Christian Grayson, who covered the crime beat for KSOL-TV, grabbed his briefcase and glanced around, 
mentally focused on what else he might need. His tape recorder. He took it from the top drawer of his desk and slipped 
it, along with a couple of extra tapes, into his briefcase. While driving from one place to another, it had become a habit 
for him to document information, his perceptions as well. He started for the door, then detoured to the bedroom, and 
stood in front of the full-length mirror. Where he was going, he had to blend in. Anything short of the tackiest garb 
would set off an alarm, as if the tom-toms would start beating. Only those seemingly forsaken by God and man could 
hear them, the miscreants living in the derelict buildings along the three-block strip, or those prowling the streets and 
alleys on the Westside. Within seconds, they’d scurry like rats into their holes.
         He added sunglasses and a bedraggled hat, pulling the narrow brim down to hide his forehead and eyebrows, 
essentially covering his face from the nose up. The two-day growth of beard would have to do. He wore faded blue 
jeans shredded at the knees and a short-sleeved T-shirt, yellow with age. He’d bypassed the shower, knowing he’d be 
made in a second, if anyone got a whiff of soap. His scruffy brown boots had been expensive when new. Where he was 
headed, there were those who’d kill for them. If things got dicey, he’d have to rely on the knife he’d tucked into the 
makeshift leather sheath inside his left boot. He’d spent hours practicing, and now, if trouble arose, he felt confident he 
could have it in his hand in seconds. Of course, he wasn’t sure exactly what he’d do with it if his fears became reality. 
Hopefully, he wouldn’t end up taking a knife to a gunfight.
         He got into the elevator, smiling to himself when the three people already in the car backed away and huddled in 
a corner, clearly putting as much distance between themselves and this seedy-looking character as they could.
         He was ready for the mean streets.
         A half-mile from his destination, Christian maneuvered his dark blue, two-door sedan into a horizontal parking 
space. He checked the time, six-twenty, then put his watch and class ring in the glove compartment. He got out of the 
car, locked the doors, and put his briefcase in the trunk. 
         He’d go the rest of the way on foot—head lolling, shambling along, humming tunelessly, or mumbling to himself. 
He’d spent considerable time studying the lowlifes, and the other lost souls that lurked in the shadows of the sordid 
world he was invading.
         Even at this early hour, heat was shimmering up from the streets 
and sidewalks. As the distance melted away, the stink of ripe garbage, 
vomit and sweat, the cloying stench of adulterated sex, emanated from 
the bowels of this hellhole, an eternity away from the posh neighborhoods 
and lofty lifestyles in Scottsdale and upscale Phoenix.
         Christian staggered to a graffiti emblazoned wall and leaned against 
it. Without moving his head, his gaze swept the street, searching for a face 
or faces he knew. A few feet away, music, if one could call hard rock music, 
blasted like a rocket through the open barroom door. Heavy on the bass, 
the sound launched against him like a physical assault.
         Promising nude dancers, massage parlors, and every tactile 
sensation known to humanity, red and blue neon lights flashed on and off, 
day and night, on this alien planet where no one slept. And yet, lined up 
along a second floor balcony, fluorescent pots held plants that’d 
dared the odds and won. Not only were they surviving, they were thriving. The vivid array of blossoms, bright yellow 
to intense shades of red, rose gallantly above the rims. It touched him to know that someone had cared enough to bring 
a modicum of civility to his or her bleak existence. 
         Near the end of the block, an abandoned fire station listed precariously to one side. Boards, in a crosshatched 
fashion, had been nailed over the doors and windows. In the barren field beside it an ethnic mix of children played kick 
the can—plenty of those lying around he mused. Most of the youngsters looked barely school age, a handful of others a 
bit older. Their carefree laughter seemed as implausible to Christian as had the cheerful pots of flowers. He thought 
about the ghetto where he’d spent most of his childhood and decided it had been Shangri-La compared to this.       
         Directly across the street, a group of young men, late teens or early twenties, circled one another. Knives, known 
on the street as pig stickers, glinted in the light. The air sizzled with a steady stream of the foulest language Christian 
had ever heard at one time, though he’d heard it all. The conflict, most likely drug or gang-related, would let blood, he 
felt sure.
         With the exception of the impending brouhaha, the barrio was quiet this morning. Too quiet. He wondered if 
something he couldn’t envision was about to go down? He studied everyone within his line of sight. They seemed to 
fit—the locals going about the business of surviving, sifting through garbage bins, probing the gutters, looking for 
anything that might make their lives, if only for the moment, bearable. A cigarette butt was a major find, a treasure. 
