He disembarks on Fleet Street, hands shoved into the pockets of his wool coat, steps sure and directional on the cracked pavement. The discovery of the body in the Harbor troubles him. The ME had volunteered his best estimate as to the cause and manner of death, but they wouldn't know anything definitive until the toxicology screen came back. Which could take another couple of hours. Jim supposes that the science isn't as expedient as, say, a one-hour photo kiosk, but his department thrives on results.
The brownstone he shares with his daughter is among the nicer flats on this particular block. A fine, wrought iron gate stands sentry at the hedge of a modest lawn, a paved sidewalk leading up to a short three-step porch. Barbara's bike leans against the interior fence, the chrome glinting brightly in the midday sun. Jim smiles. It was fortunate that his daughter's rigorous academic schedule and his bustling day at the precinct coincided in a shared hour-and-a-half lunch. Sometimes Jim wouldn't get home until the wee hours of the morning, and by that time his daughter would already be in bed. This was a golden opportunity for the two of them to catch up; for Jim to make good on his "diligent dad" duties.
He steps up the walk and turns his key in the door, calling out to the spacious foyer: "Babs? You home?"
(open to dojobookworm)