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Four was down at the rocks.” Carl ducked his head. “No disrespect, ma’am. We don’t get the paper.”
    I smiled. “I understand. Yes. That one.”
    â€œThe TV lady said the police weren’t saying much. Why do you think we know something about it? I can tell you this: the bunch you’re asking about wouldn’t hurt anybody. Not unless they didn’t have a choice. Picasso—he’s a good guy. The girls help him deal with people—he’s not great with people—and he takes care of them. Flyboy provides the muscle.”
    â€œFlyboy?” I jotted more notes.
    â€œHe wouldn’t hurt nobody, either, ma’am.” Carl paused. “I’m not sure I ought to be telling you all this.”
    â€œI don’t think they hurt anyone, Carl.” Every word true, at least for now. “I think one of them got hurt.”
    He dropped his head back against the wall. “Lord Jesus. Who?”
    â€œI couldn’t get a name out of Picasso.”
    Carl sighed, pinching his eyes shut.
    I leaned on the wall next to him. “I see some pretty crappy stuff in my line of work,” I said, dropping my tone to a shade over conspiratorial and leveling a sad gaze at him. “But this is the kind of story that makes me want to trail this sicko all the way to the courthouse. She was pretty. Long, dark hair. Bright green eyes.”
    â€œJasmine.” His Adam’s apple bobbed with a hard swallow and I scribbled the name. “What happened to her?”
    â€œI’m not entirely sure you want to know. Any idea if that’s her real name?”
    â€œI doubt it. The ladies have a thing about flowers, this year. Last year it was singers.”
    Damn. “You’re sure you don’t know where they call home? There has to be a main place, right?”
    He raised his head and stared at me for a long second. “You’re not looking to get them in trouble?”
    â€œI’m just trying to help.”
    â€œI don’t know for sure, but there are only so many places around here. And they’re always around on the weekends. If I was looking, I’d start walking.”
    I glanced down at my Manolos. Why not? “Which way?”
    â€œHead under the bridge. Maybe over to the canal. That’s the way they leave when Picasso doesn’t have his sketchbook.”
    â€œThank you, Carl.”
    â€œLet me know if you need any more help.” He hefted the cheese wheel and half-turned for the walk-in cooler in the back corner. “What is wrong with people?”
    â€œI wish I knew.”
    The manager nodded acknowledgement as I thanked him at the front door. I stepped out into the sunshine and turned for the canal, taking the route under the train tracks and keeping my ears open. Picasso and Jasmine. Couldn’t find jobs, and didn’t have homes. Not much, but more than Charlie had. I wanted to build on it more than I wanted to go home and fetch more practical shoes.

4.
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    Suspects and stereotypes

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    Crunch. Crunch. Crunch.
    I sped up, not advertising the fact that I was watching the guy as much as he was watching me. I’d trekked clear to the end of the canal and turned back with nothing to show for it except messy shoes, sore toes, and the large man trailing me for the last hundred yards. He wore a threadbare black tank and frayed cargo shorts that probably used to be khaki-colored.
    I studied the buildings dotting the street as I neared the bridges. Most of them dated back at least a century, and ten years ago they were probably an abandoned haven for folks with no place else to go. But that was before urban revitalization spread to Shockoe Bottom. Now, structures once left for ghosts sported new windows and trendy condo signage.
    My shadow’s sneakers whispered over the gravel faster. The guy had three inches and probably thirty pounds of muscle on me. He inched up on my left. I folded my