workers from the flower mart and the cops. I followed the radio car past an SID van, more radio cars, and a couple of Crown Victorias to park across the street. No rain was falling there in the heart of the city, but the clouds hung low, and threatened.
The uniforms climbed out of their radio car and told me to wait at the tape. The senior officer went into the alley for the detectives, but his younger partner stayed with me. We hadn't spoken at my house, but now he studied me with his thumbs hooked onto his gun belt.
"You the one was on TV?"
"No, he was the other one."
"I wasn't trying to be rude. I remember seeing you on the news."
I didn't say anything. He watched me a moment longer, then turned to the alley.
"Guess you've seen a homicide scene before."
"More than one."
The body was crumpled beside a Dumpster midway down the alley, but my view was blocked by a woman in a T-shirt and shorts, and two men in dark sport coats. The woman's T-shirt was fresh and white, and made her stand out in the dingy alley as if she were on fire. The older suit was a thick man with shabby hair, and the younger detective was a tall, spike-straight guy with a pinched face. When the uniform reached them, they traded a few words, then the woman came back with him. She smelled of medicinal alcohol.
"I'm Diaz. Thanks for coming out."
Kelly Diaz had short black hair, blunt fingers, and the chunky build of an aging athlete. A delicate silver heart swayed on a chain around her neck. It didn't go with the rest of her.
I said, "I'm not going to know this man."
"I'd still like you to take a look and answer a few questions. You okay with that?"
"I wouldn't be here if I wasn't."
"I'm just making sure you understand you don't have to talk to us. You have any doubts about it you should call a lawyer."
"I'm good, Diaz. If I wasn't good, I would have shot it out with these guys up in the hills."
The younger cop laughed, but his partner didn't. Diaz lifted the tape, and I stooped under and walked with her to the Dumpster. When we reached the others, Diaz introduced us. The senior detective was a Central Station homicide supervisor named Terry O'Loughlin; the other guy was a D-l named Jeff Pardy. O'Loughlin shook my hand and thanked me for coming, but Pardy didn't offer to shake. He stood between me and the body like I was an invading army and he was determined not to give ground.
O'Loughlin said, "Okay, let him see."
The cops parted like a dividing sea so I could view the body. The alley was bright with lights they had set up to work the scene. The dead man was on his right side with his right arm stretched from his chest and his left down along his side; his shirt was wet with blood and had been scissored open. His head was shaped like an upside-down pyramid with a broad forehead and pointy chin. His hair showed the stark black of a bad dye job and a thin widow's peak. He didn't look particularly old, just weathered and sad. The crucifix inked into his left palm made it look like he was holding the cross, and more tattoos showed on his stomach under the blood. A single gunshot wound was visible two inches to the left of his sternum.
Diaz said, "You know him?"
I cocked my head to see him as if we were looking at each other. His eyes were open and would remain that way until a mortician closed them. They were brown, like mine, but dulled by the loss of their tears. That's the first thing you learn when you work with the dead: We're gone when we no longer cry.
"What do you think? You know this guy?"
"Uh-uh."
"Ever seen him before?"
"No, I can't help you."
When I looked up, all three of them were watching me.
O'Loughlin flicked his hand at Pardy.
"Show him the stories."
Pardy took a manila envelope from his coat. The envelope contained three articles about me and a little boy who had been kidnapped earlier in the fall. The articles hadn't been clipped from the original newspaper; they had been copied, and the articles clipped from the copies. All three articles made me out to be more than I was or ever had been; Elvis Cole, the World's Greatest Detective, hero of