Lloyd hit the steering wheel with a jolt, but the Volvo was an older model, with no airbag to slow him down. Ribs smarting, he jumped from the car, even as an old man-a very real red-faced, flesh-and-blood old man-emerged from the ghost car and began yelling at him.

Lloyd didn’t wait to hear what the man was screaming or to offer the opinion that it was the old man’s fault for not braking to avoid the stalled Volvo, or at least trying to steer around it. The guy clearly had had time to avoid the collision, but Lloyd had no intention of pursuing that argument. No, Lloyd ran, heading up the hill beyond the ghost car, although he had a vague feeling that Cold Spring Lane and the city he knew was the other way. He ran through the midnight-quiet streets of this strange neighborhood, wondering how long a black man could run here without being noticed and, inevitably, arrested.

He reached what appeared to be a main street, slowing down to a fast walk, his lungs on fire. He would still be regarded with suspicion here, but he wasn’t quite as out of place. There were bus stops and shit, so he could always say that’s where he was headed if anyone pulled him over.

It was a long and miserable walk in the night air, with slippery patches of ice underfoot. The sounds of sirens in the distance made him jumpy. By luck, and luck alone, he managed to find his way back to Cold Spring, which took him to the Light Rail station. Here, at least, he wouldn’t look out of place.

Stomping his feet in the cold, waiting for the train to come, he couldn’t help feeling…well, angry. It pissed him off, having to leave that laptop and digital camera behind. He wanted someone to blame for his troubles, and he decided it was all that woman’s fault. She would probably make a big stink, too, even though he had left her stuff behind and it wasn’t his fault that old car had rammed him. The dude-the dude, he would want to let it go, but the woman was tougher. She had a mean streak. He’d been stupid. No, he’d been greedy, which was worse. Can’t ever leave well enough alone, was the way his mother put it, and maybe she was right. But at the time Lloyd had just thought of it as getting a little bonus, of making up for the bad luck that seemed to dog him everywhere. He had the worst fucking luck.

Gregory Youssef. It had been a name to him, a name and four numbers, nothing more. He hadn’t thought about that caper for months. Favor done, opportunity lost, just another day in the life of Lloyd Jupiter, the can’t-win-for-losingest loser to ever come out of East Baltimore. Shit. Shit.

He hadn’t known until tonight that the killed lawyer had been that guy, that the name he had buried in his memory was of any concern to anyone other than the guy himself. Did that make him an accessory? No, but it meant he had been played.

He was so fucked.

The train hissed into the station. He didn’t have a ticket, but he was counting on getting a few stops down before the conductor caught up to him and threw him off. As it turned out, he made it to Howard Street before anyone approached him, and he was able to run, avoiding the citation.

It was so cold he didn’t even try to get back to the East Side, just went to the downtown parking garage where the homeless men slept on the steam grates. He hadn’t been there for a while, but he remembered that it was around the corner from that weird-ass orange, blue, and yellow statue.

He was too late for the sandwich run, which some church group did about 10:00 P.M., and the best spots were taken, but he still found himself a manhole cover with some hot air coming up. You got kind of damp sleeping that way, but it was warm and safe. Relatively. He took his coat off and bunched it under his head to make a pillow, and his body’s exhaustion overwhelmed his mind’s jumpy agitation, pulling him into sleep almost immediately. He dreamed about horses, Corvettes, and pork chops.

When he woke up at dawn, his jacket looked as if he had chewed on it, just a little bit. He went out into the day, blinking, almost expecting to find some cops just outside the garage.

But there was no one waiting for him, absolutely no one at all.

“What do you mean, Crow won’t press charges?”

Whitney Talbot’s voice, never demure, was like a ship’s horn when she was surprised or outraged. It sliced through the midday din of Matthew’s, which, admittedly, was not difficult to do. The sixty-year-old restaurant took up only the front half of an old rowhouse, and there were few diners at this time of day.

Still, even in a place used to voluble and excitable customers, Whitney attracted attention. She always did. Tess, who had known her since college, had decided having Whitney as a friend was like traveling around Baltimore with a white Siberian tiger. Seldom dull, always the center of attention, but also a little unpredictable.

“Lloyd has a jacket-” Tess began, shaking hot pepper flakes over the traditional tomato pie. Whitney was having the house specialty, a crab pie, but shellfish-averse Tess never risked contact with the local delicacy. Unless she was desperate to leave a social occasion early. Then a little anaphylactic shock was just the ticket.

“A jacket? Did he steal that, too?”

“A record. He’s already been in Hickey for auto theft. Crow doesn’t want to bring charges because he’ll almost certainly end up back inside. And maybe not as a juvenile this time.”

“But even if he’s not a car thief, he’s still guilty of leaving the scene of an accident, right? And you have to tell police who he is, or you’re liable.”

“Crow gave them a fake name,” Tess said, still feeling sheepish for letting that bit of deception fly. “Bob Smith. No one batted an eye, even when Crow helpfully added, ‘That’s Bob with one o.’”

“Isn’t it illegal to lie to cops?”

“Sort of. But with no real injuries, the cops aren’t exactly making this a priority. And Crow told them the truth when he said he didn’t know how to find our houseguest again. You know what’s really embarrassing? I think the cops thought it was some kind of kinky pickup. Two white suburbanites cruising for decadent thrills, bringing home a young hustler and getting metaphorically screwed instead. They’ve probably opened a pervert file on us.”

If Whitney’s voice was loud, then her laugh was a borderline bray. “It sounds like the damage was pretty minor,” she said at last. “Other than that done to your reputations with Northern District, I mean. You said the other guy had nothing more than a crumpled bumper, and the Volvo’s such a junker you can’t really damage it.”

“Yeah, but he’s claiming the impossible-to-pin-down soft-tissue injury. Worse yet, the responding cops let him go without administering a Breathalyzer. Believe me, he would have flunked. You could smell the gin on him ten feet away. Everyone in the neighborhood knows about Mr. Parrish. He goes over to the Swallow at the Hollow, then literally coasts home, sliding down Oakdale and then making the turn toward his house on Wilmslow. He rationalizes that it’s not driving drunk if his foot isn’t on the accelerator and the engine is off. Just coasting drunk.”

“Well, it’s not like Crow has any money. Can’t get blood from a stone.”

“If Parrish has a cagey lawyer, they might go after me-through my homeowner’s or the umbrella policy I carry for the business. And my carrier won’t be so blasé about accepting Crow’s bogus Bob Smith story. They could refuse to cover me, and even a small settlement would wipe me out right now.”

Whitney didn’t laugh at this. Despite being born rich-or perhaps because of it-Whitney took money very seriously.

“Then Crow’s being an idiot. This kid doesn’t deserve his nobility. You took him into your home, fed him, gave him shelter, and how did he reward you? By trying to steal from you and wrecking Crow’s car. You’ve got to convince Crow to tell the truth and press charges.”