The Navidson Vice Department smelled like an institution.
Ancient coffee grinds mingled with stale cigarette smoke in the air while the tang of cleaning chemical lingered long after Flores and her cleaning crew came through in the small hours of the morning. Dust, paper, cheap suits, shoe polish, sweat, Helen's overly floral perfume.
The detectives in the bullpen where mostly hip-deep in casework by two in the afternoon, the large window panes on the west side of the room spilling sunlight across their hunched shoulders and manila folders. Helen had the radio turned to an oldies station again, so Elvis crooned softly over the scratching of pens and shuffling of papers.
Sergeant Weissberg stalked through the tableau with his usual irritated expression. It twisted the burn scars that blanketed the right side of his skull into even starker relief against his otherwise handsome face.
"Creed, Miller." He dropped a slim folder on their shared desk, his one eye swiveling between the two of them. "Catch Sasquatch yet?"