. I don’t want you choking on your own blood.” He turned to the vagrant. “Get behind him,” Lido shouted. “Put your back against his.”
    The vagrant grumbled, “Son of a bitch,” and reluctantly got into position behind Stokes just as an EMS vehicle pulled up.
    One of the EMTs raced out of the truck with his kit. He kneeled beside Stokes and examined the wound. “Christ, who trached him?”
    “Long story,” Lido said.
    The EMT opened his kit and began to work on the wound. “You’ll be okay, officer. You’re a lucky bastard.”
    A second EMT had a bolt cutter in his hands. He began to widen the opening in the chain-link fence so that they could carry the wounded officer out on a stretcher.
    Lido rose, took a deep breath, and glanced up at the moon. He enjoyed a few seconds of peace before he heard the sound of a woman moaning. He turned to see a woman’s legs sprawled out on the ground behind the dumpster. “Oh shit,” he said, suddenly remembering, “the scream.”

Chapter Seven
    I walked into the squad room and plopped my fanny down at my desk. It was early, but the area was already buzzing with activity—crime never takes a holiday. Rodriguez swiveled in his chair until we were facing one another. “I’ve got something for you,” I said. He raised his eyebrows as if to say, really? “Yup, fresh coffee and a chocolate croissant.”
    “Thanks, Chalice, and I’ve got something for you too.”
    “Really? Does it beat a chocolate croissant?” Is it anything I’ve been fantasizing about?
    “ Oh yeah. Come have a look-see.” He swiveled his computer monitor until I had a solid view of the screen, which showed a photo of bagged evidence I was presumably to find of interest. It was a black folding knife with a serrated blade, the knife I had found in Sean Quinlan’s apartment.
    My spirits dropped. “Why would I want to see that again?” I said, sounding let down. I took my coffee out of the paper bag and sipped it as I made my way to A-Rod’s desk.
    “Take a closer look.”
    I did as instructed, studying the image as closely as possible, making note of every detail: the design, size, and manufacturer’s markings. “What am I missing?”
    “Check the case number on the evidence bag.”
    I refocused my attention and studied the information on the evidence bag. The date, case, and case number were not the same. This was a different knife. I gasped. “Speak!”
    “Sometimes VICAP actually does work. This knife was recovered at a Westside crime scene a few nights ago. The reporting officer did a great job of cataloguing the evidence.”
    VICAP is the FBI’s Violent Crime Apprehension Program—a gazillion dollars worth of computer equipment, comparing, sorting, and analyzing the details of every heinous atrocity reported by all of the nation’s law enforcement agencies. Honestly … it’s usually not worth a shit. The acronym is bandied about liberally on TV crime shows, but the truth is that it rarely helps to solve a crime. Crimes are usually solved with lots of grunt work, tenacity, and civilian leads. The television shows modeled on whiz-bang technological genius are a big crock of horse pucky. Not that I don’t watch them.
    “Wow! I’m all ears.”
    “Not from where I’m sitting.” A-Rod wasn’t flirting—it was just