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       1

       Porter

       Day 1 • 6:14 a.m.

      There it was again, that incessant ping.

       I turned the ringer off. Why am I hearing text notifications? Why am I hearing anything?

       Apple’s gone to shit without Steve Jobs.

      Sam Porter rolled to his right, his hand blindly groping for the phone on the nightstand.

      His alarm clock crashed to the floor with a thunk unique to cheap electronics from China.

      “Fuck me.”

      When his fingers found the phone, he wrestled the device from the charging cable and brought it to his face, squinting at the small, bright screen.

       CALL ME — 911.

      A text from Nash.

      Porter looked over at his wife’s side of the bed, empty except for a note —

       Went to get milk, be back soon.

       xoxo,

       Heather

      He grunted and again glanced at his phone.

      6:15 a.m.

      So much for a quiet morning.

      Porter sat up and dialed his partner. He answered on the second ring.

      “Sam?”

      “Hey, Nash.”

      The other man fell silent for a moment. “I’m sorry, Porter. I debated whether or not to contact you. Must have dialed your number a dozen times and couldn’t bring myself to actually place the call. I finally decided it would be best just to text you. Give you a chance to ignore me, you know?”

      “It’s fine, Nash. What have you got?”

      Another pause. “You’ll want to see for yourself.”

      “See what?”

      “There’s been an accident.”

      Porter rubbed his temple. “An accident? We’re Homicide. Why would we respond to an accident?”

      “You’ve gotta trust me on this. You’ll want to see it,” Nash told him again. There was an edge to his voice.

      Porter sighed. “Where?”

      “Near Hyde Park, off Fifty-Fifth. I just texted you the address.”

      His phone pinged loudly in his ear, and he jerked it away from his head.

       Fucking iPhone.

      He looked down at the screen, noted the address, and went back to the call.

      “I can be there in about thirty

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