Harry Dolan by Bad Things Happen Page A

Main and turned north. Flashing lights in the distance, two blocks away. Northbound traffic crawled. People milled in front of restaurants. A man in a long knitted scarf played saxophone, the instrument case open at his feet, a few dollar bills in the bottom. A border collie nearby, its leash tied to a fire hydrant. The collie and the man with the saxophone were the only ones not looking north.
    Some of the restaurant people drifted toward the flashing lights. Loogan started to jog. The two police cars he had seen were latecomers. There were three others on the street. Cops at the intersections, directing traffic.
    The flashing lights surrounded a building on the corner. The building that housed the offices of Gray Streets.
    A barrier of sawhorses held back the crowd. Loogan insinuated himself among the people. A woman with a cell phone at her ear. A balding man with rimless eyeglasses. The woman with the cell phone broke her connection and dialed a new number. “You’re not going to believe where I am,” she said.
    Loogan pressed through to the barrier. Beyond it, there was a tree growing out of an opening in the sidewalk. A wrought-iron bench beside the tree. A man’s shoe had found its way underneath the bench.
    Trailing off from one end of the bench: a line of uniformed cops. Four of them, hats off, hands behind their backs. Stone-faced. Between the cops and the building, a blanket had been spread on the sidewalk. The cops stood facing the crowd, as motionless as sentries, but their presence could do nothing to conceal the shape beneath the blanket.
    Loogan thought he should ask them the name of the man beneath the blanket. He was sure they wouldn’t answer. It was a formality in any case. He knew the answer. Looking up, he could see that every window in the face of the building was closed—every window except for one on the sixth floor.

Chapter 7
    ELIZABETH WAISHKEY NODDED TO THE OFFICER IN THE HALLWAY AND went on through. The outer office of Gray Streets was unoccupied. The air was cool.
    The door of Tom Kristoll’s office stood open. Carter Shan was inside taking photographs. Elizabeth paused for a moment in the doorway—a tall woman with raven hair. Her clothes were unassuming: tan overcoat, gray blazer and slacks, pale blue blouse. Her only adornment was a necklace of glass beads.
    Carter Shan turned and aimed the camera at her. He didn’t press the button.
    “Pushed,” she said to him.
    “You’re dreaming, Lizzie,” he said.
    Elizabeth stepped into the room. “You think he jumped, I suppose. That’s why you’re taking pictures.”
    “I’m covering the bases.”
    “The pictures’ll come in handy,” she said. “We’ll need all the evidence we can muster, when we put him on trial for killing himself.”
    She crossed to the open window and looked down. A small crowd lingered on the street below. The medical examiner was kneeling beside the body. The blanket had been cast aside.
    “Whose bright idea was the blanket?” Elizabeth asked.
    “It wasn’t one of our people,” said Shan. “The woman who called it in, she covered him with a blanket from her car. She had her kids with her.”
    Elizabeth nodded and silently watched the scene below.
    Shan put the digital camera in the pocket of his coat. “All right, Lizzie,” he said. “Don’t be so inscrutable. Why do you think he didn’t jump?”
    She walked away from the window. “Maybe it’s just a feeling.”
    “I know better than that.”
    “The west wind brings me tidings.”
    “Fine. Keep it to yourself.”
    She surveyed the room, from the bookshelves to the desk to the rack by the door that held a long coat and a black fedora.
    She said, “Have you ever thought about killing yourself, Carter? Never mind. It doesn’t matter. Just imagine you have thought about killing yourself, and you’re here in your office and you decide today’s the day. You look around, and you don’t have a gun handy, or a rope, but there’s the window.