The sidewalks were still empty when Teasdale got to the car. In the street, glass nuggets glowed in the sun’s last light. Bullet holes dimpled the door. Skirting the back of the car, Teasdale peered through the shattered window.

Blood darkened the windshield and dashboard. A Puff Daddy rap thundered from the Taurus’s speakers.

Off to his right, Teasdale caught the brassy glint of empty cartridge cases on the asphalt. Here’s where the shooting had been done, right here where he was standing, Teasdale figured. He aimed a finger pistol.

Bam… Bam… Bam… Just like that.

Teasdale circled around to get a more direct look into the front seat.

“Why, hello, Skeeter,” Teasdale whispered.

The top of James “Skeeter” Hodges’s head had been blown away.

Teasdale smiled.

Another figure slumped in the passenger seat. Tobias “Pencil” Crawfurd, Skeeter’s number two, was breathing.

Teasdale frowned. He waited a moment.

But Crawfurd kept breathing.

Teasdale sighed.

Inside his house again, he dialed 911. Finished with the call, he settled back to watch the game. Things were getting better. The Orioles were up by one.

“Oh, yes,” Teasdale whispered into the empty room. He smiled.

Ten minutes passed before Officers Antwon Hawkins and Samuel Lawson responded, got Crawfurd on his way to the Hospital Center, and secured the crime scene.

Five minutes later, District of Columbia Metropolitan Police Department homicide detectives Frank Kearney and Jose Phelps arrived.

ONE

Funny,” Jose said.

“Funny funny?”

“Strange funny.” Jose pointed through the windshield. “No spectators.”

Ahead, on Bayless Place, an ambulance and three squad cars, light bars blazing blues and reds, yellow crime-scene tape, and flares like fireballs framed a Taurus with shot-out windows. A regular circus. A sure-fire crowd-draw anywhere.