![]() His voice breaks as he says, “Lead the way, Lieutenant.” Her father looks down on her, his face bunched up, a dam holding back a storm. “I understand, sir,” says the Wiz, “but it’s-it’s not-brace yourself, sir.” He locks arms with Patti, as if escorting her down the aisle, and turns toward the door. “I want to see him,” says her father, not to her but to Wizniewski. “Is it true, Dad?” she speaks into his chest as he holds her tight, as if he would know, as if she’s a toddler again, looking to her father for all the answers in the universe. ![]() Her father, chief of detectives Daniel Harney, a sport coat thrown over a rumpled shirt, his thinning hair uncombed, his eyes already shadowed. “Dad,” she says, the word garbled in her throat, feeling every ounce of control vanishing. The tall, angular figure, those long strides, the beak nose-which she did not inherit. Who’s using the elevator? Someone must have pulled rank. She looks into his eyes, not really seeing him, trying to process everything, thinking that he’s right, that she doesn’t want to see him, because if she doesn’t see him he won’t be dead, he won’t really be gone-īut-the elevator’s been taken out of service. “Nobody should see their brother like this.” He struggles for a moment before he braces her shoulders. She bats away his hands, drives him backwards. Like this is just another act of violence she would encounter in the course of her job. “I’m a…I know how to…handle a crime scene.”Ī crime scene. The Wiz angles himself in front of her, blocking her from the door. She shakes her head, tries to wrangle her arm free. “I’m sorry as hell to be the one to say it.” “He’s…he’s…” She can’t bring herself to finish the sentence. “Patti, I’m-Mary, mother of God-I’m so sorry.” As if in slow motion, her eyes move across the face of the Wiz, the bushy mustache, the round face, the smell of cigar. She takes a step, then another, but it’s as if she isn’t moving forward at all, gaining no ground, like she’s in some circus house of horrors-Ī hand taking hold of her arm. Up here, it’s all business, photographs being taken, evidence technicians doing their thing, blue suits interviewing neighbors, and Ramsey from the ME’s office. She motors up the remaining stairs, her legs rubbery, her chest burning, before she pushes through the door to the sixth floor. Woozy and panicked, she stops on the third-floor landing, alone among the chaos, and squats down for a moment, grabbing her hair, collecting herself, her body trembling, her tears falling in fat drops onto the concrete. She takes the stairs two at a time, her chest burning, her legs giving out, a riot breaking out in her stomach. ![]() She works her way toward the elevator, casting her eyes into the corners of the lobby for security cameras-old habit, instinct, like breathing-then sees a group of techies, members of the Forensic Services Division, working the elevator, dusting it for prints, and she spins in her gym shoes and pushes through the door to the stairs. ![]() It’s more like a funeral than a crime scene, officers and plainclothes detectives with their eyes dropped, anguished, their faces tear-streaked, some consoling each other. ![]() She rushes past him into the lobby of the building. One of those cops-a detective, like Patti-recognizes her, and his face immediately softens. She knows the condo building even without following the trail of police officers to the place where they’re gathered under the awning outside. The sweat stinging her eyes, the T-shirt wet against her chest despite the cold, her nerves jangling. She doesn’t know that perimeter cop, and he doesn’t know her. She runs a block before reaching the yellow tape of the outside perimeter, the first officer stepping forward to stop her, then seeing her star and letting her pass. The air outside is unseasonably cold for early April. Patti ditches her car, puts the lanyard around her neck, her star dangling over her T-shirt. PATTI HARNEY stops her unmarked sedan two blocks shy of her destination, the narrow streets packed with patrol cars, the light bars on top of the units shooting a chaos of color into the night. ![]()
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