Manhattan Is My Beat

against the doorjamb. Tears streaming down her face. Arms limp, shaking her head. Oh, no … It’s over. It’s over.
    But then something odd happened, the sort of thing that happened in the Side, in the magic realm. Rune seemed to go out of her body. She felt as if she died and rose away into the air. Actually wondering—did he shoot me? Am I dead?
    Floating away. Completely numb. Sailing up into the air.
    And from there, from a cloud hovering over the Side, she looked down and saw:
    Pretty Boy putting his arm around her and leading her away from the open back door of the town house, handing her off to another man behind him, a man in a blue jacket that said U.S. MARSHAL on the back, and from there to another man wearing what looked like a bulletproof vest printed with the letters “NYPD.” Passed along again until finally at the end of the line was Detective Manelli, with his close-together eyes, with his funny first name.
    Virgil Manelli.
    The detective held a finger to his lips to keep Rune quiet, then led her away from the house. She looked back at the line of men clustered around the door. Big men with stony faces, wearing suits of thick blue armor and carrying stubby machine guns.
    On the sidewalk, Manelli handed her off one last time—to two medics, who put her on a cot and began hovering over her, pouring ice water on her burnt hand and then wrapping it with bandages.
    Rune paid no attention. She kept her eyes on the men around the back door. Then Pretty Boy said into a microphone on his collar, “Subject is clear. Move in, move in, move in!”
    Everyone on the stairs, all the knights, charged into the building, shouting, “Police, police, federal agents …” Flashlights illuminated the interior of the town house.
    Rune heard a funny sound. Laughter. She looked at the attendant. But he wasn’t laughing. His partner wasn’t either. She realized that the sound was coming from her.
    Delicately, one of the medics asked, “What’s so funny?”
    But she didn’t answer. Because from inside the town house came the sound of gunshots. Then calls of “Medic, medic!”
    And the men in the ambulance left her while they ran toward the back door with their bags in hand, their stethoscopes flapping around their necks.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
     
    She huddled away from him. From Pretty Boy.
    “I want to see something. Some identification.”
    They were sitting in the back of a new-smelling Ford. Government issue. Manelli stood outside.
    The NYPD detective rubbed his mustache and said, “He’s legit.”
    “I want to
see
something!” Rune snapped.
    Pretty Boy offered her his badge and an ID card.
    She looked at the card three times before she actually read everything. His name was Salvatore Pistone.
    “Call me Sal. Everybody does.”
    “You’re, like, an FBI agent.”
    “You just insulted me. I’m a U.S. marshal.” He was smiling. But his eyes were oddly cold.
    “That’s what Haarte said.”
    “Yeah, I found his fake badge and ID. He’s used that identity before. Frosts me how often people don’t fucking bother to read ID cards. You had, you woulda seen his was fake.”
    The medic stopped by the car. “Soak that hand in Betadine solution tonight before you go to bed. Tomorrow see your doctor. You know what Betadine is?”
    She had no idea. She nodded yes.
    Then, to Manelli, the man said, “Guy’s dead.”
    Sal scoffed. “I shot him three times in the head. What the fuck else would he be?”
    “Yeah, well. It’s confirmed.”
    “Who?” Rune asked. “Haarte?”
    Sal said, “Yeah. Haarte.”
    “The woman, she’ll be okay?” Manelli asked.
    “Hell of a bruise on her back. Don’t have a clue how she got that—”
    Rune remembered the vase. Wish she’d aimed for Emily’s head.
    “—but aside from that she’ll be fine. The bitch’ll
definitely
see the inside of a courtroom.”
    Manelli straightened up. “All right, miss, I’m handing you over to the feds. It’s their case now. You shoulda listened to me and stayed out—”
    “I—”
    He held up a finger to his lips, shushing her again. “You shoulda listened.” He walked off to his own car. He glanced at her with his close-together eyes but they were expressionless. He got inside, started the engine, and drove off.
    Other cars were leaving. More of the nondescript sedans, some city blue-and-white police cars. And the small Emergency Service Unit trucks. The ESU men and women, like soldiers after a battle, were taking off their