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maybe if he sees Ham and me, he’'ll know we care about him and want to help.”" Remind him that he risked his life to give us information on his homeys and if they find that out, they’'ll come for Grandpa, too. Maybe seeing us together will scare him shitless back to the light. Or maybe I’'ll scare him myself. Whatever it takes, I’'ll do it. Especially if he can help me find out who did this.
    Mr. Briscombe didn’'t know Jamal had become a CI, only that someone on the police force who happened to be named Grace Hanadarko had taken a special interest in his grandkid, and given him a hand up. That had astonished the older man, who’'d taken a beating from a white cop when he’'d sat at a segregated lunch counter, and avoided white people for the rest of his life. Avoiding white people was actually—--sadly—--pretty easy to do, even in these days of so-called integration.
    “"You’'re my little white angel,”" he said suddenly to Grace. “"Okay, I’'ll go with you.”"
    Grace jerked. Why the hell had he said that? Did he have a last-chance angel, too?
    “"Thank you, Mr. Briscombe,”" she said.
    He exhaled and began the long, painful struggle to get out of his recliner. The walk-up had no elevator; with her hands wrapped around his, she had a brief, disturbing image of him getting sick up here, too weak to get downstairs for groceries and help. She made a mental note to investigate some services for him. Make sure he had a landline and/or a cell phone charger, that kind of stuff. If Jamal was gone, his grandfather would need someone to do his laundry and wash his dishes. Meals on Wheels. If they’'d even come to this neighborhood.
    As they exited the apartment, Grace got a text message from Henry Silver, their medical examiner, informing her that he had begun the autopsy on the John Doe dealer.
    The trip down the stairs was long and arduous. Grace was very worried about the difficulty Mr. Briscombe was having. Shock could do that, but so could a medical condition. She gazed past the old man’'s bowed head at Ham, who was bringing up the rear. He blinked, echoing her thoughts. Mr. Briscombe was in bad shape.
    Across the street, a shadow darted behind a rusted jungle gym and some dried-out bushes clicking like castanets in the wind. Grace crossed her fingers that it was Jamal. Ham’'s posture shifted, straightening just a fraction of an inch: He’'d noticed, too. Stay alert, stay alive. She remembered how scared she’'d been as a rookie beat cop, bracing herself for a bullet every minute of her shift. How exhausted all that fear had made her. She never told anyone about it. She just drank it away as soon as she could. Screwed it away. Got back up the next day and did it all over again.
    That was exactly what it was like to be in a gang, only there was never any downtime. It wasn’'t a shift at a job you could walk away from, close your door, watch your TV shows. It was your life. If you wanted to become a full member—--a Full Patch—--you joined the army of darkness. Getting beaten, shot at, killing people on command. If you were a woman, you had to have sex with everyone in the gang to get membership. More than one gang’'s female initiation included consent to sex with a known HIV-positive male.
    Suddenly Mr. Briscombe started crying again.
    “"I feel old today,”" he said.
    “"Me, too,”" Grace told him, holding his hand very tightly as they finished getting down the stairs. They reached the curb and started to cross the street. She knew Butch and Bobby were watching.
    Mr. Briscombe hesitated and looked over his shoulder at his building. “"I feel like if I fall, I ain’'t never going to get back up.”"
    “"You won’'t fall,”" Grace promised. “"I’'ll hold you up.”"
    “"My angel, you’'re my little white angel.”"
    She jerked. Why was he calling her that?
    And the shadow stepped from its hiding place.
    It was Jamal. One eye was swollen shut; his lip was split and the rest of him