The Homicide detail was on the fourth floor of the Hall of Justice -— we referred to it simply as the Hall, and when I got there, Rocky was waiting for me at his desk. Appearances were deceiving, and had he not been wearing a shoulder holster along with a badge clipped to the belt of his tan Dockers, I doubt anyone would guess his occupation as a cop. At five-five, he stood as tall as my forehead. His brown hair was cut in a flattop, a style that seemed at odds with his thick mustache. Round face and round gut gave testament to his love of food.

“Where’d it happen?” I asked.

“In an alley about a block away from the shooting last night. A bunch of kids were walking home from a party. Nita Gonzalez was with them. Wrong place, wrong time sort of thing is what it looks like to me,” he said, grabbing his keys and overcoat. “I’ll drive.”

When we arrived, Rocky showed his star to a uniformed officer on the perimeter. He moved a barricade and let us into the alley lit with flashing red, blue, and amber lights from two patrol cars. On one side of the alley was a small white building that read City Sausage and Meat Company, and on the other side, behind a neat whitewashed fence, was a house I’d been to numerous times on patrol. I was well familiar with the octogenarian owner, Harriet Maze, as was every officer in the department. Better known as Crazy Mazy, she reported a crime about every other week and was about as credible as a tabloid magazine. There was a bit of truth in everything she said, but it was lost in the mire of her imagination. “She a witness?” I asked, dreading his answer.

“The RP,” Rocky said.

Reporting party. Great. “You talk to her yet?”

“Figured we’d save her for last.”

“For last or for me?”

“Did I forget to mention that Andrews wants you to be the lead investigator on this?”

“Guess that tiny detail slipped your memory.”

“It happened over there,” Rocky said, pointing about dead center of Mazy’s property. Yellow crime scene tape was strung across the alley from her fence to the bumper of a refrigerated truck belonging to the sausage company. Rocky lifted the tape and I stepped under. A crime scene investigator snapped photos of a dark stain on the asphalt.

I’d seen enough. More than enough for a lifetime. “Where are the witnesses?”

“All over. Patrol got most of the names. There’s a few waiting at the Hall, and some are at home. Their parents came and got ‘em.”

“Suspects?”

“No one in custody. Crazy Mazy copied a plate number from a blue Monte Carlo, but they haven’t found it yet.”

I looked over at her house. There was a light burning in the back, and I figured we might as well get that interview over with. “Let’s go talk to her,” I said.

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