SIX“Where the hell is Delgado?” Chief Irwin roared as he looked around the squad room. The veins on his forehead visibly pulsated, his nose and ears glowing redder than the lights on a Christmas tree. “He was supposed to be here ten minutes ago, for Christ sakes.”
As if on cue the door opened and Trick Delgado entered the room.
“You’re late,” said the Chief, a surly, silver haired man in his fifties with a hint of east coast accent and a strong, stubbled chin.
Trick looked at his watch. “I apologize sir, I must’ve lost track of the time.”
Chief Irwin inhaled deeply, followed by an audible asthmatic squeak as he exhaled. He waved his hands and shook them as if they were wet, shoved them into his pockets and squared his shoulders.
“Sit, Delgado,” he ordered.
Trick sat in the empty chai
