There was a handsome young man wearing a faultlessly tailored gray suit sitting at Silvio’s desk when the two detectives walked into the squadroom. A cord ran from a pair of hi-tech earphones into the breast pocket of his jacket. The young man’s eyes were closed, his mouth wore a slack smile, and his heels were propped on the desk top dangerously close to Silvio’s favorite coffee mug.

“Who the hell are you?” Silvio thundered. He swatted the polished shoes off the desk, causing the young man to spill out of the chair.

“I’m waiting for Detectives Cruz and Silvio,” the young man said breathlessly, recovering his balance.

“Get your ass the hell away from my desk.” Silvio shoved the chair, sending it careening into the side of a nearby filing cabinet.

The young man removed his headphones, folded them flat and slipped them into the pocket along with the rest of the cord. “I was told that it could be my desk if I wanted it,” he said.

Silvio stepped forward until the young man was pinned and their noses nearly touched. “What the fuck did you say?”

Emilia elbowed Silvio backwards. “I’m Detective Cruz,” she said to the young man. With his curly hair and expensive clothes he looked like a high school kid with too much money. “Detective Silvio’s my partner. Why were you looking for us?”

The young man smiled confidently at her and extended his hand. “Detective Orlando Flores Almaprieto.”

Silvio folded his arms and scowled as Emilia took the proffered hand. Flores extended his hand to Silvio but withdrew it when it was clear the big man wasn’t going to respond.

“You’re from Vice?” Emilia asked hastily. “Tech Ops?”

“I’m assigned here,” Flores said. “First day.”

“What the fuck,” Silvio exclaimed. “Did you know about this, Cruz?”

“No,” Emilia said. They’d been shorthanded for months but generally there was an announcement as to the patrol cops who’d achieved the highest scores on the detective exam and had thus qualified to apply for squadroom vacancies. Emilia nodded at the shabby, crowded squadroom with its metal desks and green filing cabinets. The bulletin boards, punctured with a thousand tack holes, dripped with pictures and notes from the most significant investigations. Only the copier and coffeemaker were relatively new. “Welcome. You took us by surprise. What unit were you with?”

Flores’s smile was replaced with an expression of caution. “You mean, police unit?”

Silvio shifted to stand next to Emilia. “Yeah, kid, where was your beat?”

It made a difference. If Flores had spent a couple of years in the administration building he wouldn’t have the street smarts of someone who’d survived as a uniformed cop in the violence-torn neighborhoods of El Roble or Arroyo Seco.

“I just graduated from university,” Flores said. “That’s why I’m supposed to ride with you two. On the job training.”

Silvio made a noise like a goat caught in a wire fence.

“Really?” Emilia frowned. No one walked off the street and into a detective billet. Every detective in the squadroom had spent at least five years as a beat cop. She’d spent ten. “What’s your degree in? Criminology? Psychology? Computers? We could really use somebody with cyber skills.”

“Music theory and composition,” Flores said.

There was a rushing sound as Silvio barreled across the squadroom. He banged once on the door to the lieutenant’s office, slammed it open, and charged across the threshold.

“Excuse me,” Emilia said.