I hurried to the back door, grabbing my service revolver on the way.

This can be a bad neighborhood even for a cop, which I am. I peered out through the foggy andgrimy windowpanes to see who was on our porch steps.

I recognized the young woman. She lived in the Langley projects. Rita Washington was a twenty-three-year-old pipe-head who prowled our streets like a gray ghost. Rita was smart, niceenough, but impressionable and weak. She had taken a very bad turn in her life, lost herlooks, and now was probably doomed.

I opened the door and felt a cold, wet gust of wind slap against my face. There was a lot ofblood on Rita's hands and wrists and on the front of her green fake-leather car coat “Rita,what in hell happened to you?” I asked. I guessed that she'd been gut-shot or stabbed oversome drugs.

“Please, please come with me.” Rita Washington started to cough and sob at the same time. “Itlittle Marcus Daniels,“ she said, and cried even louder. ”He been stabbed! It be real bad! Hecall your name. He ask for you, Dr. Cross.”

“You stay there kids! I'll be right back!” I shouted over Rita Washington's hysterical cries.

“Nana, please watch the kids!” I yelled even louder. “Nana, I have to go out!” I grabbed mycoat and followed Rita Washington into the cold, teeming rain.

I tried not to step on the bright red blood dripping like wet paint all over our porch steps.

CHAPTER 2.

I RAN as fast as I could down Fifth Street. I could feel my heart going whump, whump, whump,and I was sweating profusely in spite of the nasty, steady, cold spring rain. Blood waspounding furiously in my head. Every muscle and tendon in my body was straining, and mystomach clenched real hard.