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A cop was sitting out front, in his squad, the engine running and the internal light on, reading a hard-cover comic. Lucas pulled off a piece of crime-scene tape, let himself in, turned on the lights, put his hands in his pockets, and walked through the place. Problem is, nobody saw the supposed Mexicans. I used to pretend that I was Miss New Jersey. It was just me and her, pretending. That was the second weight pressing down on me today. I should have left someone out there to stand guard. Which was easy for me to say since I had a way out.
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Then she spoke, her voice soft and hesitant and shaded with resignation. She was soft and eager, and hungry for life. It was tucked up across her chest in a way that looked painful. Her face was bruised and one lip was puffy and swollen. One had a navy blue uniform with bright buttons, two wore cigars as part of their disguise.
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She halted in front of Moose and put her hands on her hips. He had no idea what to do, and there was no one he could consult. You saying this is a crime scene.
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