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flat-screen television and a leather recliner. And he’s got a real kitchen.”
    The refrigerator was stocked with food. Dirty dishes in the half-filled dishwasher. An iPhone charger on the kitchen counter. No iPhone. We moved into the bedroom and found a guy stretched out on the floor, staring up at the ceiling.
    “Is this Buster?” I asked Briggs.
    “No. It’s Bernie Scootch. He doesn’t look so good. Is he okay?”
    Bernie was definitely not okay. He was lying in a pool of blood, and his chest had a bunch of bullet holes in it. For that matter, I wasn’t doing so great either. I was clammy with coldsweat and the horror of Bernie Scootch leaking his bodily fluids all over the carpet.
    I bit into my lower lip. “I’m pretty sure he’s dead.”
    “Oh jeez,” Briggs said. “That’s bad. That sucks.”
    I dialed 911 and gave the dispatcher the address and the big picture. Five minutes later a uniform arrived, with Morelli following. I was on the sidewalk when they angle-parked at the curb.
    “I was on my way home from my mom’s house when I heard the call come in,” Morelli said. “What’s the deal here?”
    “There’s a dead guy upstairs. Randy identified him as Bernie Scootch. He’s been shot … a lot.”
    Morelli went upstairs to take a look and returned after a couple minutes. “You’re right,” he said. “He’s been shot a lot. What were you doing in the apartment?”
    “I was looking for Jimmy Poletti.”
    “You had reason to believe he was there?”
    “It’s sort of a gray area.”
    Morelli looked like he needed a Rolaid. “You didn’t shoot Scootch, did you?”
    “No!”
    I gave Morelli the long version while more people showed up—the coroner, a crime photographer, a couple more uniforms, the crime lab techs, and Bryan Kreider.
    Kreider is another plainclothes cop in the Crimes Against Persons unit. He nodded and smiled at me. “Hey, Steph, how’s it going?”
    “It’s going good except for the dead guy upstairs.”
    Kreider looked at Morelli. “Have you seen him?”
    “Yeah. Multiple bullet wounds. Looks recent.”
    Kreider trudged upstairs, and Morelli turned back to me.
    “So this is Buster’s apartment,” he said, “but there’s no Buster.”
    “Haven’t seen him,” I said. “I also haven’t seen the murder weapon. It wasn’t near the body, and Poletti didn’t have it on him.”
    “You’re sure he wasn’t carrying?”
    “He was wearing a shirt tucked into slacks and there was no gun. Plus he didn’t try to shoot Briggs.”
    The line of Morelli’s mouth tightened a little. “Opportunities missed.”
    The sun was low on the horizon, hidden by the urban landscape. Stark Street was in deep shade. Lights blinked on in Buster’s apartment. The customers were beginning to thin out at the pizza place. A few people were standing around, gawking at the police activity, but a murder on Stark doesn’t draw much of a crowd.
    “I’ll pass the information on to Kreider,” Morelli said, “and then I’m heading home. I’ve got Bob in the car.”
    “I’m heading home too,” I said, looking across the street at the Buick. “I’ve got Briggs in the car.”
    Briggs was on the edge of his seat when I slid behind the wheel.
    “Did you hear them?” he asked, eyes wide, hands braced on the dash.
    “Who?”
    “The dogs. The Chihuahua pack. I heard them yipping. Like tiny coyotes. And at the end of the block I saw a tiny shadow with glowing red eyes. It was eerie. It gave me goosebumps.”
    “I didn’t hear them. Are you sure you didn’t imagine it?”
    “I got it on my phone.”
    Briggs passed me his phone, and I looked at a dark screen with two little red dots.
    “This could be anything,” I said. “It’s just dots.”
    “Those are the eyes of a wild demon Chihuahua,” Briggs said.

SIX
    IT WAS A little after nine A.M. when I got to the office with Briggs in tow.
    “You look like crap,” Lula said to me. “You either had a really good night or a