“That was Sawyer from HQ.” Carter said, hanging up the phone and turning to Murray. “He said he wanted us down at Richardsson’s by five, something ’bout a priest being shot down by St. Marie’s…” Murray didnt respond, but continued to wipe his spectacles. Carter went over to the little bed of flowers he kept in the far corner of the office where the two detectives kept business, reached for a knife and started to caress a large, pink petunia that really could use a more healthy enviroment than the smoke filled room. Murray put his glasses back on. He got up, helped himself to a pack of Pall Mall cigarettes and went over to the window. “You want a smoke?” Carter didn’t answer. “This is the fourth priest this month, Perry.” He opened the window, spat out of it and turned to sit on the cill. Carter got up, wiped his hands and leaned, as nonchalant as his associate, to a bookshelf beside his beloved garden. They stood like this a few seconds, none saying anything, just taking in the big city spring air. The sun broke thrugh and filled the room in a pleasant, april coloured shade of restlessness. They both hungered for a cup of coffee. Neither of them wanted to be the one to take the initiative.