It’s probably best I wait down in the lobby. Strangely enough, my client’s husband has had enough time to finish fucking and stops to chat on the sidewalk with the first cops on scene.
Another approaches the building, pistol drawn and pointed at my chest.
Hands high in the air, I drop to my knees. “Samantha Sutcliffe, Private Investigator. Gun under left arm. I’m the one who called nine-one-one.”
He cuffs me while the other starts up the stairs. “What floor?”
“Sixth. Door open.”
A cop in his fifties searches me, opens my wallet, and his face pales. “Don’t tell me. Are you little Sammy Russo?”
I grin. “You know my dad?”
“The Chief? Fuck, yeah. What the hell are you doing here?”
I’m about to explain but the cop upstairs barges in over the walkie-talkie. “All clear. Looks like a suicide.”
Oh shit. You got to be kidding me.
