It wasn’t really the scope of the destruction that caught him off guard. It was the small details that brought the tragedy down to a personal level. A bloodied teddy bear with a bedraggled pink ribbon, much the worse for a month’s exposure to New York’s dirt and weather, had been trapped beneath the wreckage of a sign. He could only hope that the bear’s owner was alive somewhere, free enough of pain and worry to be able to mourn the loss of her toy.

Yes, Times Square had shaken him. And he’d already made plans to help rebuild it. But that wasn’t, he knew, the only reason he felt uneasy. He was all too aware of the risks he was about to take, and the explosive nature of what he was carrying in the pocket of his overcoat.

He walked up to the desk sergeant.

“Commissioner Harrison, please. I have an appointment.”

When his secretary buzzed to tell him Gordian had arrived, Bill Harrison put down the pile of reports he’d been combing for details, pulled off his reading glasses, and rubbed his eyes.

“Give me a minute, then bring him in,” he told her.

He hadn’t slept well since his wife’s death. The department shrink had told him that it was to be expected, but knowing that his emotions were predictable didn’t make them any less painful. Nor did it help him deal with the nightmares. Or the loneliness.

He’d given up sleeping in his bed. The memories of Rosie were overpowering there. He was unable to function when he walked into their room. All her clothes, the smell of her perfume—he’d just grabbed what he needed and put it in the guest room. But even that didn’t help much. Every time he closed his eyes to sleep, he’d dream. In those dreams, he’d replay that night over and over again. And wake up screaming in terror.

Worst of all were the dreams where he saved her, where he got them all out, only to wake up and have to face that terrible truth all over again.

Rosie was gone.

He’d taken to sleeping in an easy chair in the living room. It was so uncomfortable that he never really went completely under. It helped with the dreams, but it wasn’t doing his concentration any good.

And he needed every scrap of concentration he could muster if he planned to solve this thing.

He ran his hands over his face, across his hair, and straightened his tie. Distraction, he told himself. That’s the key to surviving this. Think about something else.

He wondered what the big man wanted with him.

It was a long way from the mean streets of Manhattan to California. Especially the California somebody like Gordian lived in.