The Chief of Homicide, Lieutenant Frank Batiste, had come out of his cubicle to see if anything was wrong. Glitsky hadn't laughed here in the Homicide Detail in his memory. Maybe nowhere else either.

'You okay, Abe?'

Glitsky had it back under control. He raised a hand to Batiste, looked over at Christina. 'That never happens to me. I'm very sorry.' His eyes glistened with tears. The fit had gone on for nearly half a minute.

'It's okay.' Christina had lost it for a second or two herself. 'It's supposed to be good for you.'

Glitsky wiped his eyes, took in a breath, sighed. 'Whew.' Batiste went back inside his office. 'Sorry anyway,' he repeated. Then, unexpected: 'I don't know what I'm doing here.'

'What do you mean?'

'I don't recognize you four hours after our interview. I crack up over some rapist's tattoo. I ought to take a leave, come back when I'm worth something.'

She didn't know how to respond to such a personal exposure, but felt she should say something. 'You said your wife was sick. Maybe your brain is concentrating on her?'

Truly sobered now, Glitsky reached for the Willows file. 'That could be it,' he said.

'Maybe you should call her? See if she's feeling better?'

He waited, deciding whether he should say it. Denial didn't seem to help, so maybe admission once in a while wouldn't hurt. 'She's not going to get better,' he said. 'She has cancer.'

Christina sat back. 'Oh, I'm so sorry.'

He waved it off, opened the file, stared at it for a few seconds. 'Was there anything else you remembered?'

CHAPTER SEVEN

Outside Dooher's windows, the city lights glowed up through the clouds. He sat in his darkened office, elbows on the arms of his chair, his fingers templed at his lips. In the hallways, he could hear the occasional voice – all of the associates at McCabe & Roth worked late.