Daniel Mannelli slammed the handset down into its cradle, grabbed his jacket from the back of the chair and ran through the detective squad room ignoring the stares that greeted him. For all the joking, he knew better than to question Gabriel’s feelings.
“Delgado, Lambert, Kolchak,” he shouted, naming the first faces he saw. “Grab your coats. We’ve got him. The Reisinger Building on Prospect.”
He didn’t wait to see if they were following. Took the stairs three risers at a time, hand sliding down the rail. The sound of his footsteps echoed hollowly in the concrete trap of the stairwell. Coming into the Muster Room at a run Mannelli slammed into an unhappy prostitute waiting to be led away. Rouged lips twisted in an ugly smear as she kissed her middle finger in his face.
“Where’s the fire, Mannelli?” The desk sergeant called from his lofty perch. Of late happiness wasn’t a condition Mannelli had been particularly familiar with, but for all that familiarity the twist of anguish he felt as he spoke was surprisingly acute:
“Put out a call for backup, we’ve got him. The Reisinger Building on Prospect.” The look on his face was enough to have the desk sergeant picking up his radio mike and sending out the call without asking who.
His Three Musketeers, Delgado, Ross Lambert and Dale Kolchak ran straight through the Muster Room, Lambert still shrugging into his leather jacket as he ran. Mannelli followed them out through the glass double doors and into the street. The first snowflakes were falling, wrapping the air in white. A fairy tale Christmas in New York.
The worn leather soles of Mannelli’s shoes slipped on the damp stone.