like most of them. Used to be you could sleep on the steps of almost any church. Even get food and all. Now every one got bars on them.”
The city’s religious institutions had long been havens for the homeless. That situation, neither safe nor sanitary, had ended with the gating of most of them when a homeless man who had lived outside a church on the Upper West Side for three years froze to death just feet from the entrance.
Luther described the habit that had developed because of his grandfather’s affection for him. Those nights that were too cold and raw, he called Amos and asked for shelter. His crew knew he would let them in later, when alone, and they’d leave at daybreak, before Amos arrived. In exchange for a warm place to crash, they would bring drugs to feed Luther’s habit.
“What time did you get here last night?” I asked.
“I don’t remember.”
“Don’t mess with her, Luther,” Mercer said. “She’s got more juice than I do.”
Luther closed one eye and studied me with the other.
“What time did your grandfather let you in?”
He didn’t like it when we brought Amos into the mix. “It was, like, midnight. A little earlier than that.”
There was no watch on either of his skinny wrists. “How do you know?”
“ ’ Cause of the bells. I was in here when they rang, when they done twelve times.”
“And the others?”
“I texted them when he left. Maybe fifteen minutes later.”
“Give me your cell phone,” Mercer said, holding out his hand.
Luther frowned.
“Give it up.”
The messages he sent to his friends, and their responses, would be captured in the memory of his phone. He drew the razor-thin machine out of his pocket and placed it in the large palm of Mercer’s hand.
“What did you do?” I asked.
“Nuthin’.” He was watching Mercer scroll through the messages.
“What did you do, Luther?” I asked again.
“Me and them, we always hang in the basement. They brung me some food, is all.”
“And crack?”
He blew me off. “I don’t do that shit.”
“Coke?”
“L’il bit.”
“So these guys you don’t know,” Mercer said, reading the name off the cell history, “which one is Shaquille?”
Luther bit his tongue.
“Shaquille, the one you texted.” Mercer leaned in closer. “He one of the dudes inside, or is he the one who skipped out on you?”
The answer was slow and deliberate. “Inside.”
“Which one deals?”
No answer this time.
“Must be Shaquille or you wouldn’t have been so anxious to invite him to join you.”
Luther had nowhere else in the room left to look but at Mercer.
“Go talk to him, Alex. I’ll get Luther here up to speed.” Mercer handed me the phone. “What else did you hear besides church bells last night?”
“She gonna ask Shaquille. I don’t know nuthin’ else.”
As I turned the corner into the sanctuary, I noticed another kid was gone. The remaining one was still cuffed to the end seat of a pew. His knee was bouncing up and down, nervously, at a furious pace, and when Mike stepped away from him, I could see that tears were streaming down his cheeks.
“What happened?” I asked. “Where’s—”
“Scotty took the tall one back down to the basement for a once-over.”
“What’d you do to make this guy cry?”
“He’s fifteen, Coop. Wants his mama, I think.”
“Which one’s Shaquille?” I asked.
The knee jerked and the kid shook his head.
I held up Luther’s cell and texted a few words. I could hear the noise of the vibrating phone in his pocket over the insistent tapping of his foot.
“I guess you’re Shaquille,” Mike said. “That solves that piece of the puzzle. Now, why don’t you tell Ms. Cooper what you saw last night? And remember, she doesn’t believe in ghosts.”
“I was waiting for Luther to call me.” The kid wiped his eyes with the filthy sleeve of his sweatshirt. “I was around the corner, on 114th.”
“You know what time it was?” Mike asked.
Shaquille shook his head.
I looked at Luther’s outgoing messages. “A little bit before twelve forty-five.”
“All three of you there?”
“Nope. I was alone.”
The bounce in his leg was like a lie detector. It sped up whenever the topic got more sensitive. He didn’t seem to care about the time of night, or his companions.
“What’d you see?” Mike asked.
The knee was rocking now. “I told you, I don’t know. It was like a man, but then it didn’t move like any man I ever seen.”
“How’s that, Shaquille?”
“It was almost like he could fly. Like a cartoon character, you know?”
“I don’t know. You tell us,” Mike said. “What’d he look