Inherit the Dead

of uniformed cops standing shoulder to shoulder to prevent foot or vehicle traffic. Inside the cordon was a fire truck, a paramedic van, and several crazily parked police cruisers, lights flashing.
    A growing knot of people stood and gawked, trying to see over or through the uniforms. They were tightly packed, and Perry had to shoulder his way through.
    A Rastafarian with a sheep-size coil of dreadlocks was talking to a fat man in an overcoat holding two overfull bags of groceries. The fat man was complaining that the cops wouldn’t let him through to get to his building.
    “They won’t even tell me when I can get through,” the fat man said, his voice rising. “It’s an outrage. I’m outraged .”
    “There was a jumper, man,” the Rasta said in a rhythmic baritone cadence. “A jumper.”
    “What?” the fat man asked, surprised. “Somebody jumped from my building?”
    “Yeah, man.”
    “Who was it?”
    “Don’t know,” the Rasta said with a chuckle. “I don’t know any of these rich white folks around here.”
    “Was it a man or a woman? My God—I might know them.”
    “Don’t know, man. I didn’t see it happen but I heard it. Yeah, I heard it.”
    Perry paused, interested.
    “What, did you hear a scream or something?”
    “No scream, man. I heard it hit the ground. It was horrible, man. You know what it sounded like?”
    “No,” the fat man said cautiously.
    “Like, you know what it sounds like when you buy a bag of ice at the store? But the ice is all stuck together so you can’t use it right away? So you drop the bag of ice on the sidewalk to break it apart? You know that sound it makes when it hits, man?”
    “Yes.”
    “That’s what it sounded like. Like a bag of ice being dropped onto concrete. That smashing sound, you know, man?”
    “Ugh.”
    “No shit, man. I won’t forget that sound for a while.”
    Perry winced, and pushed through. A uniformed cop with a wide Slavic face and little pig eyes reached out and grabbed his shoulder.
    “Where do you think you’re going?”
    “To that building. I’ve got a client who lives there.”
    “Can’t you see me?” the cop asked. “Am I invisible to you?”
    Perry fished his PI credentials out and handed them over. “I’ve got to see my client.”
    The pig-eyed cop took it and read it.
    “I’m a private investigator, and I’ve got business inside that building. I’ve got a right to get through. I’d suggest you call somebody if you don’t believe me.”
    The cop smirked and handed it back. “It don’t mean nothing to me.”
    Perry held his tongue. One of the few cops in the NYPD who had not heard of him. Any other time he’d be thankful. The cop watched him and grinned. There were cops like this on every force—men who wore the badge solely for the pleasure of asserting power. Perry used to work with a few of them. He’d long before had his fill of the type.
    “You know what you can do for me now, mister?” the cop said.
    “And what would that be?”
    “You can stand back and let me do my job, or I’ll cuff you and take you back to my shop.”
    Perry didn’t budge. The cop’s eyes narrowed, as if he were girding himself for a fight and really looked forward to it.
    At that moment, Perry saw Henry Watson inside the cordon talking to a pair of paramedics.
    “Henry!”
    Watson heard his name and looked up. The cop glanced over his shoulder, then back at Perry. He seemed disappointed.
    Watson held up a finger to the paramedics for them to wait and walked toward Perry. His face was clouded, and he looked preoccupied.
    The cop said, “If you think that’s going to get you in . . . ”
    Watson said, “Perry, get in here. I need you to see something.”
    The cop grudgingly stepped aside. As Perry passed him, he said, “I won’t forget this.”
    But a knot formed in Perry’s gut. What did Watson want him to see?

    “You look like crap,” Watson said as he led Perry through the uniforms and vehicles toward the building.
    “Thank you, I try,” Perry said.
    “It’s only gonna get worse.”
    “Oh, good.” Then: “There was talk back there about a jumper.”
    Watson nodded his head.
    “Was it a resident of the building?”
    “Oh, yes. Which is why I’m glad you showed up. This way we don’t have to go out and find you.”
    Perry glanced up at the building and his eyes climbed the floors, the rows of windows. They came to a rest at the open glass doors on the twenty-fourth floor’s terrace. It seemed