Coleson was more philosophical about it than McGranahan, who tended toward bitterness. They were eating their lunches at their adjoining cubicles and talking about the latest shootout (Artie Dolan was the principal on that one; drugs and gangs and whatnot in Homewood) when they got a call. They fully expected their victim to be a junkie or maybe the barrel-end of a holdup, especially when dispatch said they were needed in lower Oakland. They carried their lunches to the fleet car and got moving as McGranahan continued to get information by phone from a patrol car cop who was already there at the crime scene. Coleson drove. McGranahan listened and let out a surprised grunt. “What? Clue me in, for God’s sake,” his partner said. McGranahan ended the call, tucked his phone in his breast pocket where he liked it. “Guy who works there called it in. Found the body. Said the woman is a student—law school.” “Anything else?” “Cop says she’s gorgeous.” They both paused to think about the goodie that had come their way: Christie was not back from vacation, Dolan was working the Homewood shootout, Greer and Potocki were off on some cold case for the afternoon, and here it was, finally, luck.
