That’s how we became involved in the Poe Killings.
And that’s how Joe became involved with Genevieve again.
She was a child of privilege, but even after she’d almost lost her own life, she couldn’t stop herself from investigating problems.
Including murder.
CHAPTER 1
The crash occurred on the FDR. Strange thing, Joe had just been driving along Manhattan’s East Side and thinking it was amazing that there weren’t more accidents on the busy—and outdated—highway when, right in front of him, a crash caused the car a few lengths ahead of him to slam into someone else. The sounds of screeching tires, shattering glass, grating steel and several massive impacts were evidence that the domino effect had come into play. Someone almost stopped in the aftermath of the first collision, but then that car was pushed into the next lane, and the driver coming up didn’t have time to stop. He slammed into it hard and careened into the next lane. The car that hit that driver bounced over the median and into the oncoming traffic going south.
Joe somehow made it off to the side, threw his car into Park and hit 9-1-1 on his cell phone. He reported what he saw and his position, dropped the phone and hurried out to help.
The car that had caused the initial crash was fairly far ahead of him, but there was a line of disabled vehicles stretching back from it almost to where he was.
The people in the car closest to him were fine, and so were the people in the next vehicle, and the driver of the third probably had nothing more than a broken arm.
The smell of gas around the car that had hopped the median was strong, though—a bad sign.
People had stopped all around, talking, shouting, while other drivers were trying to get around the wreckage no matter what.
“Hey, it’s going to blow up!” someone called to Joe as he approached the car. He lifted a hand in acknowledgment but kept going. He wasn’t a superhero, he’d just worked lots of accident scenes when he’d been a cop, and an inner voice was assuring him that—death-defying or not—he had time to help.
The car was upside down. There was blood coming from the driver’s head, which was canted at an awkward angle. The man’s eyes were closed.
“Hey. You have to wake up. We’ve got to get you out of there. I’m going to help you,” Joe told him.
“My niece,” the man said. “You’ve got to help my niece.” He grabbed Joe, his grip surprisingly strong.
“Trish,” the man said.
Then Joe saw the little girl. She was in the back. Not really big enough for the seat belt, she had slipped out of it and was on the roof—now the floor—with silent tears streaming down her face.
Joe said with forced calm, “Come on, honey. Give me your hand.”
She had huge, saucer-wide blue eyes, and she was maybe about seven or eight and just small for her age, he decided. “Trish,” he said firmly. “Give me your hand.”
He sighed with relief when she did so. He managed to get her out, even though she had to crawl over broken glass on the way. As soon as he had her in his arms, someone from the milling crowd rushed forward.
“Get the hell out of here now, buddy!” the man who took the child told him. “The car is going to blow.”
“There’s a man in the car,” Joe said.
“He’s dead.”
“No,” Joe said. “He’s alive. He talked to me.”
Joe was dimly aware that the air was alive with sirens, that evening was turning to night. He was fully aware of the fact that he didn’t have much time left.
Flat on his stomach, he shouted to the man who had taken the child from him. “Get them back—get them all back!”
“Trish?” the man in the car said.
“It’s all right. She’s out. She’s safe. Now, get ready, because I’m releasing your seat belt. You’ve got to try to help me.”
He did his best to support the guy’s weight after he released the seat belt, but it was a struggle. An upside-down crushed car didn’t allow for a lot of leeway, especially when it was about to explode.
But he got the man out. He could only pray that he hadn’t worsened his pain or any broken bones.
“Help me!” he roared, once he had the man away from the car.
The same Good Samaritan who had taken the child came rushing up. Together, they started to half drag and half carry the man from the wreckage.
Just in time.
The car exploded, flames leaping high over the FDR. They would have been easily seen over in Brooklyn, and probably even halfway across Manhattan.
The blast was hot and powerful. He felt it like a huge, hot hand that lifted him, the victim and his fellow rescuer, and tossed them a dozen feet so that they crashed down hard on the asphalt.
Joe rolled, trying to take the brunt of the impact, knowing he was in far better shape to accept the force than the victim of the crash.