Codella hadn’t been in the detective’s squad room of the 171st since the Sanchez case, but she still knew it as well as her own living room. To her left, immediately beyond the door, was the nondescript metal desk she had occupied for seven years before her promotion to Manhattan North Homicide. Now that desk belonged to Detective Sunil Ragavan. The small, handsome detective was hunched over the computer where he did his best forensic work. On the opposite side of the room, Vic Portino, the old man in the squad, was leaning back in his chair. He waved to her as he spoke into his phone, and she waved back. He was wearing one of his many Men’s Wearhouse suits, and he hadn’t lost an ounce of weight even though he’d supposedly gone on a diet since the last time she’d been there. He might have even gained a pound or two, she thought.
Detective Eduardo Muñoz stood up from his desk against the far wall. “It’s good to see you, Detective.” He gave her a big grin.
“Good to see you, too, Muñoz.” She smiled up at him. His wavy black hair was short on top and faded at the temples. He had the broad shoulders and flat stomach of someone who worked out regularly. When she had first met him—at the Sanchez murder scene—she’d been a little unnerved by his height and build. That had been her first case after cancer treatment, and it was Muñoz’s first case as a precinct detective after two years in undercover narcotics. She’d had to prove she was still in the game, and he’d had to prove he was more than just a buy and bust guy. To make matters worse, Marty Blackstone, the bully of the 171st, had christened him Rainbow Dick because he was gay. Luckily, Codella and Muñoz had recognized each other’s vulnerabilities and helped each other.
“You have the tests?”
“Yes. For a range of narcotics. If it’s something other than that, you’ll have to send it to the lab.” He pointed toward the door. “I’ve set things up in interview room A.”
They walked across the hall. Muñoz had everything carefully arranged on the table. She watched him roll his shirtsleeves to the elbows, exposing thick honey-brown forearms. He slid his large hands into stretchy nitrile surgical gloves. Only then did he open the evidence bag with the fibers Julia Merchant had brought to Codella’s office. He removed a clump with sterile tweezers and set it carefully on a clean paper surface. Then he opened the box of presumptive test kits and took out one of the clear plastic tubes containing a test ampule. He removed the ampule from its plastic tube, peeled off the protective paper over the tip, and carefully dabbed the sticky tip against the rug fiber. Then he replaced the ampule inside the clear tube, sealed the cap, and squeezed hard against the tube to break the ampule and release the test solution.
They watched the liquid change to violet. Muñoz moved the tube close to the test kit’s color chart on which each small swatch signaled a different opiate. “I think we’re looking at oxycodone here,” he said. “What do you think?”