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The next thing I knew they were shooting at us.”
    â€œThey? How many were there?”
    â€œAt least two. One driving and the one with the gun.”
    â€œDid you get a look at either of them?”
    Dana shook her head, sending pain dancing along her scalp. She shut her eyes for a moment until it passed. “No. The windows were tinted black and I was too busy staring at the gun to see anything else.”
    â€œDid you get a license plate?”
    â€œNo.” As a nurse she was trained to be observant and it galled her that she couldn’t remember any information that would help in finding Wesley’s killer. Looking at Detective Moretti, whose posture hadn’t changed since he’d staked his claim on her room, she wondered why he hadn’t taken down any of her information. “Shouldn’t you be writing any of this down?”
    He gave her a look that said if she’d provided him with anything worthwhile he’d have done so.
    She huffed out a breath, her frustration mounting. “There were other people on the street. Didn’t anyone else see something?”
    â€œI wouldn’t count on getting much from witnesses.”
    â€œWhy not?”
    â€œEvans was a small time drug dealer. Not everyone is sorry to see him gone.”
    She supposed that included this cop who went through the motions of investigating his death, but with little enthusiasm and no conviction. “What do you plan to do next?”
    â€œThat’s police business.” He pulled a business card from his pocket and extended it toward her. “If you can think of anything else, you can call me at that number. Thanks for your time.”
    Dana took the card and surveyed it. Det. Thomas Moretti. He was halfway out the door by the time she looked up. “You might try letting those reluctant bystanders know that he tried to save me. He tried to get me to go back inside and then he tried to shield me with his own body.” That’s why he’d been facing her when he’d fallen. He’d turned to protect her.
    â€œRight,” Moretti said, and continued on his way to the door.
    He either didn’t believe her or didn’t care. She doubted what she’d told him changed his estimation of Wesley or improved his interest in solving the case. He hadn’t said so, but he probably believed she’d stopped to talk to Wesley in order to score some of his product for herself.
    Dana closed her eyes and rubbed her forehead with her hand. If she didn’t watch it she’d be in for a serious migraine, the kind that hurt so much it nauseated her.
    â€œHow’d it go?”
    As if Joanna hadn’t listened at the door as if 00E.F. Hutton had been talking. Dana dropped her hand to the bed and laughed without mirth. “God, I hate cops.”
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    After a long, mostly unproductive day, Jonathan parked his car at the corner of 161st and Grand Concourse and cut the engine. Darkness had already fallen, but as he got out of the car, he looked up at the building that loomed in front of him. Cut out of the far corner of the building stood a new restaurant that replaced the deli that had stood there for years. A lifetime ago, that deli had been a bar frequented by cops and c.o.’s from the Bronx House of Detention down on 149th Street.
    The surrounding building had been the Concourse Arms, the hotel visiting teams had stayed at while taking on the home team at nearby Yankee Stadium. Now it was a broken-down Old Folks Home. In the Bronx, when the mighty fell, they fell hard.
    Walking the block and a half to his building, he appreciated the cool breeze that wafted to him from the East River. Nights like these, he’d sit out on his fire escape cum terrace, nursing a beer and listening to the sounds of the neighborhood. Or on a game night, like tonight, he’d bring out his portable TV and when the cheering started he’d turn on the set in time to catch the