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“Hey, Anna. It’s Gloria-a-a,” she says, singing the final syllable.

“Whatcha got for me?” I ask.

“Come on down. You’re gonna love this. It’s — as the kids say — hot. At least, I think the kids still say that. Do they still say that? I spend a lot of time around dead people…”

I chuckle. “Be right there.”

I drop the phone back into its cradle. “Gloria has something,” I tell Trevor. “You coming with?”

He plops down into his desk. “No, thanks,” he says. “I like the way you tell it.”

I throw on my jacket. “Careful, Trev. You wouldn’t want to accidentally get some work done.”

His eyes roll as I grin. I’m only giving him shit, anyway. Trevor Rhys is one of the best detectives in the 18th Precinct. Our record since we were partnered up eight months ago is nearly spotless.

I head downstairs and pause in the station entryway to throw up the hood on my jacket. Summer rain torrents down from the dark, gray sky and has been for the last week or more. I grab an umbrella from the bin by the door and ease onto the sidewalk with the other pedestrians. I’d drive, but the medical examiner’s office is only about a mile from the police station. It’d be more trouble finding parking than it’s worth, but I also like a nice walk in the rain every so often. It helps clear my head.

After twenty relaxing minutes, I reach the ME’s office just as the rain lets up. The desk clerk waves at me when I walk in and I give her a kind smile while I shake off the extra droplets onto the floor mats.

“Hey, Detective,” she says. “Gloria’s in room B.”

I close the umbrella. “Thank you.”

She hits a button behind her desk. The door unlocks for me. I head down the hall and veer left, easily navigating the halls, but I’ve been here a hundred times before. Not that I enjoy it, of course. It’s just all part of the job.

I walk into room B to find Gloria hunched over a table with a naked man on it. The autopsy is long over and his chest is all stitched back up, but something in his mouth has piqued her interest.

“Hey, Gloria,” I say, as I lean my umbrella by the door.

She looks up and blinds me with the small light connected to her black-rimmed glasses. “Oh. Hey, Anna,” she says, pulling down her face mask.

I chuckle. “Whatcha looking for?”

“Dropped my contact lens.”

I blink, but she instantly laughs.

“I’m just kidding,” she says, flicking her light off. “This guy has one of those inner lip tattoos. Wanted to get a closer look at it.”

“What’s it say?”

“Shut up, bitch.”

I tilt my head.

“The tattoo—” she says, pointing. “It says ‘shut up, bitch.’”

I furrow my brow at him. “What a charming fellow.”

“I know, right?” She shoves the drawer back in and slams it closed.

“You said you found something?” I ask.

Gloria takes two steps back to stand at the next drawer over. “Canon McGregor,” she says, grabbing the door handle. “Found covered in blood.”

“Right.”

She pulls opens the drawer and slides the body out. There’s a sheet covering him from head-to-toe with a few spots of red seeping through the fabric.