People were scrambling and shouting around me. I didn’t see anyone with a gun. No one in the lot had a gun in his hand. I didn’t see anyone armed on the road or in the building. Howie seemed to be the only victim.

Lula ran to me with a big bag of food in one hand and a large chocolate shake in her other hand. “Holy crap,” she said, eyes bugged out, looking down at Howie. “Holy moly. Holy Jesus and Joseph. Holy cow.”

I eased away from the body, not wanting to crowd Howie, needing some distance from the shooting. I wanted to make time stand still, to back up ten minutes and change the course of events. I wanted to blink and have Howie still be alive.

Sirens screamed on the highway behind us and Lula furiously sucked on the shake. “I can’t get anything up this freakin’ straw,” she shrieked. “Why do they give you a straw if you can’t suck anything up it? Why don’t they give you a goddamn spoon? Why do they make these things so freakin’ thick anyways? Shakes aren’t supposed to be solid. This here’s like trying to suck up a fish sandwich.

“And don’t think I’m hysterical, either,” Lula said. “I don’t get hysterical. You ever see me hysterical before? This here’s transference. I read about it in a magazine. It’s when you get upset about one thing only you’re really upset about something else. And it’s different from hysterical. And even if I was hysterical, which I’m not, I’d have a perfect right. This guy got shot dead in front of you. If you’d have moved an inch to the left you probably would have lost an ear. And he’s dead. Look at him. He’s dead! I hate dead.”

I grimaced at Lula. “Good thing you’re not hysterical.”

“You bet your sweet ass,” Lula said.

A Trenton PD blue and white angled to a stop, lights flashing. Seconds later, another blue and white pulled in. Carl Costanza was riding shotgun in the second car. He rolled his eyes when he saw me and reached for the radio. Calling Joe, I thought. His partner, Big Dog, ambled over.

“Holy crap,” Big Dog said when he saw Howie. “Holy moly.” He looked over at me and winced. “Did you shoot him?”

“No!”

“I got to get out of here,” Lula said. “Cops and dead people give me diarrhea. Anybody wants to talk to me, they can send me a letter. I didn’t see anything anyway. I was getting extra sauce for my chicken nuggets. I don’t suppose you’d want to give me your car keys?” she asked me. “I’m starting to feel transference coming on again. I need a doughnut. Calm me down.”

Costanza was pushing people around, laying out crime scene tape. An EMS truck arrived, followed by a plainclothes cop car and Morelli’s POS.

Morelli jogged over to me. “Are you okay?”

“Pretty much. I’m a little rattled.”

“No bullet holes?”