Bettina, still on the job, was having some substance issues herself in the wake of her divorce, and now I preferred to work alone.

Well, there was nothing for it but to go ahead. I was here now. And Keeshiana Jefferson needed help now. I had to go in and assess how bad it was. I took a step off the curb.

"Hey."

I turned, stepped back, double-taking at the absolutely impossible sight of another white guy in this neighborhood. Then, the features congealed into something vaguely then very familiar. "Dev?" I said. "Devin Juhle?" Juhle had been the shortstop to my second base on my high school team. Before college separated us, he'd probably been my best friend.

The other man broke an easy if slightly perplexed grin, then his own recognition kicked in. "Wyatt? What are you doing here?"

"Working," I said, more or less automatically reaching for my wallet, my identification. "I'm with CPS. Child Protective Services."

"I know what CPS is. I'm a cop."

"You're not."

"Am, too."

"You're not dressed like a cop."

"I'm an inspector. We don't wear a uniform. I'm with homicide."

I threw a quick look across the street. "You're saying I'm too late, then?"

"For what?"

"Keeshiana Jefferson."

"Never heard of her."

A rush of relief swept over me. At least Keeshiana wasn't the victim in the homicide Dev was investigating. I might be in time after all. "Well, hey," I said, "good to see you, but I got a gig in there."

Juhle put a hand on my arm. "You're not going in there alone?"

"That's my plan." Seeing Juhle's concern, I added, "Not to worry, Dev. I do this every day."

"Here?"

"Here, there, everywhere."

"And do what?"

"Talk to people mostly. Sometimes take a kid out."

Juhle cast a worried glance over to the projects, then back to me. "Are you packing?"

"A gun?" I chortled and spread the sides of my parka wide open. "Just cookies and chips in case somebody's hungry. I really gotta go."