Chapter 17
Tuesday, one-thirty in the afternoon, I watch as Warner's foyer fills with mourners. Outside, Carrigan sits in a white unmarked van with darkened windows, photographing everyone entering and existing. I down two finger sandwiches without tasting them, and hear Angie inside my head.
Sorry, babe.
Four days have passed since the murder. I study the room, feeling the mounting pressure down the chain-of-command. The sandwiches do little to replace the anxiety centring inside my chest. My shrink said indigestion is my body's way of telling me to ease up. That made me laugh. Easing up isn't part of my job description.
“Finding your wife's killer isn't going to make your problems go away,” the shrink had said.
“Ah,” I snapped back. “You have a lot of patients who are victims of cri
