The half-mile drive to St. Vincent’s was a straight shot west on Fourteenth Street, then a quick left turn on Seventh Avenue. Rogan swerved around the two layers of ambulances stacked on the west side of the hospital and took another quick left on Eleventh Street, pulling the car to a halt at the curb. As they exited the car, a bicyclist pedaling west on Eleventh yelled out, “Wrong way on a one-way, idiot.” “NYPD,” Rogan hollered. “And you’re not wearing a helmet, so who’s the idiot? I’d give you a ticket, but I guess you’ll learn your lesson when your brains wind up on the dash of a cab.” The cyclist flipped them the bird as he sailed through the light at Seventh Avenue. “Picking fights with boys on bikes?” Ellie asked. He threw her a dry look and opened the hospital door. Ellie flashed her shield at the front information desk. “We need to see Heather Bradley. She was admitted about two hours ago with multiple stab wounds.” She turned back to Rogan while the clerk tapped away at her computer keyboard.
