Cohen shook his head. “Rome, they’re a good six feet apart.” He swung a finger from Mitchum’s skinny form to Frigerator’s mass. “And see how Frige’s arm is bent at the elbow with his hand above his head?”

Leetch scratched his mop of curly black hair. “You think he was holding a gun?”

Cohen nodded.

“Maybe. Maybe not.” Leetch eyed Cohen steadily. “Where are you going with this, KC?”

“There’s no powder residue on either of them. These two weren’t shot from close range, execution style.” Cohen cocked his finger and fired an imaginary bullet into the site of Mitchum’s wound. He glanced over to Leetch.”Rome, I think we’re looking at the losing side in a gunfight.”

“Okay, say we are,” Leetch said. “What’s the big deal? These guys go to war over pocket change.”

“But this scene is too tidy for a war.”

Recognition crept into Leetch’s expression. “Yeah …”

Cohen straightened up to his full height. “Guys like these …” he sighed. “They unload their automatics like they’re paid by the bullet. They may or may not hit the intended target, but you’d be hard pressed to find an intact window or an inflated tire for a couple blocks.”

“True enough.” Leetch chuckled. “And the CSI boys didn’t find a single stray slug. This was the work of a very qualified hitter, wasn’t it?”

Cohen tilted his head from side to side. “Makes you wonder.”

“Who would waste money on such a pro for those two losers?” Leetch thumbed at the bodies.

“Don’t know,” Cohen answered distractedly. The shooting troubled him. With most pristine crime scenes, he could reenact events as they unfolded in his mind’s eye. This one was different. He had no feel for it. He wasn’t even certain whether the two victims had walked into an ambush or initiated the fight that led to their deaths.

“Detectives,” someone yelled.

Cohen looked over to see a uniformed cop hailing them from the other end of the lane.

“What you got?” Leetch called out to him.

“A witness,” the cop called back and pointed to the building. “Maybe.”

Still lost in his thoughts, Cohen followed Leetch to the other end of the alley. Littered with Dumpsters, parking stalls, and loading docks, in the brightening morning light it could have passed for any commercial lane. A far cry from the gathering point for addicts and drunks that Cohen knew it transformed into after sunset.