New York to Dallas

himself well in that area.”
    “He’s good,” she said as she sent out the new data. “You’re better.”
    “Yes, of course, but thanks all the same.”
    “We’re on a nice roll here. Let’s keep it going. Let’s go harass some apartment-dwelling Texans.”
    Roarke toasted her with his coffee. “Yee-ha.”
     
     
    The building showed some wear, squatting in the lowering light. The patch of parking on the side apparently doubled as a playground as a bunch of kids ran between and around cars, shouting the way kids always seemed to at play.
    Security was just shy of adequate, but as several windows were wide open to the nonexistent breeze—just inviting a visit from thieves—she assumed nobody cared.
    As she got out of the car one of the kids barreled straight into her.
    “Tag! You’re It!”
    “No, I’m not.”
    He grinned, showing a wide gap where, hopefully, his two front teeth would grow in at some point. “We’re playing Tag. Who are you?”
    “I’m the police.”
    “We play Cops ’n’ Robbers, too. I like being a robber. You can arrest me.”
    “Get back to me in about ten years.”
    She eyed the entrance, eyed the kid. What the hell, you had to start somewhere. She pulled out the ID of Sarajo Whitehead. “Do you know her?”
    “She don’t live here anymore.”
    “But she did.”
    “Yep. Uh-huh. I gotta go tag.”
    “Wait a minute. Did she live by herself?”
    “I guess. She slept a lot. She used to yell out the window for us to stop all that noise ’cause people are trying to sleep. But my ma said that was just too bad ’cause it’s the middle of the day and kids get to play loud as they want outside.”
    “Who’s your ma?”
    “She’s Becky Robbins and my pa’s Jake. I’m Chip. We live on the fourth floor, and I’ve got a turtle named Butch. You wanna see?”
    “Is your mother home?”
    “Course she’s home. Where else? Ma!”
    He shouted, loud and high-pitched so Eve’s ears rang.
    “Jesus, kid.”
    “You shouldn’t oughta say ‘Jesus.’ You should say ‘ Jeez it.’ ”
    “You really think zzz makes a difference?”
    “Ma says so. Ma! ”
    “Christ!”
    “Nuh-uh.” Gap-toothed Chip shook his head. “ ‘Cripes’ is okay, though.”
    “Chip Robbins, how many times have I told you not to yell out for me unless you’re being stabbed with a pitchfork?”
    The woman who stuck her head out the window had her son’s curly dark hair and an aggrieved scowl.
    “But Ma, the police want to talk to you. See?” He grabbed Eve’s hand, waved it with his.
    Eve took hers back, resisted wiping off whatever sticky substance his had transferred. She held up her badge. “Can we come up, Mrs. Robbins?”
    “What’s this about? My boy’s a pain in the behind, but he’s good as gold.”
    “It’s about a former neighbor. If we could come up—”
    “I’ll come down.”
    “Ma doesn’t like to let people she don’t know in the house when my pa’s not home. He’s working late.”
    “Okay.”
    “He drives an airtram, and Ma works at my school. I’m in second grade.”
    “Good for you.” Eve looked to Roarke for help, but he just smiled at her.
    “Are you gonna arrest a robber?”
    “Know any?”
    “My friend Everet stoled a candy bar from the store, but his ma found out and made him go pay for it out of his ’lowance, and he couldn’t have candy or nothing for a whole month. You could arrest him. He’s over there.”
    He pointed, cheerfully ratting out his pal.
    “It sounds like he’s paid his debt to society.”
    Jesus—jeez it—where was the kid’s mother?
    “Talk to him,” Eve suggested, desperately sacrificing Roarke.
    “Okay. Are you the police, too?”
    “Absolutely not.”
    “You talk different,” Chip commented. “Are you from French? The lady at the market is, and she don’t talk like us either. I know a word.”
    “What word?”
    “Bunjore. It means hello.”
    “I know a word.”
    Chip’s grin widened. “What word?”
    “ Dia dhuit . It’s hello where I was born.”
    “Deea-gwit,” Chip repeated, mangling it a bit.
    “Well done.”
    “Chip, stop pestering the police and go play.”
    Becky Robbins had taken time to tame back her hair. She hurried now, her flip-flops flapping as she reached out to tuck an arm around her son’s shoulders. After a quick hug, she made a shooing motion.
    “Okay. Bye!” He raced off, and was immediately absorbed into the running and shouting.
    “What’s going on?” Becky demanded.