|Publisher:||Zumaya Publications LLC|
Read an Excerpt
Two technicians rushed to the body, armed with paddles, syringes and, who knows, perhaps a miracle or two. One of them looked up at the detective.
"How long ago was he shot?" he asked.
Lefkowitz shook his head. "Fifteen, twenty minutes. I checked for a pulse when I got here. Nada."
The urgency seemed to drain from their mission. They administered a cursory examination, noting body temperature and skin tone. Then one of them returned to the truck for the stretcher. There would be no resurrection this afternoon on Ardmore Avenue.
The tech set the stretcher down on the high side of the street next to the body, avoiding the pool of blood. Then the two technicians, one gripping hips, the other gripping shoulders, rolled the body face-up and lifted it onto the stretcher.
At the sight of the face, I made a noise loud enough to be heard by everyone gathered. Although, to be accurate, I didn't make anything--the noise ripped straight from somewhere deep inside me and brushed my vocal cords like a violin bow shot across a poorly tuned set of strings. In that one instant, all the assumptions I'd made over the course of an otherwise normal lifetime suddenly held as much credence as the primitive's belief that if you took his photo you stole his soul. I went completely numb.
"You know him?" Lefkowitz asked.
"Yeah," I said, staring directly into the corpse's still-open eyes. "It's me."