Or whose butt she was going to have to kick.

At the south side of Seward Square, she stopped to catch a breath and look around. This was most likely a wild goose chase, but she was too pissed to just sit home and file a police report like somebody else might do. Somebody sane.

And then —

“Well, I’ll be damned.”

There was the mugger, squatting in the shade of an old cherry tree in the middle of the square. Didn’t even have the sense to make herself scarce.

This had to be her. Nana had been pretty specific — red Hollister hoodie, brown denim shorts to the knees, dirty white ball cap, and a pair of ridiculous-looking white plastic shades that were too big to be anything but stolen.

Way to blend in, girlie.

She looked all kinds of stupid, but the girl did know enough to leap up and bolt as soon as she saw Bree, who was clearly on a mission. She sprang away on a pair of long skinny legs, going straight up Pennsylvania in the direction of the Hill.

She was quick, too. But she had probably never ran NCAA track, had she?

Once Bree had her on a straightaway, it took less than half a block to close the gap to an arm’s reach. She nabbed the girl by the hood and practically yanked her off her feet as they came to a stop and near collision.

The little thief didn’t weigh anything inside those baggy clothes. And her height was deceptive. Up close, she looked even younger than Jannie. She was maybe twelve years old, could be thirteen.

“Get off me!” she screamed, scrambling to get away. “Help! Somebody call the damn po-lice!”

Bree’s badge was already out and in the girl’s face. The Glock, she left in its holster.

“I am the damn police, little girl. Now turn around! You knocked down the wrong grandmother.”

She put the girl up against the wall of a corner Exxon and gave her the full treatment. There was nothing down her sides, nothing in the hoodie’s pouch when she squeezed it. But then she felt something in the front right pocket of the shorts.

“Is that a credit card?”

“Yeah,” the girl said over her shoulder. “My mama’s card, okay? We done here?”

Bree stepped back, but not more than arm’s length. “Show me,” she said.

“Bite me,” the girl snapped. “I don’t gotta.”

“You know what? Screw it.”

She grabbed the young suspect by the arm and reached into the pocket herself. So much for the Fourth Amendment. It was too hot for this nonsense.

Sure enough, she pulled out a sweaty wad of three twenties and a familiar-looking Visa card. The name embossed across the front was Regina Cross.

“Your mama’s, huh?”

“All right, all right!” The girl didn’t miss a beat. “Some kid down the street gave it to me. I swear to Jesus Our Lord and Saviour! Right over there!” She pointed back toward the square.