“Makes you wish you could stop it,” Shannon said. “Ease all of this suffering.”

“Over forty thousand people are killed in the United States in car accidents every year. That’s like 120 a day. Yet we don’t react to that. But something like this happens, it haunts us for the rest of our lives.” Nick shook his head. “Do they know the cause?”

“Does it matter?” Shannon said. “I’ve heard rumors, but it’s not going to change a thing, it’s not going to bring these people back.”

They walked silently for the remaining half mile past the host of emergency vehicles, red lights uselessly spinning and flashing. Fourteen news cameras focused on fourteen slick, talking-head reporters conveying death with collagened lips and perfect hair, each hoping to top the other in the evening’s ratings.

“Shit,” Nick said, seeing his car boxed in by two fire trucks and an ambulance treating an overcome, hysterical relative of one of the victims. He wasn’t about to press anyone to unblock him.

“Don’t worry about it.” Shannon said. “I’ll drive. Why don’t you get the backup security file out of your car. I’m the black Mustang up there.” Shannon pointed at the slick muscle car fifty yards up the crowded road.

Nick nodded as he opened his car and feigned grabbing something from his glove compartment, pretending to place it in his breast pocket where Julia’s PDA already rested. He hoped he wasn’t creating a greater jeopardy than Julia was already in but knew if Shannon was to help him, he would need to see and know almost everything.

“You can’t handle this on your own?” a man in a cheap blazer and bad tie said on approach.

“Nick Quinn?” Shannon said. “Say hi to Detective Ethan Dance.”

Nick extended his hand but Dance didn’t even bother to look his way.

“We’ve got 212 victims here, I’m sifting through wreckage and death, and I have to come and hold your hand?” Dance said as he stormed right by them. “I’m in no mood to go to some compromised crime scene. I’m going to the station to change. If you want my help that’s the only place you’re getting it.”

Nick thought this was not the “good cop” that had arrested him, that had interrogated him with charm and a smile. Sweat was gathered at his temples, running down his cheeks, as he huffed and puffed from carrying his worn-out body up the road. Aggravation burned in his drooping, bloodshot eyes, his cheap loafers covered in mud, his gray pants caked halfway up his calves.

“Listen.” Shannon pulled Nick aside as Dance kept walking. “Dance is an asshole but he’s a really good detective. Go with him to the station. Let him take a look at your video file. This guy can spot water in the Sahara, plus he can get more info on this Dreyfus guy. I’ll go by Washington House and your wife’s law firm. See what I can find.”

Nick nodded and jogged up to Dance, who took off his JC Penney jacket and threw it in the backseat of his green Ford Taurus. The underarms of his white shirt bloomed with large perspiration stains. Nick opened the passenger door, silently getting in next to Dance, who slammed the driver’s-side door in anger.

Without a word Dance started up his car and spun out of his mud-filled parking spot. He cut off two exiting cars and drove out of the disaster response staging area.

Streams of volunteers, municipal workers, and National Guardsmen flowed in and out of the area, marching silently up and down the access road that had, up until this morning, only known minivans and SUVs filled with kids and soccer moms en route to fun.

As they drove out, the parked cars thinning out, Nick couldn’t believe his eyes as they drove past the blue Chevy Impala. He caught sight of the license plate and confirmed it was Dreyfus’s rental.

“Stop,” Nick said.

Dance ignored him.

“Stop. That’s the car I was telling Shannon and your captain about. The son of a bitch is here.”

Dance said nothing to Nick as he picked up the walkie-talkie on his seat and thumbed the talk button. “Captain?”

“You got to be kidding me, Dance,” Captain Delia shot back. “You’re gone all of three minutes and there’s an issue?”

“Send a Guardsman out to the side road where all of the local volunteers parked. Blue Chevy. License plate-” he turned to Nick to finish his sentence.

“-Z8JP9.”

“Tell him to unobtrusively watch the vehicle. Make sure he knows what that word means. When the guy shows up to leave, have him detained until we get back.”

“Gotcha,” Delia said.

“Relax.” Dance finally spoke to Nick. “If that guy is here he won’t get out.”

“Why would he come here?”

“That’ll be the first question you can ask him when we get back.” Dance said as he wiped his sweaty brow with the sleeve of his white shirt and pushed his moist brown hair back off his face.

They drove out through the slow-moving traffic, Dance didn’t bother to throw on his siren or lights; it wouldn’t move anyone along any faster.

“Sorry about being so short with you,” Dance said. “ Shannon ’s kind of an asshole, he’s got a tendency to piss me off, and this is the fourth time today.”

“It’s okay, this is a bad day for everyone,” Nick said.

“Your wife’s okay though, right?”

Nick nodded.

Dance loosened his tie, taking it off and throwing it in the back. He unbuttoned the top two buttons of his shirt and directed the a/c vent at himself, sighing as the cool air hit his body.

“The captain told me everything you and your wife have been going through today. When something like this happens, we get blinded to the rest of the world, forgetting it’s still moving despite the tragedies we face.”

As Nick listened to Dance’s short speech, he couldn’t help looking at the detective’s exposed neck, looking for the St. Christopher medal, before admonishing himself for his paranoia.

They finally emerged from the long access road back onto Route 22, finding it eerily empty, in sharp contrast to the chaos behind them.

“So, they said you have a copy of the security video?”

“Yeah.” Nick nodded, patting the breast pocket of his blazer.

“Did you look at it?”

“Just parts, but I saw one face. I’ve got a printout, if you want to take a look. But there’s a lot of snow, they seemed to have disabled the cameras at some point.”

“All right. We’ll check it out at the station. You don’t mind if I shower first, do you?”

Nick shook his head, instantly regretting it, knowing that the clock was ticking. His time with Dance was limited. He needed to glean as much info as he could before the hour was up.

“I feel like I’m covered in death.”

“What time do you have?” Nick didn’t want to pull out the watch.

The car approached a green-railed bridge, a quarter-mile span that rose fifty feet above the Kensico Reservoir, one of the most peaceful sites in all of Byram Hills.

“Three-forty-five,” Dance said.

“I hate to ask this, but… do you think, maybe, we could… it’s just, my wife-who knows where…”

Dance looked at him, his face unreadable, before he finally nodded. “Sure, I didn’t mean to be insensitive. We’re only a minute from the station. We’re on a generator, we’ll dive right in.”

“Thanks.” Nick smiled, regretting not turning to the police earlier. He could have been much farther along in finding Julia’s killer.

“Do you me a favor?” Dance tilted his head toward the rear of the car. “On the backseat is my gym bag, can you grab it?”

“Of course,” Nick unbuckled his seat belt, turned around, and awkwardly twisted around to grab the small canvas bag that was just beyond his fingertips’ reach.

Without warning, Dance slammed on the brakes, the wheels locking up, the antilock system working overtime to avoid a skid as the car ground to a halt in the center of the bridge. Nick was hurled back into the dash, half his body thrown to the floor. A nine-millimeter Glock came to rest on his forehead.