One of Pittsburgh’s finest. I ignored him and lifted the crime scene tape higher to duck under.“Hey. You. Get outta there.” He cut me off with four quick strides to the other side of the alley, planting his big donut-filled body in front of me.“It’s okay. I’m a reporter.” I held up my press pass. I’d hung it around my neck when I first saw the police cars flying down Eighteenth Street in front of Primanti Brothers Restaurant. I’d been snagging a late-night bite and my spidey-reporter sense had gone all aflutter.“I don’t care if you’re Geraldo-friggin’-Rivera. No one crosses the tape.”Power-high jerk. I let go of the crime scene tape and straightened. I could’ve argued, freedom of the press and all, but I only glared at him, frustration tightening across my shoulders, my pen tapping an irritated beat against my note pad. He knew I was pissed.This was my big break, I could feel it. My gaze left the bright emergency lights illuminating the dead body like some macabre photo shoot, and scanned up and down Smallman Street.
