I like it, I like it, I like it small

When he arrived back at his office, the Detective noticed the fire escape door through which he'd gone down to the alley was still propped open with a Yellow Pages from 2008 still in its original wrapper. Someday that'll be worth a fortune, he thought as he nodded to the Dance Instructor and the Outreach Worker, each staring at their computer screens with a mix of anticipation and disinterest, more or less the same position they'd been in when he'd last seen them more than 24 hours earlier. Only their clothes were different.
His were the same.
"Late night, Ace?" the Outreach Worker didn't even look up.
"Yeah, you look like shit, man," the Dance Instructor added.
"Is that smell coming from you?"
The Detective took off his sports coat. He held it up to the window to see the tears along the shoulder seams and the scuff marks on the arms. The corduroy was almost worn through.
"I liked that coat," he said as he slumped into the chair behind his desk, rousing his laptop from its sleep to show his LinkedIn profile still in edit-mode. "I don't know where to get corduroy in this town anymore."