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center with the baby. I think the little one will go to the ER and be admitted. She looks like she’ll be all right.”
    â€œThink the father will?”
    Rakestraw shook his head. “He’s totally lost. It takes them awhile to comprehend what you’re saying.”
    We stood wordless in the gloom.
    The detective left to resume his work. Only in his thirties, his shoulders looked stooped.
    A huge fire engine rumbled up, slowly angling into place, back-up signal bleating, to light the area for the investigator and hose away the blood. The medical examiner’s wagon followed. The routines that attend violent death were beginning to be carried out.
    The Trans Am was still missing, along with the occupants. Had yesterday’s carjackers added death to their crime spree? If so, what could they be thinking now?
    Arturo was waiting for a girlfriend he had called to drive him home. “What do you need my insurance information for?” I heard him ask a cop, his voice aggrieved. “It wasn’t my fault.”
    Rakestraw was rewalking the entire lighted scene to be sure he hadn’t missed anything.
    Jason Carey sat in the detective’s car, head in his hands. His partner in a small water purification company was en route to take him to the hospital, Rakestraw told me. I approached and tapped on the window. The officer in the driver’s seat rolled it down. The chill from the air-conditioning spilled across my bare arms, making me tremble.
    â€œMay I speak to Mr. Carey?”
    The officer indicated that it was up to his companion.
    Carey raised his head, eyes drowning.
    â€œRemember?” I said gently. “We met in front of the dry cleaners?”
    He nodded.
    â€œI wanted to ask a few questions about your wife.”
    â€œWhy?” It was more a sob than a question. “Have you heard anything from the hospital?” he said fearfully.
    â€œNot yet, she’s still en route. I’m writing a story.”
    â€œWhy?” he repeated.
    â€œThis is a tragedy. People care. It may help find the ones who did this.”
    He nodded again. “Okay.”
    The patrolman climbed out, leaving the door open, and went to assist Rakestraw. Breathing again, stomach still clenched, I slipped behind the wheel. “How old is she?” I asked carefully.
    â€œJennifer is twenty-seven; her birthday was last month, the sixteenth,” he said, choking on the words.
    â€œIs she a Miami native?” I handed him a tissue from my purse.
    He pressed it to his eyes for a long moment. “No. Her parents moved here from Lexington, Kentucky, when she was eleven.”
    High school sweethearts, they met when she was a freshman and he was a junior. He played basketball. She was a cheerleader. They married after college, almost five years ago.
    Jason and Jennifer had been discussing moving, finding a better place to raise their children because of the crime in Miami. They weren’t fast enough.
    â€œAnd how old is your son?” I kept it present tense. No victim will hear a loved one referred to for the first time in past tense from me. Death is so final. The realization comes soon enough.
    â€œIf I lose her, I’ll have nothing left,” he said, weeping. His raw pain permeated the air around us. “Nothing left to live for.”
    â€œShe’s hanging in there,” I told him. “And your daughter, your little girl needs you.” My own eyes tearing, I forged on, asking to borrow a family photo and waiting as he fumbled in his wallet.
    If I did this story right, the killer’s own mother might be moved to surrender him. Hearts would be touched, readers outraged. One of the thieves might even feel remorseful enough to turn himself in, though that possibility seemed remote. The teenage criminals I’d encountered lately were scary creatures. Sometimes I suspect they were born with a birth defect, like a cleft palate or an absent limb. But what they