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“Hampton is ten kinds of pissed-off. He ain’t happy he got a broken leg from the fall. But he’s really furious about his partner—the four-legged one—getting hurt. Other than that, he’s okay, I guess.”
“And what about the horse?” Payne said.
“His name’s Wyatt—”
“As in . . . ?” Payne interrupted.
“Yeah. As in Earp.”
“You’re not pulling my chain . . .”
“You’re an Eagle Scout, right?”
Payne nodded. “Proud of it.”
“Then Scout’s Honor—I made it to Life rank—it’s meant as an honor, like they say yours is. But no direct connection to you. Anyway, they had to tranquilize Wyatt. The vet came and carried him back to his shop. They’re saying he should be okay.”
Tony Harris walked up.
“Hey, Harv,” he said.
“Just in time, Tony. I was about to tell M
att the interesting—”
“Hold that thought,” Payne interrupted, holding up his index finger. He looked at Harris. “What did you say to Wonder Woman Ace Reporter back there?”
He gestured toward Raychell Meadow, who was doing a live shot with the cameraman back at the yellow police tape. Nearby, more bright lights illuminated another five television reporters and camera crews as they jockeyed for their angles.
“Not a damn thing. I followed your lead, Sergeant Payne . . . Fearless leader, sir.”
“Good,” Payne said, and looked at Harvey. “For future reference, Detective, should you find yourself so confronted, that is how one effectively handles the media.”
“Don’t say a damn thing?”
“Exactly. Now, Carlos, you were saying . . . ?”
Detective Harvey Simpson, grinning, shook his head.
“Okay, so, here’s the deal,” he said. “The Crime Scene guys were unable to find any weapons—”
“And they clearly made a damn thorough search,” Payne interrupted, tilting his head toward the pile of filth that had been dredged from the storm drain.
Simpson went on: “They did collect the usual spent casings on the street in the general area where the shooter—make that shooters, plural—”
“Plural?” Payne said.
Simpson nodded. “Plural. That’s what I meant by interesting. There were live rounds and blanks fired.”
“Blanks?” Harris parroted.
Simpson nodded.
“I’ll get to that in a moment. I say general area of where the shooters would have been in the crowd because who the hell knows how many times the casings were kicked as people fled. All were flattened in some way, both from the .38 cal live rounds and from the nine-mil blanks. But the only bullet holes that were in what we gauged to be the field of fire, which is to say the row houses here”—he made a sweeping motion in the direction of the red pagoda roof—“were not from today.”
“Old ones, huh?” Payne said. “I’m shocked—shocked—there’s been gunplay in the hood.”
Simpson pointed at a spot on the exterior wall under the red pagoda roof.
