Free Darkroom by Joshua Graham Page A

makes me feel old.”
    He stoops down with a smile and gently pinches my cheek. “You got it, Ms. Xandra.” Anyone else but Frank the doorman and he’d be on the floor, holding his privates and reeling in pain, having gotten the point of my boots. I return the smile and thank him again for the yellow-rubber-ducky ’brella.
    As I step through the revolving door, that tingling feeling running from my scalp to my fingertips returns. With greater intensity. A flash of crimson and blue assaults my eyes. What I see across the street arrests my breath.

16
     
    It never occurred to me that the police might take my tip seriously. Or that they’d respond this quickly. Parked over on the northbound side of Central Park West is a pair of squad cars, presumably from the 20th Precinct, and two black Crown Victorias.
    I cross the street and shoulder through the growing crowd. An ambulance pulls up to the curb. The first person whose attention I can get is the Pakistani lady who runs the corner Hebrew National hotdog stand. “What’s going on?”
    “They got here an hour ago,” she says. “Started talking on their walkie-talkies and then the black cars came. Now the ambulance.”
    Yellow crime-scene tape seals off the entrance to the park. A uniformed officer finishes speaking on his wireless and stands in front of us with his back turned. I reach out to tap his shoulder, but he’s too far away. Instead, I lift the yellow tape, step under it, and call out so he can hear me above all the chatter. “Excuse me, officer.”
    He turns around, scanning the crowd for my voice. Cold drops of rain begin to fall, but I’m too focused to open my duck ’brella. “Ma’am, you’re going to have to keep behind the tape.”
    “ New York Times. ” I pull out my press badge, which I won’t return until they ask me for it. “Can I ask you a question or two?”
    “Wait for the press conference.”
    “I don’t need a detailed statement.”
    “Where’s your camera?”
    I hadn’t planned on taking any pictures, so I find myself coming up short on excuses. Thankfully, I always carry my digital point-and-shoot in my pocket. “Here.”
    “Ah, you ain’t on the job.”
    “Can you just tell me what’s going on?”
    “It don’t take a freakin’ rocket scientist.” He points his chin to the park entrance where a pair of officers wheel a black body bag on a gurney.
    It’s her. Without even seeing, I know. “Is that … Do you know who—?”
    “Lady, you gonna take some pictures or what? ’Cause if you ain’t, I need you to get behind the tape.”
    “Yeah … okay.” I snap off a few, even after the news vans arrive. It’s pouring now. Flashes from my Nikon Coolpix are answered by those in the sky. He’s right. It don’t take a freakin’ rocket scientist to know what’s happened, or who that is zipped inside the body bag.
    Chilled to the marrow, I carefully open my duck ’brella and cross the street to return to my apartment. As I leave the scene, I faintly hear one of the police officers calling out to me.

17
    RICHARD COLSON
     
    The image of Suzie curled up under her sheets, pale and spectral, shrouds my thoughts like a burlap hood. I can’t shake it, it’s almost prophetic. And yet, despite the guilt, it’s the thought of the security project unraveling that most afflicts me.
    I ring for the flight attendant.
    “Can I get you anything, Mr. Colson?”
    “Another coffee, please.”
    “Black?”
    “Absolutely.”
    I’ve never enjoyed the East Coast in the fall, when the air turns cold and the days short. Right now, none of my enthusiasm for public office seems to matter. As the clouds roll under the wings of this 727, I’m tempted to assess how I arrived at this incredibly tense juncture.
    No. I promised her I wouldn’t look back and second-guess things.
    Instead, hoping to extricate myself from the dread that grips my heart, I stare out the window and drift. Daylight drains from the sky. Even before the sun