Martinez gave him the number while taking a big bite out of his turkey, tomato, and mustard sandwich, rye bread crumbs sprinkling his steel-wool mustache. He had been thinking about shaving it off now that it was more gray than black. But his wife told him that after all these years of something draping over his mouth, he probably had no upper lip left. “Any particular reason why Decker is using Homicide Dees for this?”

“Probably because I was in the squadroom.” He looked at his partner’s sandwich. “You carryin’ an extra one, Bertie?”

“Oh, sure.” Martinez pulled a second sandwich out of a paper bag. “You didn’t eat lunch?”

“When did I have time?” He attacked the food, wolfing half down in three bites. “Decker cornered me just as I was hangin’ up on the widow Gonzalez. The loo has a boner for this one.”

“Yeah, it’s personal.”

“It’s personal. It’s also very ugly, especially after the Furrow shooting at the JCC and the murder of the Filipino mail carrier. I think the loo wants to show the world that the police are competent beings.”

“Nothing wrong with us bagging a bunch of punks.” Martinez finished his sandwich and washed it down with a Diet Coke. “You know anything about these jokers?”

“Just what’s on the printout. They’ve been around for a while. A bunch of nutcases.”

Webster slowed in front of a group of businesses dominated by a 99 Cents store advertising things in denomination of—you guessed it—ninety-nine cents. The corner also housed a Payless shoe store, a Vitamins-R-Us, and a Taco Tio whose specialty was the Big Bang Burrito. Cosmology with heartburn: that was certainly food for thought. “I don’t see any Preservers of Ethnic Integrity.”

“The address is a half-number,” Martinez said. “We should try around the side of the building.”

Webster turned the wheel and found a small glass entrance off the 99 Cents store, the door’s visibility blocked by a gathered white curtain. No address, but an intercom box had been set into the plaster. Webster parked, and they both got out. Martinez rang the bell, which turned out to be a buzzer.

The intercom spat back in painful static. “We’re closed for lunch.”

“Police,” Martinez barked. “Open up!”