We arrived at the scene of the crime a little after midday. The rain had not deterred the hundreds of people were blocking the busy street. Horns were being beeped more so than normal. McKinley brought the car to stop with a screech. He hit a few metal bins that toppled over in the process and nearly killed an unsuspecting ally cat nice ginger pussy.

He waved a hand, "ah" he said, "someoen'll clean it up." 

"Right," I answer as I unclip my seatbelt and get out of the passenger door.

Damn press, immediately floods me. It is as if some invisible dam has just been breached. The press is all a shower of bastards. 

Every anchorman/woman forces there question down my throat. My mind is sore as it is, cursed hangover. Then they push microphones in my face. Im thinking; have a looks over there. It's my new partner Garth McKinley. He would love to answer your bugging questions. Gawd, this infuriates me off. 

"No questions," I politely retort I'd have more luck talking to the fucking pavement. 

"Are the rumors true?" They all ask.  Or at least that is the common word.

I have no idea what they are referring to, yet. What rumor is true? 

Then I hear a reporter with a heavenly voice. She is a leggy blond with those fake tits that got her the job. "Is Dylan St. Clair dead?" She asks me clear and concise. 

Somehow the press always knows what has happened before NYPD.

Dylan St. Clair...dead?  Impossible. This will be global news by the end of the day. 

 "Eh..." I'm off guard, I feign a smile. "No more question," I hold up my hands and autocratically say as I hustle by the irksome press and Dylan's fan club. 

I leave the circus behind me and wonder toward the freak show. McKIn is stopped by a swarthy officer. Clad in his best blue. Shiny shoes, a medal for bravery. a modest copper.  It is Rashad Jones, a great cop, very humble, has declined countless promotions on several occasions. He is happy doing the beat. He is like me, nearly ready to retire. 

It's procedure but I flash Rashad my identification.

 "This one says he is with you Brodzsky," Rashad says. " That true?" 

"Tell him Bordzkky," McKinley says. I know - that McKinley knows - he holds all the aces. He looks so smug when he is in the right. It is a look I already detest. 

"He is with me," I tell Rashad. "Unfortunately. Kids yet to receive his badge." 

"Fresh meat is he?" Rashad says. "Got a long way to go before you fill the boots of this one." Rashad Jones informs young Garth McKinley. "Youngest detective ever in the NYPD I -"

Again I see that heinous smirk. 

"Was," McKinley says, "I'm now the youngest detective in NYP history." 

Rashad's jaw drops to the chewing-gum laced pavement. 

"Don't catch any flies," young McKinley quips.  

Rashad looks dumbfounded as he stares at me.

I'm as honest as they come. 

"Its true," I say. "The kid is not even old enough to drink." 

"Well," Rashad manages to say. Other than that he is left utterly speechless. 

 "What have we got, Jones?" I then ask. 

"This way," Rashad indicates to the entrance of the hotel.

There are to few officers here to manage the crowd control. "Keep em back," Rashad stipulates. 

"Yes sir," is the common reply. 

We enter the foyer of the Grand Central. I mean this place is plush and charges what it likes. The well of stay here. When I mean well of I don't mean those earning above there means, good folk like me. I mean millionaires. a simple one-bedroom would leave most common folk in debt for years.  The frescos line the walls is the obvious thing you note. Now Garth is catching flies. Two generations of painters tediously painted the walls of the foyer and beyond. The color gold is prominent. The reception desk is no knock off its real silver. Security is tight. You cant get away with wiping your own ass without some member of staff knowing so how the fuck did a murderer get away with it.  

"You know the Dope Fiends? That sca rock group," Rashad says as we await the elevator.

"Almost as old as you Brodszky" McKinley quips.

I ball my fist. "Can it," I tell him.  

"Well, Dylan St.Clair," McKinley says. "I saw them last night at Madison Square. You don't know em?" McKinley says.

I defiantly do.

"I have a penchant for folk music," I enlighten McKinley as we step into the elevator.  "Thanks, I tell Rashad who gives me a perfunctory of the head. 

A bell boy, well, bellman, I should say, is there in his fine three-piece suit. 

"Peppermint?" The bellman politely says.  Even the bellman sounds posh.

McKinley and I decline, outright. We would only have to tip him. I'm not one to tip. 

"So folk music?" McKinley says wanting to pick up the conversation. He is trying his best to befriend me. He ot the worst kid I have come across. Most his age only care about drugs, sex, and rock n roll.   

"And not the crap here either," I say. "Folk music from the old country."

"You Slovak right?" McKinley guesses.

"Hungarian I correct the kid."

He seems to have done his homework.

Still, the elevator keeps going up. I look at the bellman and I know he is funny, he has a rainbow tie on. I know he recognizes me. 

"As high as Dylan St Clair," McKinley then says. "That's the saying at least, with the kids. I'm sure it's an OD."  

"Wait until you see the vic, kid," I tell young Garth. "All this commotion over a simple OD," I tut and shake my head. "Use your head," I implore him. "I thought you were a better detective than that." I raise a brow.

 We get off on the top floor. 

"Have a good day," the bellman says. 

 "McKinley and I walk down the corridor and the "don't cross" yellow tape is out in the suite where the legendary rocker Dylan St. Clair called home.

 There are no members of public on this floor. Everyone has already been evacuated. The odd copper is about and one of em says, "hope ye got a strong stomach, Bordzksy"  he is about to barf I reckon.  

"Not a sight to behold before lunch," another officer says, he too looks pale. 

We enter the room. 

Nothing noteworthy other than the fact this room is fit for a king or queen. Huge living space with leather sofas, marble floors, and pillars. We pass a mini bar, if you can call it mini it has very tonic one could ask for. Still, I see nothing. An untouched room by the look of it.

Then we enter the bathroom.

Only a brave man/woman with a strong gut would stay in.    

 I pat McKinley on the back, "now kid, is that an OD?"

I look at McKinley and his eyes are full of intrigue not shock. He reminds me of myself...Just a bit. 

I'll paint the picture. There is a big white bathtub, fit for the fattest of cunts top bath in. it is in the center of the room. In the bathtub is Dylan St. Clair in a pool of his own blood. The blood is diluted so I know he died out of the tub and was placed in it. That is my guess. The window is also open I venture there but it is clean. 

"So that's is Dylan St. Clair, washing in a bath of his own blood," McKinley notes.

My lip curls up in disdain but I mount no reply. 

"I bet any evidence will be washed away. The forensic team will have there work cut out for them I reckon. What do you make of the football?" McKinley asks me. 

I didnt notice a football. I cock my head and see McKinley is looking into the tub. 

I shrug my shoulders and push out my bottom lip. "Its pigskin I reckon."

"Why would the purp leave a football in the tub?"McKinley is asking the right questions.

"Pigskin," I snap, "its because the purp is calling us pigs. I reckon. Use yer head kid."   

"How do you think he died?" McKinley then asks. 

Again I shrug my shoulders but have a good look around the vic and the room.

 "Let forensic team do a sweep," I command autocratically. "I want to be inundated with the news. got it."

"Yes Brodzsky," the officers recant.

"You com'n kid? I fancy a bite."

"We got work to do," the McKinley says. 

I look at my sterling silver watch. I recant the time to him, "One PM," I tell him, "that means its lunch time for me. So again, I'll ask, ye coming?"

"With you," the kid says. 

The forensic team is Just entering.  

They don't know about me nor my past life.

I knew Dylan St. Clair.

very well...