73
The black and white patrol car rolled up to 217 175th Street and stopped, blocking the driveway. The officer in the driver’s seat keyed the mic attached to his left shoulder, “Central, unit 487 awn site. Yeah, the g’rage door is up. We’ll be ten-eighteen, ovah.”
“Roger that, 487. Ten-eighteen. Proceed with caution, over.”
The two officers walked up the driveway, the sun bright against the bleached white cement.
“Hey, Pete, wait down heyah by the garage. I’ll try the front door.”
But before the officer got up the steps, his younger partner called out.
“Paulie, hold on a minute. Come down here.” He squinted hard and pulled out his flashlight, trying to see inside the dark, cavernous garage. “Sweet Jesus, smells like a dead body in there. Holy Mary mother’a God.”
“Central, this is 4
