EXCERPT "Dammit, Ethan," Nick Markov muttered, trying to steady his drunken partner and keep him from falling flat on his face and doing permanent damage to it. "Your wife's going to have my ass for this."
Ethan Murtagh's scowl bordered on a comical pout. "I can walk on my own two feet," he insisted, his words only slightly slurred. His balance, however, was another matter entirely. "Yeah, right."
It was a few frustrating moments before Nick managed to strap his partner into the passenger seat of the black Nissan Pathfinder parked in front of the bar. Ethan had been, once again, trying to drink himself into a stupor. He didn't handle disagreements with his significant other very well. The current dispute was over the photographer who had shot his wife's swimsuit spread the previous week.
"You'd better hope Torie's asleep when I get you home," Nick said, getting behind the wheel.
A disgruntled sound came from the sprawled figure beside him. Nick answered with a grunt of his own as he pulled out. At almost one in the morning on a Wednesday night, it was relatively quiet in the Sixties on the Upper East Side, so it was a few short minutes before he was turning onto Fifth Avenue. Deciding it wouldn't take long to get Ethan upstairs and into his nineteenth-floor condo, Nick stopped the Pathfinder in front of the building and killed the engine. He released his seat belt buckle, then reached over for his partner's. Ethan mumbled a protest, swatted at Nick's helping hand, and fumbled with the door handle. Suppressing the urge to roll his eyes, Nick grabbed a fistful of his partner's jacket.
"Stay put," Nick ordered. "You open that door, you'll land on your pretty face and Torie'll never forgive me."
Ethan fell back in his seat, head tilted back, eyes closed. Satisfied, Nick opened his door, got out, and made his way to the passenger side door. Ethan didn't move when he pulled the door open. Nick silently groaned at the possibility of having to carry his less-than-petite partner upstairs.
Before Nick could reach for his nearly unconscious partner, small pebbles pinged the roof of his Pathfinder, and bounced off his head and the sidewalk. Frowning, Nick absently skimmed a hand over his hair and his gaze across the roof of his vehicle. The pebbles glittered faintly under the mellow glow of the streetlight.
Not pebbles. Glass shards.
Nick glanced up--and froze. His gaze instantly transfixed by the body directly above him.
With a faint sense of incredulity, Nick stared, his breath trapped in his lungs, as the blurred line of stark paleness grew larger and sharper as gravity closed the distance between its hapless victim and the unforgiving ground. He couldn't tear his eyes away from the white face seemingly directly above him. For timeless seconds, that was all he saw, but his mind filled in the rest with disturbing clarity. He saw the wide open mouth and the rounded eyes, filled with the horrifying knowledge of one's own imminent death.
Nick was wrong about two things--the body wasn't directly above him, and the ground wouldn't stop its free fall.
It was directly above his SUV.
His own eyes widening at this realization, Nick fisted his hands in Ethan's jacket, hauled his partner from the SUV and jumped back, grunting when the edge of the door caught his shoulder. Ethan stumbled and both men went down hard as the body met the Pathfinder.
The sickening thud that must've sounded was drowned out by the almost explosive crunching of metal and the shattering of glass as the SUV gave like an aluminum pie plate under the pressure of the sudden force.
As the squeaky sound of the Pathfinder's shocks being tested beyond their limits mingled with the other sounds of destruction, Nick, his heart somewhere in the vicinity of his throat, found himself flat on the ground, face first, his head covered with his forearms. The damp, industrial scent of the sidewalk filled his nostrils as he took in the heavy, metallic clinking sounds as parts fell off his Pathfinder like Mr. Potato Head appendages.
When the relative quiet of the night was finally restored, Nick opened his eyes, lifted his head and pushed to his feet. Without conscious thought, he withdrew his gun and turned around.
For an interminable moment, Nick stood on the street, the worn handle of his Glock comfortable and familiar in his grip, and took in the remains of his SUV. The Pathfinder's new hood ornament had slammed onto it with enough force to bend the front hood into an imperfect V, partially obscuring the body from Nick's view. The windshield, torn from the top of its frame, was split in two down the middle. The jagged, incomplete halves--spider webs of shattered glass held together by the thin, inner layer of plastic laminate--disappeared inside the SUV's dark interior. The once-shiny bumper, scratched rim, and miscellaneous engine parts encircled the battered Pathfinder. His new baby was a total write-off.
Bracing himself, Nick took a step closer, his mouth tightening as his gaze dropped down.
Despite himself, he gave a small start when he saw the stark face staring at him from the dashboard. Dark hair topped glassy, unseeing eyes, a bent nose, and a mouth opened wide in a silent scream. Blood, thick and dark, seeped from the matted hair to pool on the leather.
"Jesus Christ."
Ethan's shocked whisper brought Nick's attention around to him. His partner swayed for a moment, then slapped one hand against Nick's shoulder to steady himself. Blood trickled down the left side of his forehead from a gash that disappeared into his hair. He was sobering up by the second as he stared at the body. Homicide detectives they might be, but they've never had a case fall on them--literally.
Nick swiveled his gaze back to the front of his SUV and blinked, but the image before him didn't waver.
The male body was a tangle of arms and legs bent at awkward angles nestled in the damaged hood of the Pathfinder.
There was nothing that he could do.
Something heavy settled inside Nick, as it did every time he saw a body. Not bothering to shake off the feeling, he peered up the high-rise--and caught a flash of pale color on the top terrace.
The suicide just became a homicide.
Copyright © 2005 by Ann Bruce. All rights reserved.
