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rehab.
    Kylie pulled the car into the Silvercup parking lot on Harry Suna Place. Carl, the perennially chatty guard at the front gate, recognized her immediately.
    “Good morning, Mrs. Harrington,” he said, stone-faced. “Mr. Trager is waiting for you at Studio Four.”
    He waved her into the lot. No banter. No jokes. No eye contact.
    “This is worse than I thought,” Kylie said. “Carl won’t even look at me. Maybe I shouldn’t drag you into this.”
    “Into what?” I asked.
    “Somebody broke into the studio last night and trashed some sets.”
    “You’re not dragging me into anything,” I said. “It’s a crime scene. It’s what we do.”
    “Only this time I’m married to the person who did the crime.”
    “Do they have proof?”
    “No, but whoever broke into the lot went straight to Studio Four and destroyed two standing sets at K-Mac. ”
    I winced. K-Mac had been Kylie MacDonald’s nickname back in the academy. I still used it. Spence had shanghaied it. He had created a show about a female detective named Katie MacDougal who had serious boundary issues. The fictional K-Mac was a lot like the one he was married to.
    Audiences liked the show. Kylie hated it.
    “I’m going with you,” I said.
    We entered the lot and made our way past a man with a bloodied knife in his chest, a burned-out city bus, and two nuns on a smoke break. As unreal as it all was, nothing prepared us for the devastation inside Studio Four. It looked like someone had taken a wrecking ball to it.
    Shelley was waiting for us inside the soundstage. “For the record, I’m not going to report what happened,” he said to Kylie. “You’re not here as cops. I called you because you’re his wife.”
    “Thank you,” she said. Then she walked slowly through the shattered glass and splintered wood that had been the squad room. Desks were overturned, computers smashed, and the ultimate insult: the NYPD shield on the wall had been spray-painted red. I’m sure the choice of color was not lost on her.
    She crossed the room to the other set—Katie MacDougal’s bedroom—stepping over the shards of broken mirror and glass bottles that had been on the vanity, steeling herself as she approached K-Mac’s bed, where the sheets, the pillows, and the mattress had all been slashed.
    She finally turned away. “Shelley, I’m so sorry,” she said. “I know he’s mad at me because I wouldn’t take him back into the apartment, but…”
    “I kicked him out too. He’s mad at both of us, and he’s sending us a message.”
    Kylie shook her head. “What kind of message is this?”
    Shelley didn’t answer.
    Whatever the message was, there was no nuance to it.

CHAPTER 11
    “I’m invoking the DWI rule,” I said as Kylie and I walked back to the parking lot.
    A faint smile crept across her face. When she gets riled up, Kylie drives like a NASCAR champion, so we have an agreement: no Driving While Infuriated.
    “Come on, Zach,” she said. “I haven’t wrecked a car since way back in…”
    “January,” I said. “You’re almost ready to get your three-month chip.”
    The smile turned into a grin, and she tossed me the keys.
    It was only a fifteen-minute drive from the studio to Lynn Lyon’s apartment on West End Avenue, and Kylie talked nonstop. The topics ranged from the Elena Travers case to the hospital robberies, and finally to how my new living arrangement with Cheryl was working out. The only thing Kylie didn’t talk about was the elephant in the car: her drug addict husband.
    But I’m sure that was what she was thinking about. By now she had dismissed the advice she had gotten from the counselor at the rehab. Kylie was an action junkie, and, while Spence may not have hit rock bottom yet, after seeing the destruction he’d left at Silvercup, she was no longer capable of doing nothing.
    We pulled into a parking lot at Lincoln Towers—eight high-end buildings spread across twenty landscaped acres in the middle of