Everyone called her Charlee. Some even shortened it to Chuck, but only if they knew her very well. Even fewer people actually called her Charlene, mostly because it just didn’t seem to go with the overall picture. Petite and sporting an ash blonde pageboy coif, she could almost always be found wearing jeans and running shoes. Given her tomboyish appearance and tough demeanor, the moniker just seemed to fit.

Before her recent transfer to the sex crimes unit, she had been assigned to City Homicide. Among that close knit group of cops, there had actually been a running bet that she didn’t even own a dress or skirt. Catching wind of it, she’d made a deal to split the pool with an office worker then showed up one day wearing a nicely tailored skirt and jacket ensemble. She’d been totally uncomfortable the entire day and vowed to never again wear pantyhose for as long as she lived, but it had been more than worth the looks on their faces-the hundred bucks cash she got from the split was just icing on the cake. She never did tell them that she’d had to borrow the outfit from a friend.

This morning she was dressed in her usual. A well-worn leather bomber jacket fit over her torso, hanging just loose enough to hide the nine-millimeter Beretta riding in a shoulder rig beneath her left arm. Her badge was clipped on her belt, visible, but unobtrusive.

“The nurse is finishing up with her now.” The doctor nodded as they walked, answering her query about the kit before adding, “We called it in as soon as she arrived.”

Generic instrumental Christmas music was filtering softly in from overhead to mix with the ambient sounds of the ER. It wasn’t doing much to lift Charlee’s spirits though. She had been on edge with an itchy, nervous kind of energy for over a week now. She’d had the feeling before and she’d known what was coming-this. The truth is, she’d been fully expecting this call ever since that second case file hit her desk, and she’d been dreading it all the while. Now that it was here, the dread wasn’t subsiding.