Tyrone didn't say anything.

Jack said, "We hear you might know something about that."

"You hear wrong."

"It happened right here on this street," said Uncle Cy. "Last Friday night."

Tyrone looked away then back. "I ain't talkin' to no cops."

"We aren't the cops," said Jack.

"No, but if I tell you, then we gotta go downtown and tell it to the cops. You know it, I know it, and that's bullshit!" he said, rising.

"Siddown," said Flo. She had him by the wrist. Tyrone was a big kid and could have easily shaken off the old woman. That he kept his cool and sank back into his chair was a credit to her and the way she'd raised him.

Tyrone folded his arms tightly across his chest. "I ain't talking to the police."

"I know this is tough," said Jack.

"You don't know nothin'," the boy said. "They'll blow my head off. Gram's too."

Jack had seen this many times before – a reluctant witness, a good person caught in a bad spot. Interrogators had many ways of dealing with it. The skill was in choosing the right strategy, especially with kids.

"Let's try this," said Jack. "You don't have to tell me anything, okay? I'm just going to start talking. If I got it right, you just sit there. If I got it wrong, you say 'honky.'"

The kid almost smiled. "Honky?"

Cy laughed through a sip of lemonade, nearly spraying it. "'Honky' kind of went out with 'groovy.'"

"Hey, it's my game, okay?" said Jack.

The boy kept his arms folded, but Jack felt as though he'd cut the tension, maybe even made a breakthrough.

"All right," said Tyrone, "start talking."

Jack glanced at Uncle Cy, who seemed okay with him taking the lead. "Your bedroom," said Jack. "I see it faces right out on the street. And I assume it's got a window."

Jack paused. Tyrone said nothing.

"You were in your room on Friday night. Alone."

More silence.

"Doing your homework."

"Honky."

"He was grounded," said Flo.

"Thanks," said Jack. "But let's keep this between me and Tyrone, okay?"

"Sorry," said Flo.

Jack said, "You were in your room Friday night. And I'm gonna say that about nine o'clock you heard a gunshot out on the street."

Tyrone didn't answer.

"And you looked out the window."

He shifted in his chair, but he said nothing.

"Then you looked over toward Second Avenue. There was a man down on the street. Another man running toward him."

Jack could see the boy swallow the lump in his throat. Tyrone was still in the game, but the tension had returned.

"A car was speeding away," said Jack. "You saw the car. It was red."

Tyrone lowered his eyes, but he didn't deny it.

"Now, you're really afraid of those guys in the red car. Because they're gangsters."

Still no denial.

"You got a look at them, and you recognized them."

"Honky."

The response almost made Jack laugh, but Tyrone's expression was deadly serious: Jack had it wrong.

"Okay," said Jack. "You recognized the car."

"Honky."

"You saw the car again, some other place, after the shooting."

"Honky."

Jack glanced at Cy, who simply shrugged. Jack pondered it, then said, "There was something about that red car. Something about it that told you it was gangsters."

Tyrone was silent.

Jack was definitely on the right track. "It was the wheels-"

"Honky."

"The bumpers or the paint job-"

"Honky honky."

"The windows."

No reply.

Jack thought about it for a moment, trying to envision something distinctive about the windows on gang-mobiles he'd seen around Miami." There was a gang symbol etched on the rear window."

More silence. Bull's-eye.

"Okay good. Now, I don't want you to tell me anything, Tyrone. But sometimes I like to doodle when I'm talking to people. Maybe you do, too. Helps relieve the nerves, you know?" Jack took a pen and a small notepad from inside his suit jacket and slid them across the table. "So I'm going to have more of your grandmother's delicious lemonade, and if you want to doodle, you go right ahead."

Jack drank his lemonade. Tyrone stared at the pen and notepad on the table. Finally, he took them. Jack watched as he inked an image onto the pad, but Tyrone's hand covered most of it. He finished in a few seconds and slid the pad back to Jack. Jack didn't examine it. He didn't study it. He didn't want to do anything to make Tyrone nervous. He simply retrieved his pad and pen and tucked them into his coat pocket.

Tyrone let out a sigh of relief.

Flo patted the back of her grandson's hand. "You done good, Tyrone. You didn't tell nobody nothin'."

"No," said Jack. "Not a thing."

Jack drove Uncle Cy home, and they were in complete agreement: they would do everything possible to keep Flo's grandson out of the investigation, but Jack needed to talk with Andie Henning. A phone call wouldn't do – not if Jack was going to share the boy's drawing with her. Just picking a meeting spot, however, presented real difficulties.

"Let's meet at-" Jack stopped himself, realizing that he was about to suggest the same coffeehouse they'd visited on their second date.

"How about-" Andie did the same thing, maybe even for the identical reason. Weird, thought Jack, the way their minds seemed to work alike sometimes.

Jack said, "There's a McDonald's on Bird Road."

"Perfect," she said.

"No, wait. I can do better than that. Meet me at the gas station on Seventeenth, right next to Casola's pizzeria."

"A gas station?"

"Trust me on this. You'll be pleasantly surprised."

She agreed, but after they hung up, he recalled that she really didn't like surprises, and as he merged into traffic, he wondered why he cared. Rene backlash, no doubt, brought on by the fact that he hadn't heard boo from her since she left: Miami. Oh, Jack, I can't stay more than a few days at a time because Fm afraid I might never leave. Oh Jack, I promise to call you as soon as my plane lands.

Jack was still waiting for the phone to ring.

The minimart on Seventeenth Avenue was just beyond a part of I-95 that most drivers never saw: the end. It's unclear whether the geniuses who built the interstate simply ran out of cement or actually thought it was a great idea for a hundred thousand cars a day to come barreling down the final exit ramp at seventy miles per hour, straight into the proverbial parking lot that was U.S. 1. Either way it was the perfect spot for a filling station, and one had graced this location – right alongside the busy highway and elevated Metrorail tracks – as long as Jack could remember. In a recent flash of inspiration, the owner had converted a back room into a small but lively restaurant that served good food and good wine at bargain prices. The decor was reminiscent of a French wine cellar, with long wooden tables and stools instead of chairs, and the wine selection was so good that even the Ritz Carlton's sommelier was a regular. You picked your wine directly from the floor-to-ceiling bins that lined the walls, and the food was served tapas style – appetizer-sized portions to be shared with friends. And on your way out, you could buy Lotto tickets and a pack of Twinkies for dessert. Beat that.

"I never knew this was here," said Andie.

"You like it?"

She surveyed the wall of wines and the waiters dressed in traditional attire. "Yeah, I do, actually. And for you it's perfect. Sparky's used to be a gas station. Your new favorite restaurant still is."

"What can I say? In a Miami-chic world where pretentiousness knows no bounds, a guy has to search pretty hard to find these little gems."

The waiter brought menus, and Jack found himself peering out over the top of his as Andie studied hers. Men often liked a certain type of woman, and if that was true of Jack, Andie had been a complete – albeit brief – break from type. Both Rene and his ex-wife were blondes. Andie's hair was blacker than black, like a midnight blue tuxedo, and her mixed ancestry made her attractive in ways that traditional beauties weren't.