The first time Kay walked into Homicide, she knew this was where she belonged. Murder police, not working vice or narcotics. No longer would she have dress up skimpy clothing and stand on a corner for hours waiting for the pimp who beats his prostitutes when they don't bring in enough money.
Now she'd be standing over dead bodies, figuring out how they were killed and who killed them. Sitting down at her desk, she shut her eyes and listened to the clack-clack-clack of typewriters around her, smelled stale coffee mixed with equally stale cigarette smoke, heard the bleating of phones around her and waited for her first call to come in.