The bullet coming in high from in front of Stewart’s car passed through David Stewart’s head, through the back windshield of the car, and kept on going. At an angle. By the time it got to the far end of the garage, to where we were standing, its angle should have made at least nick the concrete wall. Nick it hard enough to make it angle off in a different direction. But a quick visual sweep of the wall showed nothing was chipped away. The wall was clean of any chips or marks.
“Nothing. Clean as a freshly washed pair of socks,” the ugly duckling grunted, standing up, and dusting his hands off to look at me. “So, what does that tell us?”
I frowned and looked back at the parking stall.
“It tells us our shooter was up in the air somehow in front of Stewart’s car. When he plugged his victim,
