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head, avoiding the thought of taking an entire bottle to end this nightmare.
"The coroner's over there with two detectives. They're checking out everything. They said the whole place needs to be printed, evaluated, and photographed before they . . ." Marcus had trouble continuing. "Before they take her away."
Nick knew all of this, he knew exactly how the hour was about to unfold. He knew the black body bag would be wheeled out atop the gurney in five minutes, the white-haired coroner leading the way, he knew the detectives' names: Shannon and Dance, who would be coming through the door soon. And he knew all about Mitch Shuloff.
"You remember Mitch?" Marcus asked, as if reading Nick's mind. "He came with us last year to watch the Red Wings crush the Rangers."
Nick remembered. He was the obnoxious one who never shut up, obsessed with always being right, and even worse, he usually was.
"He's the best. Plus I was about to call him anyway; he lost a thousand to me last night betting against the Yankees. Don't hold it against him, but he's a BoSox fan."
That was exactly what Marcus had said before, exactly how Nick remembered it.
"Despite all that, he's the best criminal attorney in New York," Marcus continued. "You need a personality like his to cut through the bullshit and beat back unfounded accusations."
Nick also remembered that Mitch hadn't shown up at the police station.
"His problem, though, I will tell you, he's not the most punctual. Let me get him over here, not that there's going to be an issue, but you should never talk to a bunch of cops whose education was a marginal GED and whose view of the world doesn't extend beyond Miller time and American Idol ."
Marcus walked to his large leather-topped desk and picked up the phone.
As Nick watched him dial, he debated what to say, wondering if he should let Marcus in on his little nervous breakdown.
"Before you make that call," Nick interrupted.
Marcus stopped, slowly putting down the phone.
"I don't know how to say this . . ." Nick paused, seeming to send a moment of unease through Marcus. "But I need to find out who did this."
Marcus walked around his desk and leaned back against it. "They will. And the bastard will be held accountable."
"No. I need to . . . I need to stop him."
"Stop him from what?" Marcus said, confusion surfacing.
"I've got to find him."
Marcus just stared, listening, pausing, searching for what to say. "Let the cops do that. Whoever did this is as dangerous as they come."
"She's not dead," Nick blurted out.
Marcus exhaled, gathering himself. "Words can't even express my sorrow for you. She was . . . perfection. Truly, if ever that word had a meaning, it was Julia."
Nick put the glass of scotch on the end table and ran his hands slowly down his face, trying to focus, trying to determine if he was about to step off into a psychotic abyss.
"I can save her," Nick said, jumping off into the illogical.
Marcus sat there patiently listening, watching as his best friend's mind fell in on itself.
"I can't explain it. I don't know how, but I can save her."
Marcus's eyes remained fixed on Nick, not angry, not condemning. His eyes were pain-filled, heartbroken. Though he tried, he couldn't imagine the depth of Nick and Julia's love for each other, and he knew that with love so deep, the pain must be even greater.
"What if I said I could tell you the future?"
"Like if the Yankees will win the Series this year?" Marcus asked, lost to where Nick was going.
Nick stared at the fireplace, thinking how to proceed.
"I'm sorry," Marcus said. "I . . . didn't mean to--"
"No, it's okay." Nick turned back and looked deeply at his friend. "This sounds crazy. But hear me out. In a little while, they'll arrest me, bring me in, try to get me to confess to something I didn't do, show me a gun I've never seen before."
Marcus's eyes grew nervous.
"I didn't kill her, Marcus. I love her more than life, she's the air that fills my lungs when I wake, she's the warmth I feel when I'm happy.