“Sounds like another Mission: Impossible,” Sampson said as we walked up G Street, in the general direction of the Marine barracks. “We're on our own. We're supposed to catch a chimera.”

“Nice image,” I said, and had to smile at Man Mountain, his wild imagination, his mind.

“Thought you'd like it, man of culture and refinement that you are.”

We were sipping steaming herb tea from Jimmie's restaurant.

Patrolling the street. We looked like detectives, with our collars up and all. Big bad detectives. I wanted people to see us out working the neighborhood.

“No real leads, no clues, no support,” I said, agreeing with Sampson's judgment of the current state of affairs. “We take the assignment, anyway?”

“We always do,” he said. His eyes were suddenly hard and dull and almost scary to me. “Watch out, Chucky, watch your back. We're right on your sorry mythical ass.”

“Your chimera ass.”

“Exactly so, Sugar. Exactly so.”

IT WAS REAL GOOD to be working the streets of Southeast with Sampson again. It always is, even on a horror-show murder case that can make my blood boil over. Our last big case had taken place in North Carolina and California, but Sampson had been around only for the beginning and end of it. The two of us have been fast friends since we were nine or ten, and growing up in this same neighborhood. We get closer every year it seems. No, we do get closer.

“What's our primary goal here, Sugar?” Sampson asked as we walked along G Street. He had on the black leather car coat, nasty Wayfarer sunglasses, a slick black bandanna. It worked for him.

“How do we know that we did good today?” he asked.

“We get the word out that we're personally looking for the Truth School killer,” I said. "We show our pretty faces around.

Make the families here feel as safe as we can."