NINE

“BUT if you really saw someone dressed as Panther Man—”

“There’s no really about it, Mike. That’s what I saw . . .”

We were in a police car, siren blaring. Quinn’s hard blue eyes never left the road. Good thing, too. I didn’t think it was possible to race through Manhattan at this speed, not during morning rush.

I was sharing the front seat with him, and glad about it since one of my last trips in a cop car was a backseat perp ride to an interrogation room. (The view was much better up here.) Cars swerved, buses and taxis stopped dead, and pedestrians scrambled out of the way to give us room as we barreled east to the hospital.

“In the last sixty minutes, an army of officers found nothing, Clare. We dropped the dragnet and found no one dressed as Panther Man; no evidence of a discarded costume; no mask; no rope; no rifle. We searched the riverbank and every boat in the area. We searched buildings within the perimeter. We questioned pedestrians, frisked suspects in street clothes who fit the Panther Man build. How do you explain it?”

“I can’t.”

“Trauma can play tricks on the mind. Do you think you could have imagined—”

“I know what I saw. I’m not crazy!”

“Where are you getting crazy? I didn’t say crazy. I only meant that stress can alter perceptions . . .”

Despite the seat belt, a sharp turn threw me against the passenger’s door.

“I can’t believe you don’t believe me!”

“I didn’t say that, either!”

We were shouting over the siren’s wail—How do cops think with all this noise?!—but even I had to admit that the louder I talked, the crazier my claim sounded.

“What about surveillance cameras?” I asked.

“Detectives reviewing the area’s traffic cameras saw nothing that could help—”

“But those are limited views, aren’t they? The shooter could have found his way down an alley and into a building’s subbasement, maybe through a hidden trapdoor—”

“Like Panther Man’s Cat Cave?”

“He could have climbed a fence and hid in a private garden—”

“Up a tree, maybe?”

“Enough with the cop cracks! Your army of blue eyeballs isn’t infallible. What about St. Luke’s walled garden? Or the Chumley courtyard? There are secret places and tiny hideaways all over the West Village!”

“And our eyeballs aren’t done looking yet. They’re working to get hold of any private security camera feeds in the area and view them for clues. In the meantime, you’re the only eyewitness, and you’re going to have to provide us with more.”

“I’ll be happy to draw you a picture. Get me a pad and pen, and I’ll—”

“No. A picture is a good idea. But you’re not drawing it yourself.”

“I know how to draw, Mike. I went to art school.”

“Police sketch artists do more than draw. They’re trained interrogators, like any other detective. Besides, we need to make it official. I’ll request that an NYPD sketch artist meet us at the hospital.”

“Fine,” I said, adding a big nod in case he couldn’t hear me.

Two minutes later Quinn wrapped up a conversation with the Sixth Precinct commander, and we arrived at the hospital. Inside, I had to sprint to keep up as he pushed his way across the crowded lobby and up to the admissions desk.

“I’m looking for a gunshot victim,” Quinn said. “Sully Sullivan, NYPD.”

The woman behind the desk raised an eyebrow. “Sully, you say?”

“Finbar Sullivan,” I corrected, laying my hand over Mike’s white-knuckle fist. “The ambulance picked him up about an hour ago. Can you tell me his condition?”

“Mr. Sullivan is in the Trauma and Shock Unit. I’m sorry, but I don’t have any more information that I can—”

Quinn was off again. He didn’t ask for directions, because he didn’t need them. As head of the OD Squad, he’d been here often enough.

At the Trauma and Shock Unit, I beat Mike out of the elevator and to the nurse’s desk.

“Excuse me, can you help me find a shooting victim?” I asked in rapid-fire New Yorkese. “Finbar Sullivan is his name, and I was told he was in this unit.”

The woman in white closed the file she’d been reading and gave me a hard, bureaucratic stare.

“You’re Mrs. Sullivan?”

“No, I, uh—”

“Mrs. Sullivan is visiting her family in Rochester,” Mike explained. “Fran has been notified and is on her way back to the city.”

The nurse shifted her eyes to Quinn. “And you are?”

“I’m Detective Sullivan’s CO—commanding officer.” He flashed his badge.

“And I’m Sully’s friend,” I said, jumping in.

“Friendship has no legal status, Ms.—”

“Cosi. Clare Cosi. I treated Sully until the ambulance arrived. Now I need to know if he’s okay—”

“I can’t give you any further information. You’ll have to get it through the family.”

“But his spouse isn’t here—”

The nurse ignored my pleas and focused on Quinn. “And you, Officer—”

“Quinn. Detective Quinn.”

“Well, Detective, if you’re here on official police business, you may speak with the attending physician. But you’ll have to wait here at the desk.”

Then the nurse locked eyes with me. “There’s a break room down the hall. I suggest you wait for the detective there.”