The viewport from Rutherford Harland's observatory is no less impressive in full daylight. Across a blue, cloudless sky, the sun shines over the skyline. I lean on the balcony railing, my broken fingers splinted and wrapped, my arm done up in a sling. My good hand clutches a cane. I don't like having to use it. Makes me feel like an old man.
Beside me, Rutherford is quiet. I can't help but feel partially responsible, given all he's been forced to contend with over the past forty-eight hours. He'd been hesitant, at first, about my plan to stage his public appearance and use Hennessy as bait to catch the killer. I think the idea of his son's funeral-phony or not-becoming a scene of violence gave him trepidation. But, oh, how he enjoyed the idea of tricking all those high society types into
