The snitch shifted his weight from foot to foot and stared at the scarred and dirty linoleum between his scuffed Chuck Taylors. He hunched his scrawny neck into the collar of his satin jacket. Sweat pooled in his armpits in the stifling heat of the precinct lobby.

The sergeant behind the desk gave him the hard eye from beneath the black patent leather brim of his watch cap.

"What's your business?"

"I need to see a detective," the snitch said. "Homicide."

The cop eyed him again, up and down. The snitch tugged at the frayed and grimy cuffs of his jacket. He'd wanted to stop at Johnny K's for a quick beer before he came in, but one beer had a habit of turning into ten and he didn't want to forget to come, or to come in reeking of booze.

He waited for the detective. He'd never been in the cop house before without a heavy hand on his shoulder. But he couldn't not come. Not this time. The crazy bitch wanted to kill a kid.