“Way to go,” West said to her partner, as Tangine wailed and shrieked.

Brazil missed a step and landed on his ass.

“I’d put a light on if I had one,” Luellen said from the doorway.

The next two hours were spent in the records room. West continued to fill out forms, having no idea that there were so many of them these days. It was astonishing, and she was unfamiliar with anyone back here tonight, and all were rude and not inclined to respect West’s rank. Were she paranoid, she might have suspected a conspiracy, as if someone had instructed the clerks to give the deputy chief a bad dose, to stick her but good. Mostly, West got their backs as they typed and sipped their Frescas and Diet Cokes. West could have asserted herself but didn’t. She entered the missing person information in NCIC herself.

She and Brazil rode around for a while in the Midland area, hoping they might spot the small adopted son with bad skin and Hornets cap. They drove slowly past kids hanging out on corners, and beneath streetlights, hateful eyes following. Wheatie remained at large, and as the evening wore on, Brazil had developed a relationship with him. Brazil imagined Wheatie’s wretched life, his loneliness and anger. What chance did anyone like that have? Nothing but bad examples and cops out there like cowboys waiting to lasso and round him up.

Brazil’s early years weren’t perfect, either, but there was no comparison. He had tennis courts and nice neighbors. Davidson security treated him like family, and he was always welcome to visit their small brick precinct and listen to their stories and gossip and exaggerations. They made him feel special when he came in. The same was true at the laundry with its rooftop of tangled rusting metal from students picking up laundry and tossing the wire hangers up there, where they stayed for years. Doris, Bette, and Sue always had time for Brazil. The same could be said in the snack bar, the M&M soda shop, the bookstore, anywhere he went, really.

Wheatie had never experienced any of this and quite likely never would. At the very moment West was reprimanding a driver for not wearing a seatbelt, Wheatie was jailing with his heroes in the slums off Beatties Ford Road. There were three friends, all years older than Wheatie. His pals had big pants, big shoes, big guns, and big rolls of cash in their pockets. They were high-fiving, laughing, soaring on wings of smoke. Yes sir, the night had been good, and for one sweet minute, that hollow, hurtful spot in Wheatie’s heart was full and feeling fine.

“Give me a gun, I’ll go work for you,” he said to Slim.

“Little piece like you?” Slim laughed. “Uh uh.” He shook his head. “I give you a job, you get spanked and I end up with nothing.”

“Bullshit,” Wheatie said in his biggest, boasting tone. “Nobody fuck with me.”

“Yeah, you bad,” said Tote.