I told William to meet me in the alley between Fifth and Sixth, on the east side of Pershing Square. Pershing in those days was where LA began its slump towards the homeless camps of the dried-up river.
“”BAM, BAM!” The report from his handgun caused folks to drop to the floor and scurry away like cockroaches seeking cover.”
“Here’s a supercluster of 100,000 galaxies.”
Melanie and Matt drove past their potential client’s house, a white stucco tear-down on a lesser street in one of the most expensive neighborhoods in the country.
Max Renzi was running out of time. Scurrying through the crowd, his beady eyes scanning over the policemen, the TV reporters, the children clogging the sidewalk, he figured he had an hour, maybe two, before D.C. got too hot for him.
He’s a cop. I’m not. It’s a Ride-Along Program. I did one before. With a cop who wouldn’t talk.
“Mr. Funderburke, I think I may be a psychotic serial killer.”
The man sitting in my living room says to me, “I heard what you did for that other guy.”