Halfway down the block I can see four police cars and an ambulance double-parked in front of our building, lights flashing.

Jesus. It’s worse than I thought.

Looks like the entire agency is outside, on the sidewalk or in the street.

I get there just in time to see two medics jump out of the ambulance, open the rear doors, and pull out a wheeled gurney. Oh, God—they’re headed inside the agency building!

As soon as I’m in front of our brownstone, a dozen coworkers are surrounding me.

Maureen, our receptionist, is shaking like a leaf, crying. Middle-aged, widowed, pleasantly overweight, with a face that’s usually beaming, Mo’s the agency den mother. I take her hand and pull her in close. She leans on my shoulder and loses it.

“What the hell is going on, Mo?”

“It’s awful. Unbelievable.” She’s sobbing.

I spot Chris Berardo out in the street. Lanky, shoulder-length hair pulled back in an attempt at a ponytail. He’s white as a ghost. He shoves his hands up in the air and looks at me as if to say It’s about goddamned time you got here!

“What? Jesus, talk to me, Mo!”

“There’s somebody up on the roof. Dead! Somebody who lives next door saw the body and called the cops. They got here about an hour ago and cleared the building, and still aren’t allowing anyone back in.…”

“Oh, my God!”

“And for all they know the killer’s still inside!”

Paul Marterelli’s down the sidewalk, beyond the building entrance, with a reporter and a cameraman. I recognize Chuck Esposito, the Emmy Award–winning crime reporter from the local NBC affiliate, Channel 4. Damn—bad news travels fast in New York. Paul looks like he’s shaking his head more than he’s talking.

“Hang on, Mo, let me see what I can find out.”

A couple of plainclothes cops are standing on the top step, blocking the front door, eyes fixed on the crowd out front.

Nearest one says, “Sorry sir, we cannot allow entry just yet.”

I introduce myself. “I’m second in command here, and I’m just trying to find out what’s going on. I’d like to be able to reassure my coworkers that they’re in no danger.”

“Understood. But you’re going to have to wait with the rest of them.”

“Do we know who it is?”

“The victim has been identified, but until we can notify the family, we cannot release the identity. I’m Detective Peter Quinn, with the 13th precinct, over on 21st Street. I’ll be in charge of this investigation. This is the second officer in charge, Detective Scott Garrison.”

A reluctant silence has settled over the crowd, which has grown with neighbors and passersby.

I see nothing but deeply worried looks on my colleagues’ faces. I’m still on the steps when some of them move in a little closer to me—for some kind of reassurance?

“Oh, Tim,” Mo says. “I’m so glad you’re here now. We all are.” She pulls a couple of the agency women in against her, an arm around each one.