“He didn't like it, he didn't like it at all. It just didn't feel right, and the more he thought about it the stronger the feeling became. Levine was a short and stocky man, baggily-dressed from plain pipe racks. His face was sensitive, topped by salt-and-pepper gray hair chopped short in a military crewcut. At fifty-three, he had twenty-four years of duty on the police force, and was halfway through the heart-attack age range, a fact that had been bothering him for some time now. E...very time he was reminded of death, he thought worriedly about the aging heart pumping away inside his chest. And in his job, the reminders of death came often. Natural death, accidental death, and violent death. This one was a violent death, and to Levine it felt wrong somewhere. He and his partner, Jack Crawley, had taken the call just after lunch. It was from one of the patrolmen in Prospect Park, a patrolman named Tanner. A man giving his name as Larry Perkins had walked up to Tanner in the park and announced that he had just poisoned his best friend.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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