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The weight of the pole on top of the roof was the only thing that kept him from bleeding to death on the spot.
    I had reached in through the wreckage and checked both Bill and Ross. Neither of them had a pulse. They were gone. By then, Mel was on the far side of the car, reaching in through the shattered passenger window and trying to comfort Harry, who was howling in pain. Looking at his legs, I was sure he was a goner, too.
    The nearest fire station, at Fourth and Battery, was only five blocks away, but in the sudden snarl of stalled traffic, it could just as well have been in Timbuktu. It seemed to take forever for them to get there with the jaws of life. In fact, an EMT, a young woman, jogging from the station and carrying a first-­aid kit, arrived long before anyone else or any other equipment. She was small enough to maneuver inside the tiny space left in the vehicle and somehow managed to fasten two tourniquets around Harry’s upper thighs, thus saving his life but dooming his legs. In the meantime, I was left with nothing to do but wish I could slam my fist through someone’s face, preferably that of the stupid driver, who was already dead.
    Mel and I had set out for the Space Needle just minutes before the party was scheduled to start. It turned out that Ross, too, had been making an uncharacteristically late entrance. I found out later that Harry’s car had developed a fuel-­pump issue on his way into the city from Bellevue. When he’d called Ross to let him know he’d be late, Ross had insisted that he and Bill drive over Lake Washington on the I-­90 bridge, pick Harry up, and bring him to the party. I’ve always been struck by that old saying about no good deed going unpunished, but having Ross and Bill dead because they’d done nothing more than give Harry a ride was too much.
    The jaws of life were not yet on the scene when I realized that if most of the other partygoers were already upstairs, I was the one who would have to deliver the bad news. And so I did, pushing my way into the Space Needle lobby and through the line of holiday revelers waiting for the elevator. ­People protested vigorously as I fought my way to the head of the line and flashed my badge in front of the boyish-­faced operator.
    â€œSkyline Banquet level,” I snarled at him. “Now!”
    Without a word, he allowed me into the elevator, barred the other waiting passengers by means of a velvet-­covered rope, closed the door on them, and pushed the buttons. We rode up in utter silence. “Wait here,” I ordered. “I’ll be coming right back down.”
    Just inside the door stood a waiter holding a tray of glasses filled with bubbling champagne. I was tempted to grab one of them. In fact, I was tempted to grab them all and swill them down one after another. Instead, I stopped short and scanned the room.
    It took a moment for me to locate Katie Dunn, Ross’s secretary. She was talking to Barbara Galvin, Harry’s secretary and the cornerstone for Unit B of Special Homicide. Finding both women together was a stroke of luck. Katie must have caught sight of the look on my face. She turned away from Barbara and hurried toward me, with Barbara, also sensing something amiss, close on her heels.
    â€œBeau,” Katie asked, frowning, “whatever’s the matter?”
    With no time to lessen the blow, I blurted it out at once. “There’s been a car accident down on the street. Ross is dead, and so’s his driver. Harry may not make it, either.”
    Katie’s face drained of all color. “Oh, no!” she whispered. “Ross is dead?”
    I nodded. Without a word, Barbara sprinted for the elevator.
    â€œGo with Barbara,” Katie said to me. “I’ll hold the fort here. Keep me posted.”
    When I entered the elevator, Barbara was already there, white-­faced and furious, screeching into the operator’s face. “Go, damn