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engine shut down, returning the desolate harbor side street to its quiet slumber. The doors opened. Detective Rick Valentino, a suave Italian in his mid-30’s, emerged with an anxious Carter, flashlights in hand. Rick’s gun was tucked into his belt and concealed by a sleek leather coat. He dialed Zach’s cell again while peering into the BMW’s window. A Samsung Galaxy lit up between the seats.
    “Yup,” he said quietly. “He left it in the damn car.”
    Carter shook his head. “He could be anywhere.”
    “Good job, Zach,” Rick muttered. Shining the beam into the car, he swept the interior and saw the man’s trusty leather jacket. “He’s gotta be around here.”
    “I’ll check down by the wharf, you keep looking around here.” Carter didn’t wait for a reply as he started at a jog for the waterfront. There were many piers. Boats bobbing along most of them. He continued to the lit-up shipyard where there were rows of giant metal storage containers.
    But his shoe crunched and popped on something which made him stop. He shone his light downward. Shattered glass. Tire tracks from burning rubber.
    He looked around at the gopher’s nest of wide containers. Zach could have hid behind any of these, but if he’d been discovered, there wasn’t any chance of him getting out. His radio blipped unobtrusively, and he heard Rick speak. “I found a Colt in the grass. Think it’s his.”
    Carter groaned, sweat beading across his forehead despite the cold. If Zach was going to get into trouble, couldn’t he at least use an approved off-duty weapon? But far worse was the why. Why would he have dropped it?
    Following the tire tracks with this sickening thought, Carter came back to the gravel driveway. He swept his flashlight in a wide swath and saw a clear carving where the vehicle tried to turn sharply. The tires had dug into the ground. Here in the gravel, it was painfully obvious that this was a recent occurrence. He could see the path they had taken – straight for the road to his left.
    Hunting Zach.
    They must’ve gotten him. No blood on the ground, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t there.
    A chilling breeze grazed his face, and nerves prickled across his stubbly jaw. Then, the river caught his attention. Dread knifed into him. Suddenly, the air he breathed felt like a noose.
    Alright, alright. Think. If they threw him in, he would’ve come up somewhere downstream. Zach was big and in peak physical condition. He could’ve survived. Unless he was unconscious. Or dead already.
    Quickly, he doubled back as a few cars came sailing down the road, passing him by. He ran all the way to the nearest pier, using his flashlight to expose the darkness. Nothing.
    There was another pier in the distance, even more dilapidated than the one he’d just checked. Dense cold shrouding him thickly, Carter continued with the flow of the East River tributary, feeling pulled.
    He reached the small dock, flashed his light around.
    Jogging to the end, he peered over the edge into the face of the tar-colored water. He shuddered.
    His loafers clapped he wooden planks as he turned back. But a quiet, almost imperceptible noise stopped him. Could have been his imagination or the currents causing one of the boats to creak. But he wanted to believe it wasn’t.
    He beamed the light upon the boardwalk, half expecting to find Zach. But he didn’t. However, his bright torch illuminated a dinghy tied all the way at the end of the next pier. It was long, shallow, and bobbing peacefully. Shrouded in complete darkness, it would have escaped his notice if not for the small knocking noise it made as it hid the beams of the pier. He hustled over, anticipation rising in his chest, and pointed the flashlight in the boat.
    A man lay flat on his chest. Eyes closed. Drenched to the skin and dribbling water in a thin pool around him. Two gunshot wounds in his shoulder and chest. He wasn’t breathing.
     

8
    (“…Having fun yet,