Alpha Max made the call, but Finnian and I crossed the Third Avenue Bridge alone, just as we had done last Friday night, only this time we barely spoke. The rain had finally stopped, but the pavement continued to shimmer, and a mist oozed between the steel trusses overhead, blurring the lights of the East Village skyline. The Harlem River smelled especially fishy, and somewhere in Upper East Side, Charles’s body had been packed inside a freezer.
“There were a lot more cars last week,” Finnian observed as we neared the point where we’d parted ways before.
“It wasn’t three a.m.” I yawned.
“There are no cars,” he said, scanning the five empty lanes of traffic to our left. “That feels wrong.”
“Maybe it closes for a while at night? In case barges need to come through?” I shrugged. “The East
