THE HOLLOW BADGE
I. The rain in Brooklyn doesn't fall—it hovers, a fine grey mist that settles on everything and refuses to leave. Frank Malloy knew this. He'd been a Brooklyn cop for twenty-three years, and twenty-three years of Brooklyn rain was enough to make anyone cynical about water. The call came in at 2:17 a.m. from the basement parking garage beneath a condemned building on Atlantic Avenue. A man had...
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