Streaks of sunlight prismed on the dashboard. She stared at their liquid pattern.

"Officer?"

"Okay," she said. "I'll bite. Who did?"

"I wish I could tell you." His voice had enunciation perfect as a news anchor. "But you wouldn't believe me."

"You know, for a mysterious caller, you're not much help."

"The burnt child fears the fire, Officer."

"And a rolling stone gathers no moss. What the hell does that mean?"

"It means, Officer, that I know who killed Michael Palmer. And I'm going to tell you how to find out."

He took a deep breath and another look at himself in the rearview. His heart felt flittery and his fingers tingled. Bar none, this had to be the craziest thing he'd ever done. Jason smiled a grin tight enough to make his teeth ache.

The suit fit well, but looked a couple of years out of style, just as he hoped. It'd caught his eye the moment he stepped into the used-clothing store: double-breasted brown fabric with the faint sheen of too many wearings. A blue tie, Windsor-knotted, and a silver tie clip he'd seen beside the register.

"You're going to be fine," he said to his own reflection. Then he took the Ray-Bans from the passenger seat and put them on, the oversize lenses flashing back a sunset.

He was only three blocks away, but felt every inch of them, the pressure and pop of cracked blacktop beneath the wheels. The breeze stale and warm as someone breathing in his face. The reactions as he turned down the street, the way one of the men at the end of the block glared as he unclipped a phone from his belt and spoke into it. The way things seemed to swirl and resolve, a spiral with himself at the center, the eye of a human hurricane.

He had a moment of panic in his belly, and then he was putting the car into park, and it was too late, the point of no return, and that gave him the energy he needed, just like it always had on patrol, when they left the relative safety of the FOB and went into the streets. Jason moved deliberately, trying not to show hurry or nerves. Just another day, another item on his list. Shuffled papers, took one last breath, then opened the car door and stepped out.

He could feel the stares pressing down. A handful of younger gangbangers sat on the steps of the sagging porch, a radio at their feet spilling hip-hop like fog. He glanced at them, then casually further up, to the two men who stood in the bungalow's doorway. Early twenties, faces composed and steady, poker masks sheened with sweat and hatred.

His veins pumped panic, but he met their gaze, nodded slightly, turned to close the car door. Adjusted his suit jacket as he did, pulling it up enough that they could see his purchases.

The holster was soft brown leather, stained dark down the center with traces of Hoppes #9. He wore it on his right hip, not low-slung like a gunfighter, but high on his slacks. He'd left the Beretta cocked, a subtlety he doubted would be noticed but that might buy him a half second if things went wrong.

He almost laughed. Like he had a prayer of walking if things went wrong.

The handcuffs hung on his belt behind the holster. The Army surplus store had a bunch of different kinds, most of them for sex play, with quick releases and padding. He'd gone for a classic nickel-finish pair, heavy and shiny. Beside them, where his coat would cover it most of the time, hung a silver star on a black leather square. He lingered long enough at the car, retrieving a notebook he'd set on the roof, for the kids on the porch to get a nice long look. Counting on them seeing it.

At a distance.

Because if anyone saw it up close, he was a corpse. He hadn't held a police badge, but he felt fairly sure they didn't have the words "FBI: Female Body Inspector" etched across the face.

It's in the attitude, he thought. That sense of unquestioned entitlement police had, the way they walked the street like they owned everything on it. The pads of his fingers were numb. He pocketed the car keys and turned slow, jacket falling back to cover the gear on his belt, leaving only the butt of the pistol still in sight. Notebook in his left hand, fighting the urge to flex the fingers of his right. Felt a mad urge to run, to just jump in the car and go, knowing he could be back in safe territory in twenty minutes.

Then he thought of Billy, asleep in an Army T-shirt.

He walked over, trying for swagger. Hit the boys on the porch with his Ray-Bans and a stern expression. Showtime. "Which one of you is going to tell Dion Williams I need to talk to him?" Jason asked, and flashed a thin smile that said he didn't have a worry in his life.

The afternoon sun lay on his shoulders. His demons raged, screamed, sent electricity crackling up and down the lengths of his nerves. He stood still.

Then the taller of the two in the doorway nudged one of the teenagers with his foot. "Bounce on in, tell C-Note a detective wants to see him."

Jason tried to look bored, tapping his notebook. Tried not to run the odds on whether or not Playboy would be here, knowing that if he was, it was certain death. One of the guys on the steps turned up the radio, the music saying there was no such thing as halfway crooks, scared to death and scared to look. Jason glanced down the block and pretended to stifle a yawn while fear hollowed out his body.

"Don't remember calling no police." The man in the doorway wore a striped button-up with a Sean John logo, the lines stretched across the muscles of his chest and arms. The two bangers stood beside him like bodyguards.

Jason smiled. "You don't call us, Dion. We call you."

One of the bangers stepped up, head cocked and chest forward. Jason met his gaze. Knew the game, one he'd played plenty of times in the Army. No weakness, no fear. "Best control your boy. Hate to search him, find something that violates his parole."

"Go easy, cuz." Dion kept his voice level, and the banger stepped back. "Who the fuck are you?"

"Detective Martinez." The real Martinez, crazy mother that he'd been, he would have approved of this stunt.

"You don't look like no Martinez."

Jason shielded his eyes from the sun, drawled, "Get that all the time."

"How come I ain't seen you before?"

"Because I only come when shit's about to get out of hand. We need to talk." Gestured to his car. "Let's take a ride."

Dion's eyes narrowed. "Since when the po-lice drive Cadillacs?

Shit. He'd wondered about that, but hadn't seen a way around it. He controlled his expression, said, "That's my personal ride." Smiled. "Car's the Virgin Mary. You like the classics?"

"They 'aight. My boy Brillo used to have an old Monte Carlo, till that shit got disappeared the other night." He paused. "Why'n't you make yourself useful, find Brillo's whip?" The boys on the steps laughed at that.

"Hop in, we'll go look." Waited a beat, saw the hesitation in the other man's eyes. "Unless you want the whole block to know your business."

"You come here to arrest me?"

"Nope. To invite you."

"I ain't going nowhere."

Jason shrugged. He felt like his stomach was being slowly tugged away from him. "Trying to do you a favor here. You know Cruz, from Gang Intelligence?" He waited for the faint nod. "She and the lieutenant, they wanted to send in the cavalry. I said no. Said C-Note's a smart guy, that we should try to talk to him first." So much came down to the gang leader buying this, getting in the car with him. Taking a drive around the neighborhood, talking as they went, the Caddy giving Jason a tiny edge in enemy turf. Mobility and security.

A long moment. Then Dion turned and opened the door. "My office."