Diagnosis: Danger by Marie Ferrarella Page B

see why the doc felt so sorry for you,” he said to himself.
    He got back on his motorcycle and made a mental note to give his mother a kiss when he saw her. The woman was underappreciated.
    It was becoming increasingly apparent to him that no one was going to miss Clancy except for the woman who had declared him missing in the first place.
    Natalya.
    In his mind’s eye, he could visualize her face. Now there was someone he’d much rather be investigating than looking into the death of a man not even his mother seemed to like.
    A traffic jam along Lexington nearly had him turning back. But just as he was about to turn down a side street, traffic began to trickle again, giving him enough of an opening to weave his bike in and out. It allowed him to make progress while cars of all sizes and shapes remained essentially hood to trunk. More than a couple of people cursed at him as he made his way to Clancy’s apartment.
    By the time he reached the fourth-floor walk-up, Mike was in less than a stellar mood. Parking had been another challenge. Both sides of the street were filled with not even enough space left over for a regular two-wheeler, much less his motorcycle. He was forced to double park. He had a right to do it while going about police business, but he still didn’t like it.
    The handwritten note on the superintendent’s door said: Out.
    It was turning out to be that kind of day, Mike thought, annoyed.
    He went up to the apartment anyway. In a pinch, there were ways other than using keys to get into a place. Life on the street had taught him a few things even before he’d joined the force.
    But he found that he didn’t need to resort to an alternative method. The door to Clancy Donovan’s apartment was already unlocked. The knob turned obligingly beneath his hand as he automatically checked it.
    He laughed softly under his breath. “This character wasn’t the brightest penny in the jar.”
    Despite popular classic sitcoms, you just didn’t leave your door unlocked in New York. It was begging for trouble.
    Unless trouble was already here, he thought. His fingertips against the door, he pushed it open slowly. Just as he did, he thought he heard what sounded like a drawer being closed in the next room.
    In less time than it took to think of it, he had his service revolver in his hands. Scanning the area, he inched his way into the small, pristine living room.
    If the dead man owned a great many possessions, they were packed away somewhere else. Mike found himself looking at living quarters that were only a little more furnished than a Jesuit priest’s cell.
    White on white. Eerie, he thought.
    The noise he’d heard had come from somewhere deeper in the apartment.
    The next moment, Mike stepped on something that emitted a screeching wail. Every bone in his body tensed, braced for anything, as he moved back and looked down. There was a toy on the floor, the kind people bought for their pets. Even though hewas no longer on it, the damn thing was still wailing. He resisted the urge to shoot it.
    Standing in Clancy’s miniscule kitchen, Natalya’s head jerked up when she heard the high-pitched wail. Without thinking, she dropped the small digital camera she was about to look at into her coat pocket.
    Someone was here. The killer?
    Her heart pounding, she looked around for something to use as a weapon. She had just enough time to grab a chef’s knife out of the wooden block when she heard someone call out, “Police. Come out with your hands up.”
    She released a sigh. She recognized that voice.
    “How high up?” Natalya wanted to know, stepping out of the kitchen and into the living room. She had both hands raised shoulder level.
    Mike swallowed a curse as he holstered his gun. He nodded at the weapon she was holding. “You can put the knife down.”
    Natalya looked at it as if she’d never seen it before. She hadn’t realized she was still holding it. Relief that she wasn’t going to be confronting