But that wasn’t the worst, not even close.

“Jesus Christ, Gibby knew her, too.”

His good boy …

His youngest …

Murder cases swept up innocent people all the time. He’d seen it before: prison, shattered lives. Suspicion alone could tip the world on its side. “Damn it, Jason. Can’t you think, just for once? Can’t you make a decent, goddamn choice?”

It sounded unfair, but French had no idea what his oldest son did with his days and nights. Was he still abusing drugs? If so, where did he get them and from whom? Was he violent? Committing crimes? Where did he get money? How did he live? Whispers from other cops said Jason might be involved in something big. Guns, maybe. Or maybe gangs. The only certainty was that minutes led to hours, hours to days, and days to patterns of life. That was the math behind every bad case he’d ever worked. Small decisions. The wrong step. After that, it was all about the road.

French gave himself those seconds—those hard, dark moments of frustration and doubt—then locked the emotion down. He’d bought a few hours.

Not enough …

Going first to the house at Water and Tenth, he found two men on the sofa, hip-deep in chicken wings and beer. Neither had seen Jason for days. “He’s still paying rent?”

“Two months, cash in advance.”

“But he’s not sleeping here?”

“Money is money. I don’t care where he sleeps.”

“Any idea where I can find him?”

“The man has ladies.”

“Who and how many and where?”

“More than us, is all I know.”

Feet went up on the coffee table, and French let his eyes move over the room. The air smelled of grease and smoke and spilled beer. On television, Muhammad Ali was trash-talking some other fighter. “What about a woman named Tyra?”

“Tyra Norris…” One man shook his head. “He won’t be anywhere near that girl…”

“Not after what went down.”

French gauged the interruption, looking from one to the other. “What do you mean?”

“I mean it was a scene, man.”

They shook their heads, and drank beer and watched Ali. It took a minute to get the details, but once they started talking, both men reveled in descriptions of the ruined Mercedes and Tyra in the dirt, of how she’d screamed and pulled a gun, and how her skirt tended to ride up on one side. French raised a hand to slow them down. “Say that last part again.”

“She said your boy fucks women and kills dreams…”

“A direct quote…”

“She was yelling it up and down the street…”

“But she still tried to make out with him…”

“Truth, brother. Like … aggressively.”

“She’s crazy, but crazy hot, you know?”

“Lively, I’d say…”

“Like a wall socket is lively…”

They high-fived. They laughed.

“How did Jason handle it?”