"Okay." Glitsky could accept that. "Here's your chance to make it work."

A few minutes later, he was reading from a notepad he'd been filling with ideas as they struck him on and off for most of the afternoon. "…girlfriends? And if so, did they just break up? Then his children. How did he get along with them?"

"Excuse me." Fisk had a hand up like a third grader.

Glitsky looked over his notepad. "Yes?" With exaggerated patience, "Harlen?"

"I thought this was about all the problems Markham was having with his business? And now you're talking about his family?"

Glitsky pulled himself up to his desk and placed his pad flat upon it. His blue eyes showed little expression. "I want you both to understand something. The odds that Mr. Markham was killed on purpose, and hence this is a murder investigation at all, are not large. Harlen, you and I and Inspector Bracco were talking this morning about the fact that you didn't have much to do here in the detail. I thought you might enjoy taking a look at this thing from the ground up. And the ground is a victim's family."

"It's got nothing to do with the car, you're saying?"

The lieutenant kept his impatience in check. "No, I'm not saying that. The car is what hit him. And if somebody he knew was driving it, then it starts to look a lot more like a murder. Which, I repeat, and you should, too, it probably isn't."

"But it will keep us out of the detail," Bracco said. "Is that what you're saying?"

Glitsky nodded. "It might do that. And that is to the good, I think you'll agree."

When the inspectors had returned from their morning's exertions, they discovered a Tom Terrific beanie on the center of each of their desks. The detail didn't appear to be moving toward acceptance, or even tolerance, of the new crew. It was a drag to have to deal with, Glitsky thought, but he wasn't going to get involved in disciplining the hazing activities. That wasn't his job, and if he tried to move in that direction, he'd lose whatever authority he did have before he knew it.

So, yes, it would keep Fisk and Bracco out of the office. A good thing. Glitsky picked up the notepad again and read from it. "Do any of his children have friends with a green car? What about the wife's social life, if any? Beyond that, everybody you talk to needs an alibi, and remember the accident happened at six or so in the morning, so anybody who says they weren't sleeping should be interesting."

"What about his work?" Fisk asked. " Parnassus?"

"We'll get there. It's a process," Glitsky said evasively. This was, after all, mostly a charity mission for his new inspectors, and he wasn't inclined to let them get in the way and muddy the waters in case Jackman did decide to convene a grand jury over business irregularities at Parnassus, which may or may not have involved Markham. "Let's see where it takes us," he said. But then he did remember a detail. "You'd better take a look at the autopsy, too."

The guys eyed each other, and Bracco cleared his throat. "He died in the hospital, sir," he said. "We know what he died of."

"We do?" Glitsky replied. "What was that?"

"He got run over. Thrown about thirty yards. Smashed into a garbage can."

"And your point is? Look, let's assume we find somebody who wanted to run over Mr. Markham and in fact did a pretty good job of it. So we arrest our suspect and somehow we've never looked at the autopsy. You know what happens? It turns out he died of a heart attack unrelated to his injuries in the accident. Or maybe somebody entirely different from our suspect stuck an ice pick in his ear, or poisoned his ice water. Maybe he was a spy for the Russians and the CIA took him out. The point is, somebody's dead, we check the autopsy first. Every time, capisce?"

He looked up and gave them his terrible smile. "Welcome to homicide, boys, where the good times just keep on comin'."

Eric Kensing still wore his blood-spattered green scrubs. He was slumped nearly horizontal in a chair in the doctors' lounge on the ground floor, his long legs stretched straight out before him, his feet crossed at the ankles. The room was otherwise empty. A lock of gray-specked black hair hung over his forehead, which he seemed to be holding up with the heel of his right hand.

He heard the door open and someone flicked on the overhead lights. He opened his eyes. It was his soon-to-be ex-wife Ann. "They said I'd find you here." Her voice at whisper pitch, under tight control.

"Looks like they were right."

She started right in. "At least you could have called me, Eric. That's what I don't understand. Instead I find it out on the goddamn radio. And with the kids in tow," she added, "thank you very much."

He got to his feet quickly, not wanting to give her the edge. "Where are they now? Are they okay?"

"Of course they're okay. What do you think? I left them at Janey's. They're fine."

"Well, good." He waited, forcing her.

"So why didn't you call me?"

He backed up a step, crossed his arms. He had an open, almost boyish face in spite of the worry lines, the bags under his eyes, a puffiness at his once-proud jawline. But around his wife he'd learned, especially in the past year or two, to suppress any animation in his face. Not that he felt any conscious need to do that now anyway, but he was resolved to give Ann nothing. He might have been molded from wax, and could easily have passed for someone in his early fifties, though he was fifteen years short of that. "Why would I call you? His wife was here, his family. Besides, the last I heard you'd broken up again. For good."

She set her mouth, drew a determined breath. "I want to see him," she said.

"Help yourself. As long as Carla and his kids are gone. I'd ask you to try and be sensitive if they're still around."

"Oh, yes. Mr. Sensitive. That's your role, isn't it? Bedside manner, comforting the bereaved?"

"Sometimes." He shrugged. "I don't care. You do what you want. You will anyway."

"That's right. I intend to." Her nostrils flared. "How did he die here? How could that happen?"

"He got smashed up, Ann. Badly."

"People get smashed up all the time. They don't die."

"Well, Tim did."

"And you don't care, do you?"

"What does that mean? I don't like to lose a patient, but he wasn't-"

Her voice took on a hysterical edge. "He wasn't just a patient, Eric." She glared at him. "Don't give me that doctorspeak. I know what you really think."

"Oh, you do? What's that?"

"You're glad he's dead, aren't you? You wanted him to be dead for a long time."

He had no ready response. Finally, he shook his head in resignation and disgust. "Well, it's been nice talking to you. Now excuse me-" He started to walk by her.

But she moved in front of him. "Where are you going?"

"Back to work. I've got nothing more to say to you. You came here to see Tim? You found me easy enough. You won't have any problem. Now please get out of my way. I've got work to do."

She held her ground. "Oh yes, the busy doctor." Then, taking another tack. "They said you were on the floor."

"What floor?"

"You know what one."

He backed up a step. "What are you talking about?"

"When he died."

"That's right," he said warily. "What about it?"

He'd had long experience with her when her emotions took over, with the sometimes astounding leaps of logic of which she was capable. Now he saw something familiar in her eyes, a kind of wild lucidity that he found deeply unsettling. "I should tell somebody," she said. "I'll bet I know what really happened up there."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Yes you do, Eric. I'm the only one who knows what you're really capable of. How unfeeling you can be. How you are."