POKING MY HEAD out from the elevator, I scan the length of the hallway up and down. Livingstone occupies a corner suite at the front of the building. The way forward is clear. Exiting the elevator, I make my way across the carpet toward the doctor’s outer-office door.
Before turning the knob, I identify myself loud and clear as police.
“Dr. Livingstone, it’s Detective Dexter Fortune, NYPD. I’ve come alone. If you’ve been watching from the window, you know I have. No one knows I’m here. It’s up to you how this goes down. I only want to talk, nothing more.”
Silence.
Turning the knob, I nudge the door open with my toe. I step back quickly to avoid the anticipated hail of bullets. Nothing, no gunfire, no screaming warning to halt where I stand.
“Dr. Livingstone,” I repeat emphatically. “Detective Fortune, NYPD. I’ve drawn my service weapon. I advise you, I’m fully prepared to use it. If you are armed, please lay down your weapon now. Do not give me a reason to use mine.”
I wait a heartbeat, only a millisecond because my ticker is pounding like a jackhammer inside my chest. And suddenly, I feel like an idiot, a complete tool, fully expecting the local PD to arrive on scene, roof-lights blazing to discover an off-reservation, renegade NYPD investigator break-and-entering the office of a respected local physician.
Not only will I be pulled from the case, I’ll be suspended, possibly busted down from Detective Squad to Patrol. If I’m lucky, I’ll keep my shield, but I’ll be reporting to Mel. Gabby’s words mock me: “Do you seriously believe, with all we know, the man is that stupid?”
I’ve been set-up, but not in the way I expected.
Feeling humiliated, I throw open the door to Livingstone’s inner office. I step inside. The room is near dark; only a dim glow through the blinds from the parking lot lamps outside.
Still, the image that greets me burns my eyes.