CHAPTER TWENTY-TWOThe faded stucco front of Latasha Greene’s house had fresh bullet holes in it. A few scraps of yellow plastic fluttered from the house or lay in the overgrown front yard. Lindsey tried to figure out what they were. He picked up a strip that had wrapped itself around a brown weed. The black lettering said IME SCENE—DO NOT CRO.…
There was no evidence of kids with water pistols or any other kind of weapons. Lindsey felt an absurd pang of loss.
He knocked on the door. The man who opened it very nearly filled the doorway. His skin was very black, as were his trousers and narrow bow tie. His shirt was white, the sleeves rolled above his elbows. The wooden grip of a black metal revolver protruded from his trousers. It made a dent in his belly.
Lindsey said, “I came to talk wi
