No one would tell him anything except that he had committed a class one misdemeanor by concealing a weapon from common view, a weapon that Budget had freed from beneath the seat and checked to see how many cartridges were inside the cylinder. With growing panic Bubba watched a tow truck turn off Midlothian Turnpike and park beside his Jeep.

Bubba tapped his manacled hands against his window. Budget glared in at him. West stopped talking. Bubba tapped again. Budget opened the front passenger’s door and leaned inside the car.

“What?” Budget asked in a most unfriendly way.

“I need to use the bathroom,” Bubba lowered his voice because he didn’t want West to hear.

“Yeah, yeah,” Budget said with no compassion.

“I can’t wait,” Bubba quietly told him.

“You’re gonna have to.”

“Can’t.” Bubba gritted his teeth, pressing his buttocks tightly together.

“Too bad.” Budget shut the door.

Hammer rolled up in her midnight-blue Crown Victoria as a detective and two crime-scene technicians searched for evidence. The twenty-four-hour money stop had been cordoned off with yellow tape, and two more officers were standing sentry around a red Jeep Cherokee. West and another officer were talking by a patrol car, a suspect in back.

Hammer parked and got out as a blue medical examiner’s van turned off Midlothian Turnpike and drove slowly through the Kmart parking lot, heading to the crime scene.

“Chief.” Budget greeted Hammer.

“What’s going on?” Hammer asked West.

“We’ve got a white female shot in the head behind the Kmart, found at 0832 hours inside her vehicle, a baby in the back seat, strapped in a car seat.”

“God,” Hammer said. “The baby all right?”

“Screaming, seems feverish,” West replied.

“How young?” Hammer asked.

She stared through the patrol car window at the suspect, a white man with thinning brown hair and a pudgy, flushed face. She thought he looked rather ill.

“I’d say less than a year old,” Budget replied. “Child Protective Services just removed her from the scene, taking her to Chippenham Hospital to make sure she’s okay while we try to find next of kin.”

“We might have a lead on that,” West said. “There was a note in the victim’s purse. Possibly written by the mother. Something about the baby’s doctor whose office might be on Pump Road. The note refers to a sick baby named ‘Loraine.’ We’re also making arrangements for temporary foster care, which we hope we won’t need.”

Hammer stared at the red Jeep, noting the Confederate flag bumper sticker. She noted the BUB-AH vanity plate. She took a closer look at the suspect. He was shirtless and wearing camouflage pants.

“What’s the victim’s name?” Hammer asked.

Budget flipped back pages of his notepad.

“Ruby Sink,” he said. “Seventy-two years old with a Church Hill address.”

“Miss Sink?” Hammer interrupted in horror. “Oh my God! She’s one of my neighbors. I can’t believe it.”

“You knew her?” Budget was startled.

“Not well. Dear God! She’s on the Hollywood Cemetery board of directors. I just talked to her.”