Morse left the Terminal with Carmody and Kali and then went downtown in the middle of the street. They got less than half a block before a pair of uniforms stepped in front of them.

“No one’s allowed here,” one of them said. The name on her badge was J. Williams. “You’ll have to turn around.”

Morse waved her Net Force ID, nodding back toward headquarters. “We’re Department of Internet Security. One of our people was killed. I need to find the man who was with him, Agent Musil.”

Williams eyed the card in her hand. “I’m sorry, I can’t let anyone thr—”

“Who’s in charge of the scene?” Morse interrupted.

The other cop stepped up. His chest was stuck out. The badge on it said he was P. Votto. “There a problem?” he asked.

Morse saw Carmody move toward him and cut between them. She held the ID up in Votto’s face.

“I just told your partner. We’re looking for one of ours. His name is Musil.”

“Look, we’ve got orders. You have to turn around.”

Morse drilled him with a stare.

“Do want me to call the commissioner? I can do it right now. And I swear to Christ I’ll make sure you’re suspended without pay. Indefinitely.”

Morse watched him fold. She saw it in his eyes, and she saw it in his sinking chest and in how the badge sunk with it. She gave him a silent ten-count to save face.

At eight, Votto stepped aside and gestured toward an ambulance a half block up. “I think he’s in that one.”

Morse nodded.

“Thank you, Officer,” she said and led the way over to it.

The Fifty-Fourth Street intersection was busy with cops and forensic techs marking the street, writing notes, drawing up diagrams and taking photographs and measurements. There was a lot of string and tape and spray paint. The EMS vehicle was just on the other side of the crossing. Beyond it, a group of police were assembled around a row of yellow cabs parked at the curb.

Morse went up to the ambulance. Musil was seated on the rear step while a paramedic examined him. His hair was loose, and his clothes were bloodstained and dirty.

He looked straight at her as she approached.

“Director Morse,” he said.

She nodded. “Are you OK?”

“Yes.” He swallowed. “Ki Marton is dead.”

“I know,” she said. “I’m sorry.”

“We had lunch,” he said. “I heard him shout my name. Then I saw the taxi. A van. Ki pushed me out of its way.”

“He saved your life.”

“Yes.”

She took a breath. “Leo told me Ki was the best. All those years at the FBI, he said he made him look good.”

Musil nodded. She saw a lump form in his throat and waited while the paramedic bandaged a cut on his arm.