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basis to blame others for their problems or even to kill them or themselves—the dope provides all the hallucinations they need.”
    Soledad and Greg stayed and watched the coroner’s people and crime investigators prepare the body for transport and take pictures. The sergeant told him entry had been made through a back door that had been kicked in. Then up the service elevator to the top floor, which was vacant and gutted like the rest of the building.
    â€œThat twelfth-floor suite had floor-to-ceiling windows,” she said. “They scare me just standing by them even when they’re not broken. I think the guy just took a run and crashed right into the window. Probably thought he could fly and went out flapping his arms.”
    The image shook Greg. He’d heard about a high-rise-building manager showing an office with big floor-to-ceiling windows that didn’t look like anything was holding them in place. When asked by the prospective tenant how safe the windows were, the manager showed off by hitting a window with his shoulder. The window gave and he fell through. When Greg heard the story, he wondered what the guy was thinking on his way down.
    Greg’s own high-rise apartment had floor-to-ceiling windows but ones that looked more anchored than those in the building Ethan crashed through.
    Soledad stayed closer to the body so she could hear what was being said by the crime scene techs. Greg hung back, leaning against the wall next to the door to the building that housed his broadcasting studio, watching the parade of officialdom come and go.
    He spotted someone in the entryway of a closed store across and half a block up the street. A woman wearing a dark, hooded overcoat. She was too far away for him to see her facial features or even tell her age. From her body language he was sure she realized that he was looking in her direction.
    She left the doorway and walked quickly in the direction opposite of the police activity and disappeared around a corner.
    When the police and other agencies wrapped up and the body was gone, the night was quiet, the street deserted again except for him and Soledad.
    Greg felt empty.
    Death was a lonely business even for the living.

 
    5
    â€œI’ll walk you to your car,” Greg told Soledad.
    Her car was in a secured lot down the street and they headed for it, walking slowly down Broadway. The only sign of life on the street this late except for an occasional passing car was the glow of a liquor store sign.
    South Broadway had three or four traffic lanes, depending on where you were standing, and a faded 1950s look: shopworn low-rise buildings selling shoes, clothing, booze, hamburgers, tacos; jewelry stores; bridal shops; and both pharmacies and farmacias .
    The street looked ready for urban revitalization or a wrecking ball. Greg was on a committee trying to keep wrecking balls off the street.
    â€œYou have to call Liz,” Soledad said.
    He had already thought of that. Liz Tucker was the in-house attorney the network assigned to the show. She would have to be told that Ethan had called to announce he was going to kill himself and about the strange accusation.
    â€œLiz is in Aspen for her son’s wedding,” Greg said. “I’ll call her later.”
    Soledad wore her hair pulled back in a severe bun. In her fifties, she had dark hair with creeping gray she didn’t attempt to hide. She didn’t have the wrinkles at the corners of her eyes ironed away, either. She accepted and welcomed her age rather than trying to airbrush the years away.
    She ruled the studio staff with the stern but benevolent efficiency of a drill sergeant, leaving him free to focus on dealing with millions of listeners.
    â€œWhy would he do such a thing?” she asked as they walked.
    The question of the day. “The cop had a good explanation. She said Ethan had an altered perception of reality from using too many drugs too often. Crystal meth