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"Yeah, you would." She punched me on the arm with her little fist.
We walked across the dirt street to the Buick. On the other side of the vacant lot I could hear freight cars knocking together. I opened all four doors of the Buick and began throwing out the floor mats, tearing up the carpet, raking trash out from under the seats while Rosie hunted in the grass along the rain ditch.
Nothing.
I sat on the edge of the backseat and wiped the sweat out of my eyes. I felt tired all over and my hands were stiff and hard to open and close. In fact, I felt just like I had a hangover. I couldn't keep my thoughts straight, and torn pieces of color kept floating behind my eyes.
"Dave, listen to me," she said. "What you say happened is what happened. Otherwise you would have taken up your friend on his offer."
"Maybe I should have."
"You're not that kind of cop. You never will be, either."
I didn't answer.
"What'd your friend call it?" she asked.
"A 'throw-down.' Sometimes cops call it a 'drop.' It's usually a .22 or some other piece of junk with the registration numbers filed off." I got up off the seat and popped the trunk. Inside, I found a jack handle. I drove the tapered end into the inside panel of the back door on the driver's side.
"What are you doing?" Rosie said.
I ripped the paneling away to expose the sliding frame and mechanism on which the window glass had been mounted.
"Let me show you something," I said and did the same to the inside panel on the driver's door. "See, both windows on this side of the car were rolled partially up. That's why my first rounds blew glass all over the place."
"Yes?"
"Why would the shooter try to fire through a partially opened window?"
"Good question."
I walked around to the passenger side of the Buick. The carpet had a dried brown stain in it, and a roach as long and thick as my thumb was crawling across the stiffened fibers.
"But this window is all the way down," I said. "That doesn't make any sense. It had already started to rain. Why would this woman sit by an open window in the rain, particularly in the passenger seat of her own car?"
"It's registered to Amber Martinez?"
"That's right. According to Lou Girard, she was a hooker trying to get out of the life. She also did speedballs and was ninety pounds soaking wet. Does that sound like a hit artist to you?"
"Then why was she in the car? What was she doing here?"
"I don't know."
"What did the homicide investigator have to say last night?"
"He said, 'A .45 sure does leave a hole, don't it?' "
"What else?"
"He said, 'Did you have to come over to Lafayette to fall in the shithouse?' "
"Look at me," she said.
"What?"
"How much sleep did you get last night?"
"Two or three hours."
