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determination.
    “Give it up, Nick. All I crave now is . . .”
    Crave? He couldn’t hear the rest of her words as she revved the motor and shot out onto the highway. At first, his shoulders slumped with defeat. But then, in the wake of skidding gravel and exhaust fumes, he noticed the oddest thing growing along the road.
    A lone sunflower.
    Day Three
    Bad boys come in all sizes  . . .
    Nick finished booking the three teenage boys for burglary, carrying an unlicensed firearm, resisting arrest, and possession of narcotics.
    “Man, you gonna lock us up again?” the freckle-faced kid with the nose ring whined.
    “You bet your stupid ass, I am, Peterman. And this time, I’m asking the judge to send you to Stonegate.”
    “I ain’t goin’ to no juvie hall again. Betcha my momma’ll have me outta here by tomorrow.”
    “Not if I can help it! When are you guys gonna learn?” Nick’s contemptuous glare took in Peterman, as well as his two buddies, Casale and Lewis. They all wore T-shirts proclaiming the name of their gang, “Blades.”
    “Learn what?” Casale asked angrily. “You make me puke. You sit in your lily-white houses in your lily-white neighborhood. Whaddayou know what it’s like in our hood, Po-lice-man?” His intelligent eyes bespoke a deep rage—one Nick, unfortunately, understood too well.
    “I know that your way is a dead-end street, Richard. ”
    Nick saw Casale grit his teeth at the use of his given name. Somehow, the anonymity of surnames suited these street gangs better. Growing up, Nick doubted any one ever knew his first name. It was always just, “Hey, DiCello!”
    Patiently, in a softer tone of voice, he informed Casale, “Richie, I was born in your hood . . . Patterson Street. I lived in the same project you do, maybe even the same unit.” At the look of disbelief on the kid’s face, he asked, “Do the halls still smell like spaghetti sauce and urine all the time?”
    Casale blinked with surprise. Then he sneered, “We got us a crew-say-dah here, boys. A real Deputy Do-Right. There ain’t nothin’ worse than a reformed bad boy.”
    Nick made a blowing noise of exasperation. What was the use? “You do know that the captain wants you guys charged as adults this time?”
    A brief spark of fear appeared in Casale’s brilliant blue eyes before he masked it with the usual bravado. Of the three, this kid had the most potential to pull himself out of the ghetto dung heap. But he probably wouldn’t.
    Nick filled in the last of the forms, then motioned for the patrolman at the door to lead them away. Handcuffed and shackled, the trio shuffled down the hallway to the holding pen, arrogant and unremorseful. They knew the way with their eyes closed.
    Nick felt a twinge of pity for the stupid kids. Hell, they were only fourteen years old. Yeah, fourteen going on forty! And with rap sheets to rival those of the hardest criminals.
    Any sympathy he might have considered died when Lewis looked back over his shoulder and called out, “I’m gonna get you, DiCello. I’m sick of you jerks pickin’ me up. Watch your back, you sonofabitch. I got a bullet with your name on it.”
    Lewis was the most incorrigible gang member he’d encountered in the last few years—a vicious, surly punk with a chip on his shoulder the size of a tombstone.
    “I’m shivering in my boots,” he snapped back.
    “Yeah, well, how ’bout your old lady? You even got a chick, you fag?” Lewis asked.
    Nick made a low hissing sound.
    Seeing that he’d found Nick’s vulnerable spot, the creep laughed evilly—how could a kid so young be so evil?—and spelled out graphically, in filthy gutter language, what he could do to Nick’s “old lady” to get back at him.
    Trembling with fury, Nick started after the hoodlum. But Skip stepped up to him and put a restraining hand on his shoulder. “Let him go, Nick. They all make threats like that. He’s just a punk with an attitude.”
    As a final insult, all three