I glance back at Nix, who’s smiling at a cloud pattern overhead.

“Excuse me, but… I was wondering if I could ask you a couple of questions?”

“About that over there? I didn’t see nothing.”

“What about earlier?” I ask. “You notice them driving up in that SUV?”

“Last night you mean? I was out there in the yard. Octavio pulled up, and he had some others with him. Little Hector, I think, and someone else. They rolled down the window and whistled.” If she was flattered by the attention, she gives no sign now. “They don’t stay there or nothing like that. It’s just their party pad.”

“Did they have a woman with them?”

“People’s always coming and going. I told the other policeman already.”

“Well, thanks.”

On the way to my car, I give Nix my best Clint Eastwood glare.

He smiles back at me. “Anytime, Detective.”

I don’t know which I prefer more, being ignored or jerked around.

In spite of my reptilian tolerance for heat, the air-conditioning back on the sixth floor feels great, especially given the white Freon my car’s been spitting out in lieu of cool air. This is Homicide, the nerve center, humming as always with quiet intensity. The clack of keyboards is a constant, the hum of conversation. For the most part, though, the cubicles stand empty. Only a few detectives have trickled back in, filling mugs with coffee, combing the break room for anything not too stale, reviewing notes in anticipation of the big briefing.

We aren’t what you’d expect. Watching television, you might think we’re all scientists with guns, working our cases with calibrated precision. But we make mistakes just like anyone, and all that technical jargon can be a coping mechanism, an alternative to dark humor. Some guys like to crack jokes over the corpse, and others like to talk about castoff and trajectories and residue. We’re only human, after all, and the job gets to us sometimes.