'Yeah,' said Bonano, 'but who's doing this version?'

A woman began to sing the first verse. Fink and Bradley West, seated beside Holiday, closed their eyes.

'It's that "Band of Gold" broad,' said Jerry Fink.

'Nope,' said Bonano.

Holiday wasn't hearing the song. He was thinking of Gus Ramone, standing over the body of the boy. Some cosmic fucking joke that Ramone had caught the case.

'She did that Vietnam song, too,' said West. '"Bring the Boys Home," right?'

'That was Freda Payne, and I don't care what she did,' said Bonano. He blew into a deck of Marlboro Lights and watched as the filtered end of one popped out. 'She didn't do this.'

Holiday wondered if Ramone had noticed that the boy's first name, Asa, was the same spelled backward as it was forward. How the name was one of those palindromes.

'Then who is it, smart guy?' said Fink.

'Candi Staton,' said Bonano, lighting his smoke.

'You only know 'cause you read the name off the juke,' said Fink.

'Now for a dollar,' said Bonano, ignoring Fink, 'what was Candi Staton's big hit?'

Holiday wondered if Ramone had connected the boy with the other teenage victims with palindrome names. How all of them were found shot in the head, in community gardens around town.

Ramone was a good enough cop, though he was stymied, Holiday believed, by his insistence on following procedure. He wasn't anywhere near the cop that he, Holiday, had been. He lacked that rapport with citizens at which Holiday had excelled. And those years Ramone had spent in IAD, working mostly behind a desk, hadn't done him any favors as police.

'No clue,' said Fink.

'"Young Hearts Run Free,'" said Bonano with a self-satisfied grin.

'You mean "Young Dicks Swing Free,"' said Fink.

'Huh?'

'It's one of them disco songs,' said Fink. 'Figures you'd like it.'

'I didn't say I liked it. And you owe me a dollar, ya fuckin Jew.'

'I don't have a dollar.'

Bonano reached over and pushed down on the back of Fink's head. 'How 'bout a dollar's worth of this, then?'

Holiday killed his drink and put cash on the bar.

'What's your hurry, Doc?' said West.

Holiday said, 'I got a job.'

Ramone attended the tyree arraignment, returned to the crime scene, took part in some more interviews with potential witnesses, ran Rhonda Willis back to the VCU lot, called Diego on his cell, then went back uptown in his own car, a gray Chevy Tahoe. He drove into his neighborhood but did not go home. He was off the clock, but his workday was not done.

The Johnson house was a modest brick colonial, well maintained, on Somerset, west of Coolidge High School. Cars filled the spaces on both sides of the street. Visitors had been cautiously dropping in, bringing food and condolences to the family, leaving just as quickly as they had arrived. A formal wake and church service would come later, but relatives and close friends felt a more immediate response was necessary. No one could really know what was proper in situations such as this. A casserole or a dish of lasagna in hand was an impotent but safe bet.

Ramone was let into the house by a woman he did not recognize after he identified himself as a family friend first and a police officer second. There were folks sitting in the living room, some with their hands in their laps, some talking quietly, some not talking at all. Asa's little sister, Deanna, was sitting on the hall stairway with a couple of young girls, cousins, Ramone guessed. Deanna was not crying, but her eyes showed confusion.

'Ginny,' said the woman, shaking Ramone's hand. 'Virginia. I'm Helena's sister. Asa's aunt.'

'Yes, ma'am. I'm awful sorry.' He saw Helena in her sister, the same strong, mannish figure, the perpetually worried look, as if she carried the weight of knowing that something awful was bound to happen, that to enjoy the moment would be a waste of time. 'Is Helena back from the hospital?'

'She's upstairs in bed, sedated. Helena wanted to be with her daughter.'

'What about Terrance?'

'He's in the kitchen. My husband's with him.' Ginny put her hand on Ramone's forearm. 'Have you people found anything yet?'

Ramone barely shook his head. 'Excuse me.'

He went through a short hall to a small kitchen located at the rear of the house. Terrance Johnson and another man, light as Smokey Robinson, were seated at a round two-person table, drinking from cans of beer. Johnson got up to greet Ramone. Their hands clasped and they went shoulder to shoulder, Ramone patting Terrance Johnson's back.

'My sympathies,' said Ramone. 'Asa was a fine young man.'

'Yes,' said Johnson. 'Meet Clement Harris, my brother-in-law. Clement, this is Gus Ramone.'

Clement reached out and shook Ramone's hand without getting up from his chair.

'Gus's boy and Asa were friends,' said Johnson. 'Gus is a police officer. Works homicide.'

Clement Harris mumbled something.

'Get you a beer?' said Johnson, his eyes slightly crossed and unfocused.

'Thanks.'

'I'm gonna have one more myself,' said Johnson. He tilted his head back and killed what was left in the can. 'I ain't trying to get messed up, understand.'

'It's okay,' said Ramone. 'Let's have a beer together, Terrance.'

Johnson tossed the empty into a garbage pail and grabbed two cans of light beer, a brand Ramone would never normally buy or drink, from the refrigerator. As the door swung closed, Ramone saw magnetized photos of the Johnson children: Deanna playing in the snow, Deanna in a gymnastics outfit, an unsmiling Asa in uniform and pads, holding a football after one of his games.

'Let's go outside,' said Johnson to Ramone, and when Ramone nodded, they left Clement at the kitchen table without further conversation.

A door from the kitchen led to the narrow backyard, which stopped at an alley. Johnson was not interested in gardening or landscaping, apparently, and neither was his wife. The yard was weedy, cluttered with garbage cans and milk crates, and surrounded by a rusted chain-link fence.

Ramone cracked his can open and drank. The beer had little more taste than water and probably as much kick. He and Johnson stopped halfway down a cracked walkway that led to the alley.

Johnson was a bit shorter than Ramone, with a beefy build and a square head accentuated by an outdated fade, shaved back and sides with a pomaded top. Johnson's teeth were small and pointy, miniature fangs. His arms hung like the sides of a triangle off his trunk.

'Tell me what you know,' said Johnson, his face close to Ramone's. The smell of alcohol was pungent on his breath, and it came to Ramone that Johnson had been drinking something other than this pisswater to get him to where he was now.

'Nothing yet,' said Ramone.

'Have ya'll found the gun?'

'Not yet.'

'When are you going to start knowing things?'

'It's a process. It's methodical, Terrance.'

Ramone was hoping his choice of words would help placate Johnson, an analyst of some kind for the Census Bureau. Ramone generally did not know what people did, exactly, when they said that they worked for the federal government, but he knew Johnson dealt with numbers and statistics.

'You, what, tryin to find a witness?'

'We're interviewing potential witnesses. We have been all day, and we'll continue to conduct interviews. We'll talk to his friends and acquaintances, his teachers, everyone he knew. Meantime, we'll wait on the results of the autopsy.'

Johnson wiped his hand across his mouth. His voice was hoarse as he spoke. 'They gonna cut up my boy? Why they got to do that, Gus?'

'It's hard to talk about this, Terrance. I know it's hard for you to hear it. But an autopsy will give us a lot of tools. It's also required by law.'

'I can't…'