“PacMen’s Luther’s gang, then. A most unsuccessful group of losers.”

Mike’s stage whisper was intended to irk the two young men now handcuffed to the armrests at the end of the row in the handsome church.

“We’ve got a program here,” Gaskin said. “An initiative working with kids at risk, kids who’ve been in the system. Called something like Fair Chance.”

“Should have called it Fat Chance,” Mike said. “Fat chance anything but the max and a little attitude adjustment works on these bastards.”

Mike left Gaskin in the sanctuary and by the time we opened the door to the small office, Mercer was sitting on the edge of the long table, forcing his attention on Luther Audley.

“Twice, juvenile. Three more since I turned sixteen.” Mercer’s first question had obviously been about the number of Luther’s arrests.

“How much time have you done?”

“Two years. Got out in December.”

“You like it upstate?”

Luther Audley tilted his head and screwed up his mouth, looking at Mercer like he was crazy.

“You like it enough to go back?”

“I ain’t never going back.”

“Then who are your friends? These other three guys?”

“I don’t know.”

“You stupid, Luther, or you just look like you’re stupid?” Mike asked, pulling up a chair to sit opposite Mercer.

Mercer held out his arm to tell Mike to back away. “The two guys inside, who are they?”

“I only know their faces. Not their names.”

“How about the dude that ran off?”

Luther just stared at the tabletop. “Don’t know him.”

“Shit. So when you want to hang out with him,” Mike said, “you just ask around for the ugly mother with the big scar across his cheek? That how you find him?”

“What’s he running from?” Mercer asked.

“Just running, I guess.”

Mike slammed the table and Luther sat up. “Olympic trials, don’t you think, Detective Wallace? Fastest ex-con with his butt crack showing, sprinting away from a murder rap.”