O’Malley crept to a halt at the intersection with Eddy Street and squinted up the road, trying to see through the sideways slanting snow. It would be just like some numbskull to slide through the stop sign in the middle of a blizzard and T-bone him on the job, especially on what was supposed to be his night off. It might spare him some aggravation with Eileen, he reflected, who hadn’t been too keen on him leaving her alone in the middle of the storm. But an accident sounded extreme even under those circumstances. Maybe he could just plead frostbite. He shook his head, spied the flashing blue-and-reds, carefully made the turn and eased to a stop a few dozen yards down, knocking the top off a drift. Sighing, he grabbed his Bruins knit cap from the seat beside him, pulled it over his ears, opened the door and struggled out of the department-issued Fury and into the wind and snow.
“I thought you were off.”
The speaker leaning into the storm as he approached, head down, like a man with a bad back searching for lost keys.
“I am,” O’Malley shouted in return. “As I tried to explain to the lieutenant when he called. He informed me I was mistaken. Whaddya we got?”
“Over here,” Donatelli said.
“We know what happened yet?” O’Malley still shouting, though his fellow detective couldn’t have been more than ten feet away.
“Oh yeah.” Donatelli turned and trudged up the street.