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Just beyond the nose of the Police Interceptor was the perimeter of yellow police tape that was keeping the reporters and onlookers at a distance. Inside it, Dick McCrory and Hal Kennedy were standing at the foot of a row house’s cracked concrete steps.

Payne chuckled.

“What?” Harris said.

“Even in plainclothes, those two look like cops.”

Payne then pointed at the small group of five black teenagers, four males and a female, milling on the corner down at the other end of Clementine, near the intersection of E Street.

“And that crowd of knuckleheads doesn’t seem happy to see The Man on their turf,” Payne added. “Again.”

The crowd, standing in front of Dante Holmes’s grandmother’s row house, were within feet of the faded bloodstain on the sidewalk that crudely marked where the nineteen-year-old had been gunned down thirty-nine hours earlier.

There was an irregular pattern of some twenty holes in the front of the house where the Crime Scene Unit techs had dug out bullets. And, in the house next door, a square of cardboard replaced the windowpane that had been shattered by the stray round that had struck and killed the young girl watching TV beside her brother.

—

As Payne and Harris walked up to the yellow tape in front of the row house, the group of five teenagers watched, their young faces cold and hard beyond their years.

Then suddenly the tallest male, a burly teenager wearing a heavy black North Face goose down parka, began moving in an aggressive manner toward them.

McCrory saw it and started taking steps to cut off the tall, burly teenager.

A news cameraman saw it, too, and turned his lens toward the action.

“Do not come any closer,” McCrory said, using his command voice while holding out his left palm.

Once in front of the teenaged male, McCrory stood with his hands on his hips, his right hand close to his holstered pistol. Payne and Harris were just behind him.

The teenager stopped, then jabbed in Payne’s direction with his right index finger as he practically spat, “Fuck the police! I know who you are!”

Payne’s eyebrows rose.

“Look,” he said evenly, “the last thing I want to do is hurt you. But with that attitude, that damn sure doesn’t mean it’s not on the list.”

Payne flashed a big smile, said in a louder voice, “And you have a nice day, too,” then turned and continued toward the row house.

“You wanna know what we think of the police?” the teenaged male went on loudly, glancing over his shoulder at his buddies, who were nodding their encouragement—the girl making it obvious with her cell phone that she was making a video recording—then looking back at Payne. “We say you’re the enemy! You’re the biggest gang out here.” He then grinned. “And you know what? You’re afraid of us. So fuck you!”

He’s high, McCrory thought. Punk reeks of pot.

McCrory, crossing his arms, made a stern face as he cocked his head to one side.

“So, you about finished?” he said. “If not, I could probably see if you’ve got outstanding warrants or something else you might want to clear up. Pot’s still illegal, you know.”

The teenager puffed his chest.

“Fuck you,” he said.

After a long moment, the teenager then marched triumphantly back to his buddies. They greeted him with high fives and fist bumps.

McCrory turned and caught up to Payne and Harris and Kennedy.

“That bastard is all noise,” McCrory said. “And stoned.”

“Let him back-talk all he wants,” Payne said. “He’s just baiting, hoping he can push buttons and get me to respond. Then he can boast to his buddies that he was the one who pissed off the police and took down that Wyatt Earp Public Enemy Number One guy.”

Payne glanced back at the group.