"We went to Tristram's house and stored it in the garage. His dad's got a huge garage, twenty cars in there."

"Then what?"

"Nothing until the next day, then Tristram took the Jag and I took the piece of shit, I almost thought it wouldn't make it."

"Make it where?"

"Pasadena."

"What's in Pasadena?"

"His place."

"Whose place?"

"Him. The nerd who took the test."

"Trey Franck."

"Yeah--yes, sir."

"Why'd you go there?"

"T said it was like his mom, she's crazy about being neat, doesn't matter if you leave a speck of cookie on the couch or you take a dump on it, she's going to freak out. So we had to go all the way."

"No sense leaving a speck of mess," said Milo.

"Exactly, sir. We had to be thorough."

"How'd it go down with Trey Franck?"

"The plan was we were going to knock on the door, say it was a friend or something, but right after we got there, he came out of the building and started walking. We drove up to him, it was dark, no one was around, so we jumped out and held him and cold-cocked him. He wimped out totally, like out."

"We?"

"T did the shooting."

"Who did the cold-cocking?"

Pause. "I guess that was me. But T held him and kicked him in the balls, by the time I hit him he was pretty much out of it. I didn't hit him that hard."

"What happened next?"

"T drove him and I followed in the Corvette."

"Where was Mr. Franck?"

"In the trunk of the Jag. T had him tied up with these plastic thingies."

A fact verified by traces of Trey Franck's saliva and blood in the rear compartment of the freshly vacuumed and detailed car.

"You were following in Sal Fidella's Corvette."

"Yes, sir."

"Where'd you go?"

"We drove to this place, T knew it 'cause his cousin has a ranch near there and his dad took him hiking and shooting up in the mountains there when he was little."

"Not recently?"

"No way," said Quinn Glover. "He doesn't talk to his dad, hates his dad, thinks his dad hates him."

"So you're at a spot T knew," said Milo.

"T pulls him out of the trunk."

"Was Franck conscious?"

"Guess so," said Quinn Glover. "He was making these whimpery sounds, all curled up. T rolls him on his back, says, 'Guess you're not so smart, motherfucker,' and shoots him right here."

Touching the center of a tan, unlined brow. "We tried to push the Vette down into the hole but it doesn't go, so T set it on fire and we booked."

"After putting a baseball cap on the seat."

"T's idea. Sir."

"What was the reason?"

"Blame it on someone else."

"Who?"

"Mexican dude, everyone knew he hated her."

"Hated who?"

"The bi--Ms. Freeman."

"How'd everyone know?"

"Dude told anyone who'd listen. She didn't like him, either."

"Elise Freeman complained about Martin Mendoza?"

"Yeah."