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Smith?”
    Button ignored him as he put away his badge.
    “You carrying a weapon?”
    “Two. And the permits.”
    Button nudged Futardo again.
    “Told you. He’s always gunned up.”
    Futardo’s face was a dark little bunker.
    “Should we check the permits?”
    “Nah. You can’t get away with dropping as many bodies as this guy without having your paperwork in order. Your paperwork’s in order, isn’t it, Pike? You good on the paper?”
    Pike stared at Button until Button finally laughed, and held up his hands.
    “Just kidding. Let’s go inside, talk about what happened.”
    “Out here is good.”
    “C’mon, let’s go inside. Inside is better.”
    “The courtesy of a call gets you inside. No call, out here. The rudeness, out here is fine.”
    Button darkened.
    “Are you going to cooperate or not?”
    “Ask your questions.”
    “Here in the parking lot?”
    “Here.”
    Button cued Futardo to take out a pad.
    “All right then, here. You know what we need. Tell us what happened.”
    Pike related the sequence of events just as he had described them to Hydeck, including a description of the second assailant and the arrival and actions of the paramedics and police. Futardo scribbled fast to keep up, but Button looked bored, as if he had heard it all before and didn’t much care one way or another.
    “According to Officer Hydeck, you produced a nine-millimeter pistol and told her you took it from Mendoza. Is that correct?”
    “Yes.”
    “Mendoza claims you planted it on him.”
    “What does Mr. Smith say?”
    “Says he never saw the gun. Is he lying?”
    Pike thought back over searching Mendoza.
    “No. He was facedown when I took the gun. If he didn’t see the gun before I arrived, he wouldn’t have seen it after. The gun was in Mendoza’s pocket.”
    Button glanced over at Futardo.
    “Okay, let’s see the pictures.”
    Futardo slipped a manila envelope from her jacket, and shook out several sheets.
    “We’d like you to look at some booking photos. Each sheet—”
    Button interrupted her.
    “He knows what they are. He used to be one of us. Don’t forget that.”
    Each sheet contained six color booking photos of adult males in their twenties and thirties, all of approximately the same size and weight. Because each sheet held six pictures, the sheets were called six-packs. Pike could tell by the tattoos that most were or had been members of Mendoza’s gang.
    Pike identified Mendoza’s partner on the second sheet, middle of the bottom row.
    “This one.”
    Futardo cocked her head to see.
    “Figures. Alberto Gomer.”
    Button spiked her with a nasty glance that made her pale. She had made a rookie mistake by identifying a suspect by name to a witness, and Button would chew her out for it later. She wet her lips nervously before continuing.
    “Will you sign a sworn affidavit so stating, and testify to that effect under oath in open court?”
    “Yes.”
    Futardo took a pen from her jacket, and held out the sheet and the pen. Her fingers shook.
    “Circle the image you are now identifying as the man you saw assault Mr. Wilson Smith on this date and sign it.”
    Pike circled and signed. Button hadn’t been a bad guy when Pike knew him, but now he came across as angry and mean. Pike thought he was probably an asshole to work with.
    “Did Mr. Smith recognize him?”
    Button snorted.
    “None of these people looked familiar to Mr. Smith. Isn’t it funny how that works? Mr. Smith was not what we call a helpful witness.”
    Futardo softened for the first time as she took back the pictures.
    “He’s afraid.”
    Button snorted again, and cued Futardo.
    “Anything you want to ask, Detective?”
    Futardo finished whatever she was writing, and looked back at Pike.
    “Let’s back up to when you first saw Mendoza and his friend. What were you doing when you saw them?”
    “Buying gas.”
    “Uh-huh. And what were you doing in Venice?”
    “Buying gas.”
    “So you just happened to be