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a private investigator.   Oh well, it wouldn’t be the first time or the last.
    The elevator doors slid open and a sea of cluttered desks and harried detectives dressed in cheap suits spread out over the tan commercial carpet and beige painted terrain for as far as the eye could see.
    The Robbery-Homicide bullpen, otherwise known as Rob-Ho.   The largest division in the department.   The guys who got all the glory.   Narcotics didn’t have half the manpower but that division did have its own private niche in the basement where few outsiders dared to venture.   I’d been there once not long ago after a joint sting involving a pimp who’d decided to go into an additional crack trade in his spare time.   Those narc dudes rarely associated with other cops.   Homicide might get all the glory but those guys in the basement were the ones with all the guts.   The T-types.   Men who got off on the thrills of near death experiences.
    As I navigated my way to the far side of the male dominated domain a couple of the detectives I’d worked with on missing persons cases turned homicides waved, phones attached to their ears like a permanent accessory.   I waved back, flashed my pearly whites.   Felt good all over again about the black mini skirt I’d opted to wear last night in light of the blatant gawks of approval several of the guys tossed my way.
    Look all you want, boys, I mused.   It’s all natural , no lifts, no tucks, and no nips.   Forty-five and loving it.
    It’s funny, I considered briefly, how much a mind-blowing session of sex could do for one’s self esteem–in spite of present circumstances.
    As I reached the chief’s door a voice I’d just as soon banish from my memory banks for all eternity made me hesitate.   The sound had the same effect as nails scraping across a blackboard.   I cringed.
    “Well, damn, Mercer, I hardly recognized you without the blond wig, fishnets and street-walker boots.”
    I told myself to ignore the knuckle-dragging Neanderthal.   Argued that anything I said would only give the misogynistic dinosaur glee.   And it might have worked had I not overheard the aside he made to his partner.
    “If I had an ass and tits like that I’d sure as hell put them to better use.”
    I turned around slowly.   Pinned my lips into a wide smile.   “What’s up, Nance?”   Definitely not your limp dick, I mused as I stalked over to his generic metal desk.
    The coordinating economical chair squeaked as he dropped his feet from the desktop to the floor and sat up straight.   He grinned like the jackass he was. “I was just saying to O’Linger here,” he jerked his head toward his partner who was preoccupied with my bare legs, “how nice it is to see you.”
    “Yeah, I heard.”   I leaned down and flattened my palms on Nance’s desk giving both him and his partner a wide-angle view of the cleavage provided by the wickedly tight devil red tank I ambitiously selected last night to complement the skirt.   Who would have guessed I’d end up at HPD this morning?
    “You made a good point, Nance,” I allowed, “if you had an ass and tits like this you might actually be good for something.”
    His lower jaw joined his feet on the floor.
    “O’Linger,” I said with an acknowledging nod to the other detective who looked red-faced from choking back the mirth shaking his belly.   Then I swiveled on the heel of my coveted stilettos and strutted straight into the chief’s office.   There was nothing like putting a jerk in his place to make me feel on top of the world.   Yeah, baby.   Don’t mess with this private dick—pardon the pun.
    “Mercer.”   The chief stood as I walked in.   “Close the door.”   He didn’t look happy.   Not that he ever did but this morning he looked particularly un happy.   I suppose after twenty years of tracking down killers and analyzing dead bodies at gruesome murder scenes a guy had the right to look anyway he wanted.   Since I