'What does that mean? Retribution?'

Morelli turned to me and our eyes held. 'Could be anything,' he said. 'Could be death.'

A greasy wave of undefined emotion slid through me. I suspected fear was heavy in the mix. I didn't know a lot about gangs, but I was coming up to speed fast. I hadn't felt especially threatened by gang-related crime three days ago. Now it was sitting at my curb, and it didn't feel good.

'You're exaggerating, right?' I asked.

'Executions are a part of gang culture. Gangs have been steadily on the rise in Trenton, and the murder rate has been rising with them. It used to be that the gangs were small and composed of kids looking to have a local identity. Now the gangs have their roots in the prison system and have national affiliations. They control the drug sales and territories. They're violent. They're unpredictable.

They're feared in their communities.'

'I knew there was a problem. I didn't know it was that bad.'

'It's not something we like to talk about since we're at a loss how to fix it.' Morelli pushed me into the house and closed the door. 'I want you to stay here today until I get some intel on this. I'm going to have the Buick picked up and impounded in the police garage, so someone from the street gangs task force can take a look at it.'

'You can't take the Buick. How will I get to work?'

Morelli tapped me gently on the forehead with his index finger.

'Anybody home in there? Look at that car. Do you want to drive that car around?'

'I've driven around in worse.' And that was the honest-to-God sad truth. How pathetic is that?

'Humor me, okay? Stay in the house. You should be safe here. To my knowledge, the Slayers have never burned down a house.'

'Just a deli,' I said.

'Yeah. A deli.'

We both thought about that for a moment. Morelli took my car keys from my purse and left. I locked the front door and went to the living-room window to watch Morelli pull away in his SUV.

'How are we going to go for a walk?' I asked Bob. 'How am I going to do my job? What will I do all day?'

Bob was pacing in front of the door, looking desperate.

'You're going to have to do it in the backyard today,' I said, not all that unhappy about missing the walk. Bob pooped everywhere in the morning, and I got the privilege of carting it home. It's hard to enjoy a walk when you've got a big bag of poop in your hand.

I hooked Bob up to his backyard leash and tidied the kitchen. By one o'clock the bed was made, the floors were clean, the toaster was polished, the laundry was washed, dried, and folded, and I was cleaning out the fridge. At some point when my back was turned, the Buick disappeared from the curb.

'Now what?' I said to Bob.

Bob looked thoughtful, but he didn't come up with anything, so I called Morelli. 'Now what?' I said to Morelli.

'It's only one o'clock,' he said. 'Give me a break. We're working on it.'

'I polished the toaster.'

'Un huh. Listen, I have to go now.'

'I'm going nuts here!'

There was a disconnect and then a dial tone.

I still had the phone in my hand when it rang.

'What's going on?' Connie wanted to know. 'Are you sick? You always check in at the office by now.'

'I have a car problem.'

'And? You want me to send Lula?'

'Sure. Send Lula.'

Ten minutes later, Lula's red Firebird was idling in front of Morelli's house.

'Looks like Morelli got his house decorated,' Lula said.

'It appears Eugene Brown didn't enjoy getting flipped off my hood.'

'I didn't get none of this gang crap on my house, so it looks like you're the only one he's holding a grudge against. I guess that's on account of I was just an innocent passenger.'

I gave Lula the squinty-eyed death glare.

'Don't you look at me like that,' Lula said. 'You should be happy for me that I'm not involved in this. Anyways, Vinnie's not happy either. He said there's just five days left to get Roger Bankers ass hauled into court, or he's gonna be out the bond.'

If I had a quarter for every time I tried to snag Roger Banker, I could go to Bermuda for a week. Banker was as slippery as they come. He was a repeat offender, so he knew the drill. I couldn't feed him a load of baloney about just going down to the court to reschedule. He knew once the cuffs were on him, he was going to jail. He was unemployed, living off an indeterminate number of loser girlfriends and loser relatives. And he was hard to spot.

Banker had no memorable features. Banker was like the invisible man. I once stood next to him at a bar and didn't recognize him.

Lula and I had been collecting photographs of him and committing the photographs to memory with hopes that would help.

'Okay,' I said, let's make the rounds. Maybe we'll get lucky.'

The rounds consisted of Lowanda Jones, Beverly Barber, Chermaine Williamson, and Marjorie Best. There were other people and places to include in the Banker hunt, but Lowanda, Beverly, Chermaine, and Marjorie were my top picks. They all lived in the projects just north of the police station. Lowanda and Beverly were sisters. They lived four blocks apart, and they were a car crash. Lula cruised into the projects. 'Who's first up?' Lula asked.

'Lowanda.'

The projects covered a large chunk of Trenton real estate that was less than prime. A lot less than prime. The buildings were redbrick, government-issue low rise. The fencing was industrial chain-link. The cars at the curb were junkers.

'Good thing for the gang graffiti or this would be real drab,' Lula said. 'Wouldn't you think they could grow grass? Hell, plant a bush.'

I suspected even God would have a hard time landscaping the projects. The ground was as hard and as blighted as the lives of the people who lived here.

Lula turned onto Kendall Street and parked two doors down from Lowanda's garden apartment. The term garden being used loosely. We'd been here before so we knew the layout. It was a ground-floor unit with one bedroom and seven dogs. The dogs were of varying sizes and ages. All of indeterminate breed. All of them horny buggers willing to hump anything that moved.

We got out of the car cautiously, on the lookout for the pack of beasts. 'I don't see any of Lowanda's dogs,' Lula said.

'Maybe they're locked up in the house.'

'Well, I'm not going in if they're in the house. I hate those dogs. Nasty-assed humpers. What's she thinking, anyway, to keep a pack of pervert dogs like that?'

We knocked once. No answer.

'I know she's in there,' Lula said. 'I can hear her talking, doing business.'

Lowanda did phone sex. She didn't look like she was rolling in money, so I was guessing she wasn't all that good at the job. Or maybe she just spent her money on beer, cigarettes, and chicken nuggets. Lowanda ate a lot of chicken nuggets. Lowanda ate chicken nuggets like Carol Cantell ate Cheez Doodles.

I knocked again and tried the doorknob. The door wasn't locked.

I held the door open a crack, and Lula and I peeked in. No dogs in sight.

'Not likely Banker's in here,' Lula said, following me through the front door. 'The door would be locked up. And anyway, jail would look good compared to this pigpen.'

We stepped over a suspicious stain on the rug and stared into the jumbled mess that passed for Lowanda's home. There was a mattress on the floor in the far corner of the living room. The mattress was covered with a tattered yellow chenille spread. An open, empty pizza delivery box was on the floor by the mattress.

Clothes and shoes were scattered everywhere. A couple rickety folding chairs had been set up in the living room. The backs of the chairs said 'Morten's Funeral Parlor.' A big brown leather recliner had been placed in front of the television. The recliner had a gash in one arm and in the seat, and some of the stuffing was spilling out.