8:27 a.m.

"Morning, Officers!" Pinky said cheerily, setting a tray of coffee and doughnuts on Booker's desk, "You guys set your clocks back?"

Booker looked nervously at Copper, who shrugged, "Yeah. The lab called, they're sending the prints over this afternoon."

"Great."

She took a jelly-filled doughnut and sat on the bench in the holding cell, crossing her legs, "And the scene photos?"

"I was just on my way to finish those up," Booker said, standing up, "It shouldn't take too long."

"Later, Booker," Copper nodded to him as he left the station. He turned back to the holding cell, where Pinky was wiping her mouth daintily with a pink cloth handkerchief.

She noticed him staring at her and tilted her head, "Something the matter?"

He crossed the room and grabbed the cell's door, slamming it shut and taking a quick step back.

Pinky remained sitting, "Come on, we don't have time for games, I wanted to talk to you about something I-"

"Where were you yesterday during the town meeting?"

"What? What are you talking about? I was on my way to Flatpoint, they've got that new Comfort Inn. Where did you think I was?" She stood up and walked quickly over the the cell door, "Copper, stop fucking around. Let me out."

He sat down at his desk and turned in his chair to face her, "Not until you answer some of my questions."

She bit her lip, "Copper, I'm not playing around with you. Open the fucking door or I'm going to have to call Mayor Tortimer." She produced a pink and white cellular phone from her jacket pocket and held it up, "I'm sure he won't be too pleased to hear that his top cop has been mishandling state officials."

"You must've had a rough journey coming in yesterday, what with the rain."

"What? I told you-"

"Cut the shit. I talked to Porter, I know you didn't get here by train. You want to tell me what's going on?"

She stiffened, "Copper, you're making a big mistake. Look, I know it looks suspicious, but you have to trust me. I wish I could tell you what's going on, but I'm under strict orders n-"

He cut her off, "Pinky, I'm going to let you out, I have to. But I'm going to have my eye on you, do you understand?"

She nodded, and he stood up, crossing over to the cell and opening the door. He didn't meet her eyes as she stepped past him into the station proper.

"Copper, you're a great cop. You trust your instincts, but they can be wrong sometimes."

"Whatever," he threw the keys onto Booker's chair, "Why don't you just leave?"

She shook her head, opened her mouth as if you say something else, and then decided against it. She walked silently out of the station.

Coppper closed his eyes and took a deep breath. The sooner they found that head and made an arrest, the better. He couldn't wait to put this all behind him.

8:32 a.m.

"Morning, Sable!" Booker said, nodding his head in her direction. She gave him a nervous smile.

"Is your sister here?"

"Um, no, she was going to Flatpoint to get some new material. She should be back later this afternoon."

"That's ok, I'm just here to pick up my pictures. You don't mind, do you?"

Sable shook her head.

Booker made his way to the back of the shop. The girls' father had been an avid photographer, and his lab was kept well-maintained for various civic and police purposes. He stopped, however, before he reached the small door leading to the sweatshop and, further, the lab. He knelt down at Sable's desk and grinned, "Hey, honey, why don't you take a little break? We could go on back to the darkroom and-"

"No!" she hissed, trembling, "Just leave me alone, ok? Please."

"Hey," he said, holding up his hands, "I was just thinking you look a little...hungry. You're not Catholic, you eat meat on friday, huh? C'mon, baby."

She stood up defiantly and stared him straight in the eye, "I wouldn't suck your dick if I were suffocating and there was oxygen in your balls! Now get your pictures and get the fuck out!"

He stared up at her, shocked.

"You heard me, beat it!"

"Yes ma'am!" he stammered, almost tripping over himself in his haste. He stumbled through the back door and, ignoring the pleas of the women shackled to their stations in the sweatshop, made a beeline for the photolab.

Sable remained sanding, her tiny fists balled in anger, until Booker reentred the shop. He scurried outside, not even glancing in her direction. She sat down heavily once he'd gone and began meticulously sewing the buttons on a fuzzy pink sweater.