Warrick swiveled that way but stayed on the sidewalk. He said nothing.
The voice from the darkness said, "You lookin' for somethin'? Or you jus' lost?"
"That depends. What kinda map you sellin'?"
A figure took a step closer, remaining in the shadows, but now visible as a slight, sketchy presence. "Roadmap to bliss, bro-happiness highway."
Warrick settled into place on the sidewalk. "Who couldn't use a little happiness?"
The guy took another step toward the light. Warrick got a better look at him now: a tall, gangly man in a silk running suit, a Dodgers stocking cap perched atop a tangle of dreadlocks. Just a kid, Warrick thought, maybe twenty-one tops.
"You lookin' for happiness, I got it. Just not out there, man-light hurts my eyes. Ease on down the road."
After a glance around, Warrick stepped out of the pale circle of streetlamp light, and into the shadows in front of the guy…
…who fit the intern's description of Lil Moe like a latex glove. Long time since I hit a jackpot in this town, Warrick thought.
The dealer was saying, "What kind of happiness you in the market for?"
"You might be surprised what makes me happy."
"Hey, bro-I'm strictly pharmaceutical…strange sex stuff, try the yellow pages."
"Not sex, Moe…"
Eyes and nostrils flared. "How you know my name? I never done bidness with you."
"Information, Moe-that's all I want."
"You want infor mation from me? Do I look like a fuckin' search engine? What am I, some Yahoo Google shit?"
Lil Moe snapped his fingers, and before Warrick could move, a third party grabbed his left arm, wrenched it behind him, and pain streaked up his arm, spiking in his shoulder. He heard a sharp metallic snick, and suddenly felt the point of a blade dimple his throat, next to his Adam's apple. He froze-and hoped to hell that somewhere Brass was watching this, somewhere close, calling in some backup.
"I'm gonna ask you again, homey," Lil Moe said, moving in on Warrick, the dealer's face contorted, waving his hand like a pissed off rapper. "Why you want information from me?"
The knife pressed deeper, and Warrick felt the sting before something warm began trickling down his neck. Behind him, whoever held his arm was strong, and kept Warrick's hand high between his shoulder blades, the muscles stretching and ready to explode, if the assailant snapped the bone.
In front of Warrick, the young man in the Dodger stocking cap hopped from foot to foot, as if the sidewalk were a bed of coals under his expensive sneakers. "Who sent you, man? What's this about?"
Forcing himself to slow his breathing and to remain calm despite the situation, Warrick's mind raced over possible outcomes-most of them grim.
"I'll pay for what I want," Warrick managed.
"Oh, you gonna pay, all right! Who you workin' for? You with Danny G?"
His unseen assailant's breathing came in sharp, rapid gulps, breath hot on Warrick's neck and reeking of liquor and garlic. The assailant sucked his teeth as if trying to control his salivating over the urge to plunge the blade into Warrick's throat.
And the dealer was singsonging, "You better fuckin' talk, boy, while you got your vocal cords."
Rasping, his voice little more than a hoarse whisper, Warrick asked, "You don't wanna cut me."
Looking older suddenly, Lil Moe eyeballed the CSI, the anger shining through even in the darkness. "Aw fuck this, Tony-fuckin' cut him, man!"
Even as Warrick tensed for the cold invasion of steel, he felt the pressure go slack on his arm and the blade drew away from his neck. Then he heard steel clatter to sidewalk, followed by Brass's quiet voice saying, "Smart move-and I didn't even have to tell you to drop it."
Lil Moe's eyes went wild, his mouth dropped open; no words exited, but he did: spinning on his heel, he ran like a starting gun had sounded. Turning, Warrick saw his assailant, a wiry black kid, this one in baggy UNLV jersey and baggier jeans and no more than sixteen, the nose of Brass's automatic kissing the boy's right temple.
"You just gonna stand there bleeding?" Brass asked Warrick. "Or are you gonna go catch him?"
Warrick took this gentle hint, and spun and sprinted after the drug dealer.
Moe had a good twenty-yard head start. But he was also stoned and pumping his arms wildly, his knees pistoning up and down, his stride lengths varying as the drugs kept him from running smoothly. And instead of heading toward the mass of buildings to the east, where he would have had options for escape and possibly obstacles to benefit his youth, he had taken off across the vast expanse of the parking lot.
Before he'd got halfway to Tropicana Avenue, Moe started to slow, and-by the far side of the lot-Warrick caught up and grabbed his jacket, slowing him as they both ran. "Stop!…It's over!"
Lil Moe fought frantically with the zipper, trying to escape the jacket and still keep running at the same time. The drugs prevented him from doing either very effectively. Suddenly lurching to the right, Moe snatched the jacket from Warrick's grasp, but tumbled, elbows and feet flying at odd angles, and he whumped onto the cement and rolled and came to a skidding stop at the parking-lot curb, in a fetal position, one hand going to his face, the other arm wrapping around ribs that were at least cracked if not broken.
Barely breathing hard, Warrick bent down over him. "That's it-there ain't no Moe."
Sweat beading on his face and looking like he couldn't decide whether to bawl or vomit, the young man stared up, all the fight gone from his face. "Okay, man, okay-so I'm Lil Moe. You five-oh?"
Warrick grinned. "Criminalist."
"What-the-fuck 'ist'?"
"Don't sweat the details-you're still in a world of trouble."
Brass strolled up, towing the other one by his elbow, the kid's hands cuffed behind him. "Brown-you caught him," the detective said, looking very pleased. "Nice job."
Touching the small wound on his neck, Warrick returned his attention to Lil Moe. "You got a customer named Owen Pierce?"
The young man was shaking his head before Warrick finished the question. "Never heard of the dude and I ain't sayin' shit till I see my lawyer."
Looking down at the dealer, Brass asked, "You got a name?"
"Told you! Talk to my lawyer."
"He admits he's Lil Moe," Warrick said.
"What's your real name?" Brass asked.
"Lawyer me up, or kick me, Barney Fife!"
Brass sighed. "Who's your lawyer?"
Lil Moe shrugged. "P.D. my ass."
Brass rolled his eyes and Warrick felt himself growing very weary. Public defender-this was going to be a long night.
"I got Band-Aids in the glove compartment," Brass said.
Warrick said, "I've been cut worse shaving."
"Probably." Brass managed one of his rumpled smiles. "But that you can't brag about."
And they hauled the drug dealer and his scrawny "muscle" back to the Taurus.
12
AT JUST BEFORE TWO A.M., WAITING IN THE PARKING LOT for Catherine Willows and Sara Sidle, Detective Erin Conroy for the umpteenth time questioned the wisdom of her decision to apply for a police position in Las Vegas. How glamorous it had sounded, how inviting the travel books had made the desert mecca seem, how foolishly she had booked Rat Pack-era images into the theater of her mind.
Only recently had Erin admitted to herself that she missed her family-her folks, her sister and husband; and almost immediately she'd longed for the changing of the seasons. There were no beautiful autumn colors in Nevada, no leaves putting on their last mighty show before exiting to make way for the white blanket of winter-no sledding, no sleigh rides…and you could get hot chocolate, sure, but what was the point?