Sadly, Christian realized, they had become so inured to trouble, the impending knife fight didn’t merit a glance.
         Behind every face lay a tragic story, and Christian never forgot it for a moment.   
         He spotted her at the same moment she recognized him. Chantelle. At least that’s what she called herself. A 
leggy, light-skinned Negro, nearly six feet tall. The Afro hairdo added several more inches. Her full mouth, slicked 
with dark purple lipstick, curved in a seductive smile. As she strolled up to him, slender hips swinging from side to 
side, calculating eyes, black as coal, lingered on his face a moment, then swept down his body. Her tongue slid over her 
upper lip as she focused on his manhood.
          “Uh, huh,” she said, grinning. “What’s up, bro?”
          “Just lookin’ for you,” Christian responded.
         A sensuous smile arched over her even white teeth. She lifted her right hand, rubbed her index and middle fingers 
with her thumb. “Twenty bucks’d give you the ride of your life, lover.” She cocked her head. “I’d even throw in a— ”
          “Cut the crap, Chanty. I’m here on business, and you damn well know it,” Christian said to cut her off before he 
could imagine what she might throw in. He waved a twenty under her nose and jerked his head toward the alley. When 
she reached for it, he drew it away, took her elbow, and pressed her around the corner. Nudging her along, they dead-
ended at the backdoor of a ramshackle building, graced by a couple of beat up garbage cans and a stray cat. 
          “How come you never want to get it on with Chantelle, baby?”
          “We have a business arrangement, anything beyond that would complicate things. Now get your mind off my 
business, and tell me if you knew any of the women who were murdered.”
         Chantelle lifted the silver chain around her slender neck, freeing the cross held captive by her abundant cleavage. 
Christian averted his eyes from the narrow strips of purple satin struggling to confine her jutting nipples. With a 
sidelong glance at him, she slipped the crucifix into her mouth, made slurping noises as she sucked it. “I knew ’em, a 
couple of ’em real well.”
          “I need names, Chanty,” Christian said.
         She shrugged and let the crucifix fall from her fingers. “I only know what they called theirselves, like my real 
name ain’t Chantelle. Bet you didn’t know that.”
          “All right, keep talking.” She began rattling off names. Christian snatched the tiny notebook and stub of a pencil 
from his back pocket and started scribbling. He shook his head. Holy Christ, Sunshine and Moonglow, Desiree, Cactus 
Flower. How damned hopeless could it get?
         He finished jotting down the names. “Any idea where they were from?”
          “Get real, Chris. If you end up here, sure as shit you ain’t gonna tell nobody nothin’. Take Moonglow. Her old 
man’d been fucking her since she was five. Think she wanted to get found?”
          “No, I’m sure she didn’t,” Christian said softly as he tucked the twenty beneath the waistband of Chantelle’s 
crimson mini skirt. “Did they walk the same beat as you?” 
          “Yeah, some of the time, not all.”
          “Weren’t you upset when they set up shop in your territory?”
          “Nah, they was just kids, hardly had tits, runaways mostly. Come on, they had nothin’ like these sweet jugs of 
mine,” she said, thrusting her ample breasts to within a breath of his chest.
          “Nooo competition.” Christian smothered a smile. “Who took ’em, Chanty? Who did those horrible things to 
’em? Seven girls don’t disappear without someone seeing or hearing something. What’s the word on the street?”
          “Only that one of them block-long Caddies was seen cruising the neighborhood before a couple of ’em 
vanished.”
         Christian’s brows drew. “Jesus, a limo?”
          “Yeah, a shiny black one, with them dark windows you can’t see through. Anyways, that’s what I hear.” She 
jangled the rows of silver bracelets on her wrists. “Don’t know nothing first hand, and sure’s hell don’t want to.”
         He knew it was too much to expect, but gave it a shot anyway. “Did anyone pick up on a license number?”
         She threw back her head and laughed. “You’re kidding, right?” Serious again, she said, “The rest of us are scared 
shitless. I mean, those girls got picked off one by one four weeks apart, as if whoever done it was on some kind’a 
schedule.”
          “That’s very perceptive of you, Chanty.”
          “Whatever that means,” she said, grimacing. “You sure use big words, Chris. I like a man who uses big words. 
Sure I can’t interest you in some of the local merchandise?”
          “Sorry,” he said as he tucked another ten next to the twenty. “Thanks for your help, Chanty. Listen, be careful, 
okay? I wouldn’t like it if anything bad happened to you.”
         With a shy smile, she said, “Thanks, and you take care, hon.”