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I SAT ON MY LIVING ROOM SOFA AT FIVE O'CLOCK IN THE morning with a copy of the mock-up of the front page of the day's New York Post in my hand, looking at my own obituary.
It was after eight o'clock, and all I could see of the sun was its gleaming crown as it slipped behind the row of steep cliffs, giving off an iridescent pink haze that signaled the end of a long August day.
I spent a long afternoon at the morgue.
I SAT ON MY LIVING ROOM SOFA AT FIVE O'CLOCK IN THE morning with a copy of the mock-up of the front page of the day's New York Post in my hand, looking at my own obituary.
I looked at the pool of dried blood that covered the third-floor landing of a brownstone on one of the safest residential blocks in Manhattan and wondered how the young woman who'd been left here to die yesterday, her chest pierced by a steak knife, could still be alive this afternoon.
THE ANSWERING MACHINE KICKED IN AFTER a fourth irritating echo from the insistent caller.
"Murder. You should have charged the defendant with murder."