"Sir."
There was no way out of the building. Outside the hospital, the media had already begun to arrive. Mitch knew none of his men would have leaked the story, but it was tough to send a hundred cops into a major New York City hospital without people getting curious. TV crews scrambled to set up their equipment, eager to capture the drama as it unfolded. Mitch thought, They're probably hoping for a shoot-out. How much would the first shots of Grace Brookstein's dead body be worth?
He wished he could protect her. That he could stop her from running. Keep her safe, with him.
He headed for the roof.
GRACE LOOKED AROUND HER. This is it. The end of the road.
If only Manhattan's skyline were like a Spider-Man movie, where the next building over was always a short jump away. In real life, the eight-story hospital was sandwiched between two twenty-story towers. The only way down from the roof was via the fire stairs Grace had just come up, or an identical set of stairs on the western side of the building.
Unless, of course, you jumped.
Bolting both sets of fire doors behind her, Grace crawled on her hands and knees over to the edge of the rooftop, making her way around the perimeter. She peered over the edge of the rooftop. In a movie, there would have been a handy Dumpster to break her fall. Or a truck full of feather pillows that just happened to have pulled up at a red light. No such luck.
She heard the door to the east stairs start rattling. A few seconds later, the other door followed suit. They're coming.
Tears filled Grace's eyes. They would catch her. They would send her back to jail. She would never know the truth.
In that moment, as the rattling of the doors grew louder, it became clear.
She had nothing left to live for.
THE DOOR BURST OPEN, SENDING THE metal bolt clattering. Mitch shot out onto the concrete like a ball from a cannon. He looked up just in time to see a flash of blue disappearing over the edge of the rooftop.
"Grace! NO!"
He was too late.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
BOOK 3
TWENTY-EIGHT
MITCH PUT A HAND OVER HIS MOUTH. There was an audible gasp from the crowds gathered below, then screams.
I've just chased an innocent woman to her death.
Why hadn't Grace waited? If he'd only had a chance to talk to her. To tell her he believed in her. That he knew Lenny hadn't killed himself. That he knew she was innocent. That he was starting to fall in love with her.
He couldn't bear to look, yet he knew he had to. Behind him, a stream of cops had filed onto the rooftop, all with guns drawn. Mitch walked forward slowly to the spot where the blue flash had disappeared. Squatting down on his haunches, he took a deep, fortifying breath and looked down, bracing himself for the sight of Grace's bloodied, broken corpse.
The sidewalk was empty.
"What the..."
The roof jutted out about two feet beyond the outer walls of the hospital building, like stiff white icing spilling over the edge of a wedding cake. Lying on his belly, Mitch reached under the ledge. His fingers grasped at the air. Nothing. He inched farther forward, like a snake, till his torso dangled perilously over the edge of the building. The crowd gasped again. Suddenly Mitch felt a small, cold hand in his.
Perched on a window ledge no more than eight inches wide, Grace looked up into Mitch's eyes and gave him a sad, defeated smile.
"Detective Connors. We must stop meeting like this."
THE SENSATIONAL FOOTAGE OF GRACE BROOKSTEIN'S capture was aired around the globe. Overnight, Mitch Connors of the NYPD went from bumbling cop to national hero. Speculation was rife as to where America's most wanted fugitive was being held. Would Grace be sent back to Bedford Hills? Or to a different, secret, more secure location? Would there be another trial? The hunt for Grace Brookstein had cost the U.S. taxpayers millions of dollars. Surely some stiffening of Grace's original sentence was called for?
Behind the scenes, an interagency battle raged. Everyone wanted access to Grace. Mitch Connors's view was that possession was nine-tenths of the law.
"We've got her and we're not handing her over to the FBI, or anyone else, till we're done questioning her."
But the FBI's Harry Bain wasn't the only one on Mitch's case. His own superiors in the police department seemed eager to wash their hands of Grace as soon as possible. Detective Lieutenant Dubray agreed.
"She's not our problem anymore."
Mitch dug his heels in. "I have a right to question her for forty-eight hours."
"Don't lecture me about your 'rights,' Connors. And don't be so fucking naive. This case is political dynamite and you know it. Grace Brookstein's a walking embodiment of everything this country's trying to forget. This goes all the way to the top. The president himself has told his advisers that Grace's face on the news is bad for business, bad for jobs, bad for Brand America."
"'Brand America'? Come on, sir."
Mitch fought his corner, but he knew time was running out. Soon Grace would be taken away from him, and his chance to help her would be gone. Whatever other feelings he had, or thought he had, for her, he had to put them aside. All that mattered now was the truth. I have to get her to trust me.
GRACE STUDIED MITCH'S FEATURES INTENTLY. He seems genuine. But then my track record as a judge of character is hardly exemplary.
"So you're saying you want to help me?"
"Yes. I want to help you. I'm the only one who wants to help you, Grace. But I can't if you don't talk to me."
Grace looked at him skeptically.
"I read Buccola's file," said Mitch. "I believe that Lenny was murdered. I believe that you were both set up. But I need your help to prove it."
"If you know Lenny was murdered, why haven't you reopened the investigation into his death?"