He was wearing a trenchcoat. He was knocking firmly on a door. When the door opened, he was saying, also firmly, “Good morning. I’m Detective Anastos. I’m here to solve the homicide for you.” That spiffy image didn’t survive the grittiness of the 4-oh, where he went from uniform into torn blue jeans and none-too-clean T-shirts, the better to make drug buys. So Chris always enjoyed going down to one of the police buildings in lower Manhattan, where the air of crisp efficiency and polish revived that old image. When he was recovering from hepatitis, he’d spent a few weeks on desk duty at headquarters, and although he hated the tedium of paperwork, he’d liked the feeling of the drafty old place. One day he’d ran into a chief he’d known uptown, who was then a deputy to the police commissioner. They talked, then Chief Devine said, “Come with me.” He led Chris through an outer office, past a couple of secretaries, into a huge room that reminded Chris of a magazine picture he’d seen of the Oval Office in the White House.
