Dead Fall

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There was only one way up to Mick O’Neill’s penthouse apartment on Davis Islands, South Tampa. Two ways down. You could take the express elevator up, which required use of a key to access the private floor. Coming down you could also use the elevator. Or — option two — fall sixteen stories to the unforgiving sidewalk if O’Neill’s protection team tossed you off the roof. No one but a suicidal fool would choose option two, but it appeared that this was the case with William Murray.

Murray was a fool but I’d never tagged him as being suicidal. He enjoyed life too much. It was because he valued his hide that he’d made the mistake of answering the summons to O’Neill’s lofty pad. Murray had angered the Irishman, but thought he could charm his way out of a kneecapping. Sadly, when he’d hit the ground at one hundred and twenty miles per hour, his kneecaps were the least of it. He’d burst on impact and there was little left of him that was recognizable. Apparently, if the Medical Examiner’s report was to be believed, he’d broken ninety-two percent of the bones in his body. CSI examiners had used tools akin to snow shovels while removing him from the sidewalk.

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