Exit Strategy. Jen J. Danna

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СКАЧАТЬ forehead onto her knuckles, her long blond hair falling forward to shade her face.

      Gemma gave Frankie a moment to gather herself. Friends for as long as she could remember, they’d grown up together in the Little Italy neighborhood of Lower Manhattan, running in and out of each other’s kitchens on weekends with a familiarity that spoke of kinship. Both taking after their mothers, Gemma’s Sicilian brown eyes, olive complexion, and curly hair so unruly it never looked the same two days running complemented Frankie’s classic northern Italian fair skin, blue eyes, and blond waves. But sisters didn’t have to look alike to be two parts of a whole. They didn’t even need to belong to the same bloodline.

      Frankie tipped her face up. “I’m such a killjoy. This is supposed to be a fun Saturday night out on the town at a swanky restaurant, and here I am bringing down the mood.”

      “You’re not bringing down the mood. And I want to know everything. She’s my mother too, you know.”

      Frankie’s mouth tightened, and she blinked furiously. “She always loved you like a daughter. Especially after . . .” Frankie pulled in a deep breath and shakily released it. Then she forced a laugh, brushing away moisture from the corner of her eye. “Okay, no more sadness. We’re going to have fun tonight, eat too much, splurge on dessert, and maybe even get a little tipsy.”

      Gemma grinned at her. “That sounds perfect.”

      Frankie picked up her menu, opened it with a flourish, and studied it intently.

      Gemma opened her own menu and quickly decided on her meal. She let her gaze idly scan the tables around them. She loved the Fireball’s rooftop patio—original to the 1919 landmark building. An arcade of paired Corinthian columns and brick arches surrounded it, opening the seating area to the sky as the towers of the city rose around them in glowing spears. The walls and pediments of original warm brick stood tall with fairy lights suspended between them, twinkling over the rows of tables below. The space between the heavy Corinthian columns was open, and only a short wrought iron fence topping a truncated brick wall separated diners from a lethal drop.

      It had always amazed her that city inspectors allowed the design of the patio, but sometimes historical buildings found all the right loopholes in modern construction codes. To be honest, the open-air design was one of her favorite aspects of the restaurant’s atmosphere. Seventeen stories down, the permeating noise of the city—from cars honking to the wail of sirens—was a muted echo of the street-level cacophony. High above it all, there was music piped through hidden speakers, the clink of glassware and dishes, the warm waft of summer’s breeze, and the buzz of conversation. Perfect after a long week with even longer days on the horizon.

      With a contented sigh, Gemma took another sip of her wine and relaxed against the woven seat back.

      A baby’s unhappy whimper caught at her, the sound jarring in the light babble of the surrounding crowd.

      Near the entrance, a young woman stood with a tiny baby wrapped in a sling against her chest.

      Tired. Pale. Dull eyes.

      She remembered Rachel, her sister-in-law, in those first weeks following Nate’s birth. No sleep, breast-feeding struggles, jaundice, and touches of postpartum depression. Even with the support of her family around her, she’d been a wreck.

      This woman looked worse.

      What is she doing in a late-night hot spot with a newborn?

      Frankie closed her menu with a snap. “That was tough. Too many great choices, but I think I’ve decided. What about you?”

      The woman started to weave through the tables.

      Something is very wrong.

      Her eyes stared almost sightlessly ahead.

      Not just dull. Hopeless.

      Instincts honed during fourteen years in the NYPD, with the last two in hostage negotiation, snapped the puzzle pieces into place, and Gemma’s gaze swung to follow the woman’s trajectory. She stood abruptly, her chair jerking back with a screech of legs scraping across the floor.

      “Gem? Gem, what’s wrong?” Her hands braced on the tabletop, Frankie half rose out of her chair in alarm.

      Gemma didn’t take her eyes off the young woman. “Call 911.”

      “What? Why?”

      “Tell them there’s a murder-suicide attempt in progress.” Gemma’s voice was absolutely controlled. “Tell them a detective is on scene, but needs assistance.” She didn’t wait for Frankie to respond, but moved, pushing between the tables, trying to catch the woman who was still easily twenty-five feet away.

      And only ten feet from one of the gaping archways. The brick base of the opening was three feet tall, but had a bench seat running along its length. The low wrought iron fence capping the brick was perhaps only eighteen inches high.

      Step onto the bench seat, onto the bricks, over the fence. And fly.

      “Ma’am? Ma’am, excuse me.” Gemma’s attempt to catch her attention was met with silence, so she raised her voice. “Ma’am. NYPD. I need you to stop.”

      It was like the woman was sleepwalking. She didn’t pause; she didn’t even slow down. She didn’t turn to look. She had one goal, one intention.

      The baby’s whimpers morphed into a full cry.

      The woman stepped up onto the bench seat, drawing the startled looks of diners around her and a few cries of “Hey! What are you doing?” Then she climbed over both brick and iron to stand on the small ledge on the far side, the warm summer breeze blowing the ragged skeins of hair that escaped her ponytail around her face.

      A man at the table directly behind her twisted around and clamped his hands around the young woman’s ankle. She immediately struggled with him, pitching from side to side as she tried to break free.

      “No, stop!” Gemma had her badge out of her pocket, extended to show her detective shield as she sprinted between the tables. “Sir, let her go!”

      The man jerked back and the woman wrapped her hands around the pillar at her back. The baby let out a full-throated wail, its face turning beet red. A tiny fist pumped its way out of the sling.

      The woman made no move to comfort her child, but stared straight ahead, as if scared to look down.

      Seventeen stories. I’d be scared too.

      But the woman’s white-knuckled stranglehold on the pillar hinted at indecision.

      Gemma still had a chance.

      “Dannazione.” The Italian curse slid out under Gemma’s breath. No help for it. She had to get up there. Not out on the ledge, but up closer to her. Close enough to make eye contact.

      She jammed her shield in her pocket as she met the startled gaze of the man who had tried to stop the young mother. “Give me your hand.”

      He reflexively held it out.

      She slapped her right hand into his and clamped down with a death grip. “Do not let go under any circumstances. Get help if need be. There’s no time to bring in СКАЧАТЬ