WhoвЂ™s using the elevator? Someone must have pulled rank. She looks into his eyes, not really seeing him, trying to process everything, thinking that heвЂ™s right, that she doesnвЂ™t want to see him, because if she doesnвЂ™t see him he wonвЂ™t be dead, he wonвЂ™t really be gone-Д«ut-the elevatorвЂ™s been taken out of service. вЂњNobody should see their brother like this.вЂќ 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.

вЂњIвЂ™m aвЂ¦I know how toвЂ¦handle a crime scene.вЂќДЄ 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. вЂњIвЂ™m sorry as hell to be the one to say it.вЂќ вЂњHeвЂ™sвЂ¦heвЂ™sвЂ¦вЂќ She canвЂ™t bring herself to finish the sentence. вЂњPatti, IвЂ™m-Mary, mother of God-IвЂ™m so sorry.вЂќ 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 itвЂ™s as if she isnвЂ™t moving forward at all, gaining no ground, like sheвЂ™s in some circus house of horrors-ДЄ hand taking hold of her arm. Up here, itвЂ™s all business, photographs being taken, evidence technicians doing their thing, blue suits interviewing neighbors, and Ramsey from the MEвЂ™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. ItвЂ™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 theyвЂ™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 doesnвЂ™t know that perimeter cop, and he doesnвЂ™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 HARNEYВ 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.

The black book james patterson