Shrader was predictably irritated at not being the lead on the Manning investigation, but what amazed Sam was that he was also a little excited about working with Mitchell McCord. "The guy's a legend," he told her as he put another quarter into a vending machine in the canteen on the third floor.

"Why?"

"A lot of reasons; some of them no one knows."

"That's informative," Sam said with a grin.

Challenged to substantiate his claim that McCord qualified as a legend, Shrader came up with some details. "Ten years ago, when he was with the Major Case Squad, he worked the Silkman kidnapping. Joey Silkman was the little kid who was buried alive for four days in a wood box, remember?"

Sam nodded.

"McCord's team caught one of the kidnappers when he tried to pick up the ransom money, but the guy would not talk. Two days went by, then three days, and then McCord had him released into his custody, and took him out for a ride and a private chat. The next thing you know, the guy spilled his guts and took McCord to the burial site. The two of them dug the kid out together."

"Are you suggesting McCord beat the information out of him?"

"No. There wasn't a mark on the guy. He pleaded guilty, got a break from the judge for helping in the rescue, and went away for twenty-five years. His two pals got life." Shrader waited for Sam's reaction while he tore the top off his bag of M&M's.

"Sounds impressive," she said, depositing her coins into one of the soft drink machines, "but not enough to make him a legend."

"There's a lot more, but I have to think a little. Oh, yeah, McCord headed up the Hostage Negotiation Team when four psychos took over a boys' summer camp and threatened to kill one kid every hour."

"And he rescued them all without using his weapon or raising his voice?" Sam teased.

"No. The first kid was shot in the head while McCord's team was still arriving on the scene and getting into position."

Sam sobered. "Then what happened?"

"As I said, his people were still arriving, so no one saw everything exactly as it happened. There were a lot of conflicting reports from the eyewitnesses. Basically, McCord lost his cool. He walked right into the clearing where the kids were being held, stretched out his arms, and said something like, 'Why waste your time on twelve-year-olds when you can kill yourself a cop?' Then he told the captors that he'd instructed his men to open fire in sixty seconds. He told them that, since they were already killing the kids, there wasn't any room for negotiation."

In spite of her earlier skepticism, Sam was riveted. "Then what happened?"

"McCord told the kids to 'hit the ground so the shooting can begin.' That's one version. Another version is that McCord yelled to the kids, 'Hit the ground!' "

"And?"

"The psychos yelled at the kids to stay standing."

"And? And?"

"The kids obviously figured McCord was crazier and more dangerous than their captors, because they all landed in a heap on the ground, and the sharpshooters opened fire. When the smoke cleared, there were four dead captors. That's when he got promoted to sergeant. No—no, he got that promotion after he cracked a bribery-and-extortion case that involved some high-level city officials. A couple years ago, he moved over to the Organized Crime Control Bureau, and made a record for himself there, too; then he transferred back to Borough Command and made detective lieutenant.

"He's in his mid-forties, and everybody figured he'd make division captain in a couple more years, then maybe chief of detectives, but that's not what happened."

"What did happen?" Sam asked, glancing at her watch. They still had fifteen minutes to waste before they were supposed to report to McCord.

"Nothing. A year ago, he told people he'd decided to retire when his twenty years were up, which is anytime now. I heard last month that he'd already left, but maybe he had a lot of vacation time piled up and decided to use it." Shrader nodded toward the empty metal tables scattered around the canteen. "We might as well sit in here instead of hanging around outside McCord's door like a couple of peons waiting for an audience with the pope."

Normally the canteen was crowded at this time of day, but everyone on duty this Saturday had evidently eaten earlier, because the remnants of their meals were all over the tops of the round metal tables. Sam looked for the table with the fewest used paper plates, crumpled napkins, and sticky substances on it, but Shrader had no such compunctions. He sat down at the closest table and shook a few more M&M's into his palm. "What are you doing?"

"Looking for something to wipe off this chair with," she replied before she thought about it. Shrader guffawed.

"Littleton, how are you going to be able to stomach digging through garbage Dumpsters, looking for evidence?"

"I'm planning to wear gloves, like everyone else does," she informed him as she sat down on the chair.

Shrader generously held out his hand with a colorful supply of M&M's in his palm. "Here, have some."

They looked good. "Have you touched anything besides the back of your chair with that hand?"

"You do not want me to answer that."

Sam looked at him in disapproving silence while a slight smile touched the corner of her mouth. The silence was to discourage similar remarks in the future; the smile was a good-natured acknowledgment that, this time, she'd inadvertently given him an irresistible opening for a line exactly like that.

Shrader understood the subtlety behind both gestures and settled for regaling her with more glowing tales of McCord's feats in the area of law enforcement.

By the time they stood up, Sam was looking forward to meeting the man who evidently possessed the instincts of a clairvoyant, the intellect of a rocket scientist, and the persistence of a pit bull.

"Wait one second," Shrader said as they passed the rest rooms on the way to McCord's office. "I want to stop in here."

While she waited for Shrader, several men and women walked past her down the hall, cops and clerks and detectives she'd seen around the precinct before, but instead of snubbing her as they'd done before, most of them nodded or mumbled a greeting. A shift was taking place in the general attitude toward her, and she realized it was because Shrader had gone out of his way to make certain that Holland—and several of the cops in the Catskills—knew she'd made some sort of an inroad on the Manning case herself.

Despite the stocky build and ferocious appearance that had reminded her of a rottweiler and caused her to think of him as "Shredder," she had a feeling there was a streak of kindness in Shrader that he carefully disguised with scowling brusqueness. When he finally emerged, Sam forgot about all that and bit back a wayward grin. He had carefully wet down his short black hair with a little water, tucked in his shirt, and straightened his tie. "You look very spiffy," she joked. "McCord is going to be dazzled when he sees you."

Sam had little expectation of actually liking Mitchell McCord herself, but she was now doubly eager to meet the man who could actually make Shrader self-conscious about his appearance. In the Catskills, Shrader had worn the same three shirts and trousers for a week. Although he'd spoken only of McCord's heroics and accomplishments, she wondered if Shrader had stopped to "primp" just now because he also knew McCord had a reputation for being appearance-conscious. Given McCord's rapid ascension up the ladder at division headquarters, Sam surmised he was not only talented, but also politically astute, probably arrogant, and possibly a good dresser.