Ella told the lady cop and the detective all about it as they situated her into the back of a police car with a partition to make sure Ella couldn’t hurt anyone. Ella mapped out Efrim’s entire short life, going back to when Ella held him in her arms right after Lorna birthed him. He was always trouble, like his father. Efrim started dancing when he was two. He used to act big beneath the streetlight out front, with those other boys and all their money.

“I’m going to get your seatbelt on,” the blond detective said, snapping her in and smelling like apples and spices.

The old woman reeked of stale bad hygiene and booze, triggering more images for Brazil. His hands were shaking slightly and not as facile as usual. He didn’t understand what the woman was muttering and gumming and crying about, and every breath smelled like the inside of a Dumpster in the heat. West wasn’t helping a bit now, standing back and watching, making Brazil do the dirty work. His fingers brushed the old woman’s neck and he was startled by how smooth and warm it was.

“You’re going to be all right.” Brazil kept saying what couldn’t possibly be true.

West was not naive. She knew patrol was a problem. How could it not be with Deputy Chief Goode heading it? That beat cops might be a little too rough or simply unprofessional in general wasn’t a shock, but West couldn’t stomach it. She approached the two patrolmen, both older and miserable in their jobs. She got in Smith’s face and remembered being a sergeant and putting up with dead wood like him. As far as she was concerned, he was so low on the food chain, she wouldn’t slop hogs with him.

“Don’t let me ever see or hear of anything like this again,” West said in that low tone that Brazil found scary.

West was close enough to see stubble that looked like sand, and a firestorm of broken blood vessels caused by what Smith did when he wasn’t in a patrol car. His eyes were lifeless on hers, for his building had been vacant for years.

“We’re out here to help, not hurt,” West whispered. “Remember? That goes for you, too,” she added to his partner.

Neither cop had any idea about the boy riding with the deputy chief this night, and they sat inside the cruiser with its hornet’s nest on the doors, watching the midnight-blue Crown Victoria leave. Their prisoner in back was quietly snoring.

“Maybe Deputy Chief Virgin finally found a boyfriend,” said Smith as he peeled open two sticks of Big Red gum.

“Yeah,” said the other cop, “when she gets tired of Romper Room, I’ll show her what she’s missing with the big dogs.”

They laughed, pulling out. Moments later, the scanner announced more bad news.

“Thirteen-hundred block Beatties Ford Road,” it said. “Report of an ambulance held hostage by a subject with a knife.”

“Glad we’re tied up on a call,” Smith said, smacking a mouthful of cinnamon.