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I’m glad she’s okay…And get them to take a look at that gash. Damn, LT, you know how lucky you are?”
    A sobering exhale accompanied Hauck’s nod. “The sonovabitch shot right at me, Freddy…I just stood there, the window rolling down. Stared right at him. Froze.”
    â€œDon’t beat yourself up, Lieutenant. Anyone would freeze.”
    Hauck nodded, eyes fixed on the body, unconvinced. “That could be Jessie.”
    â€œYeah, it could be, Lieutenant, but it’s not. You said you caught a glimpse of the shooter?”
    Hauck nodded. “Twenties. Hispanic. Wearing a red bandana across his head. I put an APB out on a red Ford pickup,CT plates. ADJ9 or something…Couldn’t get more of a read. Listen, Freddy, I want you to get an ID on the guy inside. Have Stevie and Ed start in with the witnesses.”
    â€œWill do.”
    â€œAnd, listen, Freddy…”
    â€œYeah, Lieutenant?”
    â€œI’m okay, got that? It’s business as usual here.”
    â€œYou bet your ass you’re okay, sir.” Munoz tapped Hauck on the shoulder, grinning. “Like my mother would say, LT, you had an angel riding on your shoulder today.”
    â€œYeah.” Hauck looked at the caved-in storefront, the man in the green vest’s legs visible through the shattered door. “Been meaning to talk to you about your mom’s take on angels, Freddy.”

CHAPTER FIVE
    H auck got the gash on his neck looked after, while Ed Sweeney and Steve Chrisafoulis started to interview the bystanders and Munoz went to check out the body.
    Maybe he and Jessie did have an angel watching over them. There were at least eighty to a hundred bullet holes where rounds had slammed into the station, and only three people had been hit, including a woman outside, struck in the arm from a ricochet.
    Eighty to a hundred shots—and only that one poor bastard killed.
    Vern Fitzpatrick, Greenwich’s police chief and Hauck’s boss, was on his way down from Darien, where he had been at a golf outing. News vans were starting to line up across the street, camera crews pushing for witnesses. Patrolmen were keeping the pressing reporters at bay.
    Hauck could only imagine the headlines. “Posh NY Suburb Ripped by Deadly Gunfire.” “Bystander Killed in Drive-By Attack.”
    Greenwich had Saks and Ralph Lauren and Laura Ashley. This kind of thing just didn’t happen here.
    While they bandaged his neck, Hauck flipped out his phoneand called Jessie’s mom. “Beth, something happened…,” he said at the sound of her voice, then stopped, the freeze-frame of his daughter there and all that blood rushing back to him. He moistened his lips. “Listen, Beth,” he said, “Jess is alright. She’s fine, but…” He took her through what had happened, his ex-wife gasping, “Jesus, Ty, oh, my God…”
    â€œBeth, listen, please…” They had spent ten years together. He had been a New York City cop then. A young detective in the 122nd in Queens, fast-tracked to the department’s Office of Information, who acted as a liaison officer during 9/11 with the FBI. That was before the accident with Norah. Before the blame and their marriage fell apart. “She’s alright,” he said, “just a bit scared. They’re going to take her to Greenwich Hospital—just to look over her a bit. You should come. Now. There are people dead here. I’m gonna have to go…”
    â€œOh, Jesus, Ty, tell Jess I’m on my way.”
    â€œI’ll see you there.” He hung up. The med tech finished taping his neck. Hauck went over and sat beside Jessie in the van. They were running an IV. Hauck put his arm around her and pressed her head to his shoulder, trying to smile away the scared, confused tears welling in her young eyes.
    â€œYou okay?”
    She nodded, donning the brave veneer. “I think so,