Kind of blue

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Lieutenant Frank Duffy trudged up the five flights of stairs from the Felony Special squad room to the tenth floor, where the LAPD command staff was based. By the time he had walked down the long hallway to Assistant Chief Vincent Grazzo’s office, he was already wheezing from exertion and beads of sweat speckled his brow. He knew he should have taken the elevator, but his doctor had ordered him to get some exercise and these days walking the stairs at the Police Administration Building-Los Angeles Police Department headquarters-was his only opportunity.

“I got something for you,” Grazzo told Duffy, who dabbed at his brow with his knuckles.

Grazzo sat upright in his chair, tightly gripping a pencil in one hand. Short and pudgy, his midnight blue LAPD uniform fit him like a wet suit, and rolls of flesh spilled out over his collar. Duffy always thought that overweight police officials in their fifties and sixties looked as absurd in their uniforms as tubby baseball managers waddling to the mound.

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