Excerpt from Proving Ground by Peter Blauner, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

"De nada." Lourdes nods. "Was I nice about it?"

"Nice enough."

"Anyway, tonight…"

"Tonight I'm sleeping by the wall, when I hear these people talking." The homeless man pops his eyes open, to recreate the moment. "Old white dude says, 'Hey, guys, what's doing?'"

"'Hey guys'? Like it's someone he knows?"

"Dunno." The homeless man shrugs. "Then I hear, 'Whoa, whoa, whoa,' and bap bap bap. I drop back down behind the wall and I hear this other dude go, 'Kizz, kizz.'"

"'Kizz, kizz'? You sure?"

"More likely, 'Keys, keys,'" a deep, tired voice says behind her. "Like the victim dropped his car keys and one of them was saying pick it up."

A tall, red-faced man with 1977 sideburns and bloodhound eyes has lumbered over in a black raincoat, uniformed cops getting out of his way like meerkats fleeing an elephant.

"Kevin Sullivan, Brooklyn South Homicide," he introduces himself in the diffident grumble of a country priest with a Marlboro habit.

So this is Him: the Last of the Mohicans. His reputation precedes him, but he's actually more imposing than Lourdes expected. Maybe six-five, six-six, two fifty—the kind of big that makes everyone else have to adjust their seats when he gets in a car. Said to be peaceful of disposition until provoked—then potentially terrifying. Up close, he looks to be in his early sixties but his ruddy complexion is still so pockmarked from adolescent acne that it appears small animals have been gnawing on his face. He smells of Old Spice and patchouli. His mop of black hair has no shading or nuance. More Grecian Formula Apache than Sitting Bull Natural.

"Yeah, that must have been what they were saying." The homeless guy nods. "When I looked over the wall, they were getting in a Benz and driving away."

"Mercedes-Benz?" Lourdes makes a note.

"Yeah, I'd say an old 450." The homeless man registers Lourdes's questioning look. "I used to be a mechanic out at one of those garages by Shea Stadium." He glances away wistfully. "Anyhow, I look out and see the white dude's crawling along the sidewalk going, 'Help me, help me.' But by the time I got to him, he was gone."

"Can you describe the guys who jacked the car?" Lourdes asks, a little self-conscious about keeping her voice steady with Sullivan clocking her.

"No. It was too far from the streetlight."

"Excuse me, how many shots did you say?" Sullivan looms over the homeless man, more solicitous than threatening.

"Three."

"Sure about that?" Sullivan gives Lourdes a sidelong glance.

"I've seen better days, but I can still count to three," the homeless man says, a brief history of shame passing across his face.

"All right." Sullivan nods at Borrelli. "You got this?"

"Oh yeah, we're BFFs now." Beautiful Bobby helps the homeless guy keep his cape on. "I'll get him a hot chocolate and take his statement."

Lourdes watches them trundle off, then looks back toward the body as the CSU techs slip paper bags over the dead man's hands. Sullivan drops into a surprisingly agile squat and starts to count the evidence placards.

"I see five shell casings; he says three shots." He sucks his lips. "You find that odd?"

"I wouldn't take his word for anything." She shrugs. "He's out of his fucking mind."

"Watch the language, please." He doesn't meet her eyes.

God, another one of those lace-curtain Irish hypocrites, who swears like Lil Wayne around other men but blushes every time a woman lets a four-letter word drop.

"Good you got him talking though." Sullivan bounces on his haunches.

"What we do."

"White man dead by the park, in an $800 coat, with a Benz driving away afterward." Sullivan stands, wipes his hands on his coat. "There's going to be a lot of eyes on this."

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