"We've got one of yours." The disembodied voice of Detective Mark Hanson crackled through the receiver. "She's been strangled." "What makes you think she's mine?" "She's about fifteen, looks streetwise—she's Native. How soon can you get down here?" "Give me twenty minutes." Jesse set the receiver in its cradle and stared, unseeing, at the funding proposal on his desk. Had somebody killed one of his kids? His cop friends were always preaching detachment. How in hell was he supposed to do that? Jesse understood these kids. His mom was Ojibway and he considered himself Native, even though his dad was one of those Irish, Indian, French mixtures that Canadians referred to as Métis. The Native kids trusted Jesse, which was a lot more than they did most white men. I need a coffee. Jesse left his desk and headed for the lunchroom. Annie, the Friendship Centre's receptionist was inside taking her morning break. She greeted him with a wave. "How's it going?" Jesse noted the bulge in Annie's cheek and the half-eaten donut in her hand.
