“She was found by those guys over there—” He hitched his chin to a sober group of four, two men and two women, who’d been separated from the lookie-loos wandering by. “They’re just partiers on their way home from the Hootin’ Owl, a bar on Decatur,” the officer said.

Bentz nodded. He knew the place.

The officer continued, “They claim they didn’t hear or see anything, just nearly stumbled over her body. But then, they’re pretty wasted.”

Bentz glanced at the two couples, dressed in glittery clothes and looking suddenly sober as judges.

“I’ll talk to them,” Montoya said, easing toward the couples, both African American. The girls rubbed their arms as if chilled to the bone, their eyes wide with fear. Their dates were both tight-lipped and tough-looking. The slimmest girl stared at the body, the other looked away, and the tallest of the group lit a cigarette that he shared with his date, the thin one.

Bentz’s cell phone rang as the crime lab van arrived with Bonita Washington at the wheel. She double-parked behind a cruiser. Inez Santiago, hauling a tool kit, climbed out of one side, while Washington cut the engine of the big rig.

Bentz glanced down at the digital readout on his phone. Police dispatch. No doubt another homicide.

Crap.

“Bentz,” he answered, watching as Bonita, in all her self-important fury, ushered the uniforms and gawkers away from what she considered “her” crime scene. She was an intense black woman with a don’t-mess-with-me attitude and an IQ rumored to be in the stratosphere. She loved her job, was good at it, and didn’t take flack from anyone. Santiago was already taking pictures of the dead girl. Again Bentz’s stomach twisted.

Over the phone, the dispatcher gave him the location and a quick rundown of what looked like a hit-and-run closer to the business district.

“I’ll be there ASAP, as soon as I’m done here,” he said, hanging up.

“Move away,” Washington yelled at one of the uniforms near the yellow tape, waving him off with one hand. “Who the hell has been tromping all over here? Damn it all—Bentz, get these people back, will ya? And you,” she said to the uniformed cop, “don’t let anyone, and I mean not even Jesus Christ himself, across that line, you got that?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Good. Just as long as we understand each other.” She flashed him a smile with zero warmth and got down to the business of collecting samples, gunshot residue, footprints, and fingerprints as the medical examiner’s van pulled up.

“Don’t tell me,” Montoya said as his phone began to play a salsa melody. “Damn.” He checked his watch. “Fifty-three friggin’ minutes into the new year and already two DBs.”

“There’ll be more,” Bentz predicted as he glanced once more at the victim. Two hours ago, this woman had been ready to celebrate the new year.