The Upper East Side
The Grand Cherokee had been parked on the street for an hour now, and the heat radiating through the metal skin melted the snow coming down into an uneven camouflage. The vehicle was lopsided, one of the back wheels jacked up on a block of ice left by a plow. Two men sat inside, sipping coffee and dialed into the silent zone out of habit. The snow on the windshield melted, giving the occupants a fragmented water-dappled view of the brownstone across the street. But they didn’t use the wipers.
Someone in the house began snapping the lights off, one room at a time; no doubt little ones being put to bed. First the main floor, then the second, and finally the third—life support cycling down in increments.
Detective Michael Atchison finished the last of the coffee and slipped his cup into the holder before cracking his knuckles in a series of moves that looked like he was changing fingers. He finished the exercise with a stretch that had all his muscles twanging in opposite directions.
Atchison’s partner, Detective Alex Roberts, sat in the passenger’s seat, repeating a similar set of adjustments with the extra moves of cracking his neck and jaw. Then he took a deep breath and nodded.
Atchison fired up the engine and pulled out into the street with a little more gas than he wanted, revving the engine with that particular growl native to winter. No one noticed them pull into the alley behind Lucas’s house.