“When they closed the arsenal, the city tried to turn it into an industrial park,” the commissioner said. “That didn’t work, so they let unimportant parts of the city government— the police, for instance—use the buildings.”
Hanrahan pulled up before a small, century-old, two-story brick building, into a slot marked CHIEF INSPECTOR KRAMER, picked a microphone from the seat, and said, "C-One at CT.”
Castillo looked for a sign on the redbrick building but couldn’t see one.
Everybody got out of the car, and the commissioner walked purposefully into the building, visibly startling two uniformed police officers on their way out who obviously did not expect to run into the commissioner. The others followed him.
Just inside the small lobby, to the right, was an unmarked door. There was a door buzzer button set into the wall beside it. The commissioner pressed it.
A not very charming voice came over a small loudspeaker: “Yeah?”
“Open the door,” the commissioner ordered.
“Who is it?”
“It’s the commissioner.”
“Bullshit!”
“What do I have to do, take the damned door?”
There was the sound of a solenoid, and, when the commissioner pushed on the door, it now opened.
Beyond the door was a stairway. The commissioner went up the stairs two at a time. At the head of the stairs was an embarrassed-looking black man wearing a shoulder holster.
“Commissioner, I’m sorry. I didn’t . . .”
The commissioner waved a hand, meaning, “No problem. ”
“Chief Inspector Kramer?” the commissioner asked.
“I just don’t know, sir. I’ll put the arm out for him. Captain O’Brien’s waiting for him, too.”
He nodded across the room toward a glass-walled office.
“The arm’s already supposed to be out,” the commissioner said.
“I’ll find out what’s happened, sir,” the man—Castillo and Miller both assumed he was a detective—said.
The commissioner walked across the crowded room to the glass-walled office, signaling the others to follow him. As they got close, a uniformed captain got out of a chair.
The commissioner shook his hand but made no introductions, instead saying, “We’ll wait for Fritz.”
He sat down at a desk that had a small nameplate on it reading CHIEF INSPECTOR F.W. KRAMER, took out his wallet, and looked inside.
“Anybody got two bucks?” he asked. “Kramer is very sensitive about his coffee kitty.”
Castillo was first to come up with the money. Captain Hanrahan took it from his hand and left the office.
Miller nudged Castillo and indicated with a nod of his head at what first appeared to be a poster for The Green Berets movie in 1968 starring John Wayne, but when Castillo took a second look he saw that Wayne’s face had been painted over. The face was now that of a smiling young man and the blaze on the beret was now that of the 10th Special Forces Group.
The detective put his head in the door.
“Two minutes, Commissioner,” he announced.
“Thank you,” the commissioner said.
Captain Hanrahan returned with a tray holding mugs of coffee thirty seconds before a very tall, trim, very tough-looking man with a full head of curly gray hair walked into the office. He was wearing a shirt, tie, and tweed jacket that had left a clothing store a long time ago. The butt of a Colt .45 ACP semiautomatic pistol rose above his belt.