Shoulder to thigh in a shadowed doorway, Jaen and Callon watched a huddle of uniformed police officers walk down the brownstone’s stairs with faces more gray than the storm-dampened sky overhead. A lone woman stepped out onto the landing, presumably a plainclothes detective, and stared with hard eyes at the small crowd splayed along the fringe of caution tape.
Callon flared his nostrils, eyes grim, as he stared at the open door beyond the detective. “I smell blood,” he said. He could imagine the sanguine mess that Sirius had left inside.
“He’s getting careless.”
“No. He’s making a point.”