"So . . . where we going?" Peter asked as he climbed into the backseat. Jordan glanced back at him, he was reminding her of an overanxious puppy.

"I thought we'd drop by my old buddy Tyrell." Woody said, turning the car around.

"Wow, an actual drug dealer. Cool." Peter remarked.

Jordan glanced back at him, "You're easily impressed, aren't you?"

He shrugged, "Simple guy, simple needs."

They traveled down past ramshackle houses that grew progressively worse as they drove.

"What his address?" Jordan asked absently as she stared out the window.

"A wonderful apartment complex in 237 Gardner Street in Dorchester," Woody grimaced, and glanced over at Jordan, "I've been there a few times. McCabe's killed at least three people. That we know about. We suspect more."

"Then why isn't he in prison?" Jordan was aghast.

Woody shook his head, "Lack of evidence. All there was to link him to the crimes, was eyewitnesses, and they, unfortunately, disappeared before the trials."

Peter stretched out in the seat, "Sooo . . . let me rephrase my earlier statement. We're going to see a drug dealer who is also a stone-cold killer?"

"Yep, that's pretty much it." Woody agreed.

"Maybe you could just drop me back at the morgue?"

"Ah, don't be such a wuss." Jordan sneered.

They parked on the street, got out, evaluated the apartment.

"You're right. This apartment sucks. It's worse than Cody Banks'." Jordan remarked absently.

Woody glanced at the two of them, "Okay. Stay behind me, let me enter first, all right."

Jordan rolled her eyes, and snapped off a sarcastic salute, "Yes sir, master."

Woody shook his head at her, then proceeded to climb the splintered wooden stairs that led to McCabe's apartment.

Peter smiled at Jordan, and waved a hand, "Ladies first."

She moved past him, muttering "What a pussy."

"Hey, what did you say?"

She ignored him, and reached the top, stood behind Woody, who was knocking at the door.

The door opened almost immediately. Woody, Jordan could tell, was automatically bracing himself for a confrontation.

Tyrell McCabe was a tall, thin guy with dark hair cut so short, Jordan wondered why he bothered having any at all. A vicious-looking scar sliced down his left cheek, a testament to the life he lived, but it wasn't the most chilling part about him. No, she thought, that would be his eyes, gray-blue, cold, flat and unblinking as he stared at the trio on his porch.

There was not a speck of mercy, Jordan decided, in those eyes. Tyrell McCabe had no conscience.

A slow smile spread across his face, the look a cat gets as it batters a mouse around, "Why Detective Hoyt . . . what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?"

"I don't know if you've heard, but two of your customers got wasted."

The smile grew wider, "And you think I did it? Ahh, who was it?"

"Chris Hammond and Jaime Black."

The dealer shook his head, "No way would I kill them," he gave them a sly look, "They were regulars, if you get my drift."

Jordan was really starting to dislike this bastard.

"Where were you between the hours of 2:00 a.m. and 3:00?" she asked bluntly.

"And who might you be? Not that I'm complaining or anything . . . your ass is much finer than Detective Hoyt's."

She stared at him for a beat, "Someone who is much smarter than you . . . Dr. Cavanaugh, medical examiner. Now answer my damn question."

He glared at her, and Woody, hoping to smooth the waters, interjected, "Please answer her question, Tyrell."

"Out."

Jordan rolled her eyes, "Out where dumbass?"

McCabe's eyes widened in shock. Perhaps he'd never been called a dumbass by a woman before. Or maybe it was possible he'd never been called a dumbass before in his life.

"A customer . . . bitch."

Woody shook his head, "Hey, watch it!"

Jordan simply smiled, "Thanks for the compliment. We're getting closer here, Tyrell. Now, what is the name of your customer?"

He continued to glare, but remarkably, answered the question, "David. David Kruger."

"What's his address?"

"He's got an apartment over at Lewis Wharf."

"Ritzy place." Jordan remarked.

"Yeah, whatever. Now get the fuck out." McCabe snapped.

Woody stepped closer, "Shut up. And don't be taking any trips . . . because we'll be having another chat, but this one will be in the station."

McCabe snorted, "Sure, but you know you'll be wasting your time," his eyes hardened, "So get the fuck out." He repeated.

"One of these days, you'll screw up Tyrell . . . and then your ass will be in prison. Then you'll be the bitch," Jordan smiled at him, "Have a nice day."

While he was still speechless, she turned around, and walked out. Woody and Peter looked at one another, then quickly followed.

Silence reigned until they were back in the car, and driving away from McCabe's.

"Damn Jordan, are you high! The guy's a three-time killer, and you call him stupid, a dumbass, and a bitch?" Woody stared at her for so long, he almost collided with another car.

"I did not call him a bitch, I said he would be a bitch. There's a difference." She replied calmly, fighting back a smirk.

"You think this is funny? She's thinking it's funny." Woody shook his head.

Peter shrugged, "What can I say? I think's she's nuts, but you've known her longer than I have."

Jordan held up a hand, "Relax Woody. If I pegged him right, he's too macho to come after a woman."

He rolled his eyes.

"Are we going to see David Kruger?" Peter asked from the backseat.

"Not yet. I thought I'd go run him through the computer, see what pops out." Woody said.

"Well, don't go without us." Jordan said, staring at him seriously.

"Okay."

"I mean it, Woody. You do, and . . . I don't know what I'll do, but remember, I do have access to sharp instruments, like scalpels for instance."

"Ouch . . . I swear I will not go to interview David Kruger without you."

"Hey, what am I, the invisible man back here?" Peter interjected.

"Okay, I will not go interview David Kruger without you and Peter," he glanced back, "Happy?"

"Yes."

"Okay. Drop us back off then. I've got some work to finish."

Woody stopped in front of the M.E.'s building, and Jordan and Peter climbed out.

Jordan stopped, leaned back in, "But Woody, remember my threat about the scalpels if you "forget" to come pick us up. 'Cause I'll start with your balls first." She smiled cheerfully, gave a little wave, and walked into the building.