“But all these kids hung around.”

“Uniforms arrived within two minutes, Code Three,” said Dilbeck. “Didn’t let anyone leave.”

“Who called it in?”

“At least eight people. The official informant’s a bouncer.” He frowned. “The vics are two boys and two girls.”

“How old?”

“We I.D.’d three: fifteen, fifteen, and seventeen. The fourth, one of the girls, had no paper on her.”

“Nothing at all?”

Dilbeck shook his head. “Some poor parents are going to worry a lot and then hear the bad news. It stinks, doesn’t it? Maybe I should fold my tent.”

He’d been talking retirement for as long as Petra had known him.

She said, “I’ll fold before you will.”

“Probably,” he admitted.

“I’d like a look at the bodies before they get taken away.”

“Look to your heart’s content and then have a go at that nearest group, the one over there.”

Petra learned what she could about the victims.

Paul Allan Montalvo, two weeks from his sixteenth birthday. Chubby, round-faced, plaid shirt, black sweatpants. Smooth olive skin where it wasn’t distorted by a gunshot under his right eye. Two other holes in his legs.

Wanda Leticia Duarte, seventeen. Gorgeous, pale, with long black hair, rings on eight of her fingers, five ear-pierces. Three chest shots. Left side, bingo.

Kennerly Scott Dalkin, fifteen, looked closer to twelve. Fair-skinned, freckled, shaved head the color of putty. Black leather jacket and skull pendant hanging from a leather thong around the neck that had been pierced by a bullet. His getup and scuffed Doc Martens said he’d been aiming for tough, hadn’t even come close. In his wallet was a card proclaiming him to be a member of the honor society at Birmingham High.

The unidentified girl was probably Hispanic. Short, busty, with shoulder-length curly hair dyed rust at the tips. Tight white top, tight black jeans- Kmart house brand. Pink sneakers- the shoes Petra had spied- not much larger than a size five.

Another head shot, the puckered black hole just in front of her right ear. Four others in her torso. The pockets of her jeans had been turned inside out. Petra inspected her cheap leatherette purse. Chewing gum, tissues, twenty bucks cash, two packets of condoms.

Safe sex. Petra kneeled by the girl’s side. Then she got up to do her job.

Eighteen know-nothings.

She addressed them as a group, tried coming on gently, being a pal, stressing the importance of cooperation to prevent something like this from happening again. Her reward was eighteen blank stares. Pressing the group elicited a few slow head shakes. Maybe some of it was shock, but Petra sensed she was boring them.

“Nothing you can tell me?” she asked a slim, redheaded boy.

He scrunched his lips and shook his head.

She had them form a line, took down names and addresses and phone numbers, acted casual as she checked out their nonverbal behavior.

Two nervous ones stood out, a serious handwringer and a nonstop foot-tapper. Both girls. She held them back, let the others go.

Bonnie Ramirez and Sandra Leon, both sixteen. They dressed similarly- tight tops, low riders, and high-heeled boots- but didn’t know each other. Bonnie’s top was black, some sort of cheap crepelike fabric, and she’d caked her face with makeup to cover up gritty acne. Her hair was brown, frizzy, tied up in a complicated ’do that had probably taken hours to construct but managed to look careless. Still wringing her hands, as Petra reiterated the importance of being open and honest.

“I am honest,” she said. Fluent English, that musical East L.A. tincture that stretches final words.

“What about the car, Bonnie?”

“I told you, I didn’t see it.”

“Not at all?”

“Nothing. I gotta go, I really gotta go.”

Wring, wring, wring.

“What’s the rush, Bonnie?”

“George’s only babysitting till one and it’s way after that.”

“You’ve got a kid?”

“Two years old,” said Bonnie Ramirez, with a mixture of pride and amazement.

“Boy or girl?”

“Boy.”

“What’s his name?”

“Rocky.”

“Got a picture?”

Bonnie reached for her sequined handbag, then stopped herself. “What do you care? George said if I don’t get home on time he’ll like just leave and Rocky sometimes gets up like in the night, I don’t wanna him to be all like scared.”

“Who’s George?”

“The father,” said the girl. “Rocky’s a George, too. Jorge, Junior. I call him Rocky to make him different from George ’cause I don’t like how George acts.”

“How does George act?”

“He doesn’t give me nothing.”

Sandra Leon’s blouse was skin-hugging champagne satin, off one shoulder. Smooth, bare shoulder stippled by goose bumps. She’d stopped tapping her foot, switched to hugging herself tightly, bunching soft, unfettered breasts to the center of her narrow chest. Dark skin clashed with a huge mass of platinum blond hair. Deep red lipstick, an appliqué mole above her lip. She wore cheap, fake-o gold jewelry, lots of it. Her shoes were rhinestone mules. Parody of sexy; sixteen going on thirty.

Before Petra could ask, she said, “I don’t know nothing.”

Allowing her eyes to drift to the victims. To pink sneakers.

Petra said, “Wonder where she got those shoes.”

Sandra Leon looked everywhere but at Petra. “Why would I know?” Biting her lip.

“You okay?” said Petra.

The girl forced herself to meet Petra’s gaze. Her eyes were dull. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

Petra didn’t answer.

“Can I go now?”

“You’re sure there’s nothing you want to tell me?”

The dull eyes narrowed. Sudden hostility; it seemed misplaced. “I don’t even have to talk to you.”

“Says who?”

“The law.”

“You have experience with the law?” said Petra.

“Nope.”

“But you know the law.”

“My brother’s in jail.”

“Where?”

“Lompoc.”

“For what?”

“Stealing a car.”

“Your brother’s your legal expert?” said Petra. “Look where he is.”

Sandra shrugged. The platinum hair shifted.

A wig.

That made Petra take a closer look at her. Notice something else about the girl’s eyes. Dull because they were yellow around the edges.

“You okay?”

“I will be when you let me go.” Sandra Leon righted her hairpiece. Slipped a finger under the front and smiled. “Leukemia,” said the girl. “They gave me chemo at Western Peds. I used to have real nice hair. They say it’ll grow back but maybe they’re lying.”

Tears filled her eyes. “Can I go now?”

“Sure.”

The girl walked away.

Over the next week, five detectives worked the Paradiso shootings, interviewing family members of the dead teens, recontacting potential witnesses. None of the victims had gang affiliations, all were praised as good kids. No relatives had criminal histories; no one had anything of value to say.

The girl in the pink sneakers remained unidentified, a personal failure for Petra. She’d volunteered to do the trace, worked at it, came up empty. One interesting fact from the coroner: The girl had undergone an abortion within the last few months.

Petra asked Mac Dilbeck if she could go to the media and he said sure. Three stations ran sketchy renderings of the girl’s face on the evening news. A few calls came in, nothing serious.

She worked the shoes, figuring maybe an item like that was unusual. Anything but: Kmart special, made in Macao, shipped to the States in huge lots for over a year, she even found them for resale on eBay.

She tried to recontact Sandra Leon because Sandra had given off an uneasy vibe, though maybe it was just tension about being sick. Resolving to go gently with the poor kid, Lord knew what she’d been through with her leukemia. The phone rang but no one answered.

Ten days after the mass murder, the team still hadn’t developed any leads, and at the next sit-down Mac Dilbeck informed them they’d been cut from five D’s to three: he’d remain as the principal and Luc Montoya and Petra would do backup.