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couldn’t be. That could not have been Randi’s name that Dre had called out.
    He made his way through the crowd until he reached Randi and Dre, who was kneeling beside him. Without a doubt this was Randi Burlingame lying broken on the dirty sidewalk.
    Souljah Boy glanced once more up at the roof. His right eye twitched even more wildly now. Finally, he returned his attention to the two boys in front of him. His good eye roamed over the body on the ground, down to Randi’s shoeless feet.
    Two things struck him fast: Where were Randi’s boots? And why wasn’t there any blood on the ground?
    Souljah Boy locked gazes with Dre. He knelt down, putting a hand to the pulse in Randi’s throat. He knew it was in vain. Randi’s eyes had no life in them. But he felt compelled to check anyway; he couldn’t stop himself. His fingers reached out, hoping to connect with a spark of life. There was none.
    He glanced at his friend Dre. Slowly he shook his head. “He’s dead, Dre.”
    Dark, black, searing terror engulfed Dre on his hearing Souljah Boy’s words spoken out loud. It was as if, because Souljah Boy had spoke it, that made it real.
    â€œNo,” Dre said.
    Souljah Boy’s shoulders slumped. He bowed his head and whispered, “Yes.”
    Souljah Boy lifted his head to look at Dre. His throat was swollen in grief. His eyes pooled over with tears.
    Dre stared at Souljah Boy across an ocean of pain, the waves of it tangible in the air. Their eyes locked in twin tunnels of disbelief and grief.
    From the roof, the hysterical sound of high-pitched laughter could not be heard on the street. It had been three days since Tracie Burlingame had visited the old woman psychic and drawn the ace of spades, the card that represented death.

2
    H ubert Noskog, MD, was a seasoned veteran. He had jowls like a hunting dog’s. Craggy lines ran through his face. His eyes looked as though he’d seen it all and then some. By the year 2004, when Tracie Burlingame’s son was murdered, he was the chief medical examiner in New York City, having worked his way up through the ranks.
    He’d been on staff for thirty years, so his having seen it all was pretty close to the truth.
    Two NYPD police detectives surrounded him. Monica Rhodes was a young, bright, tough, and ambitious detective. She was saucy, hip, and extremely intelligent. An average-looking girl, but what she didn’t have in looks she made up for in sharpness.
    Detective Alonzo Morgan was a tall, streetwise, fascinating specimen of male sleekness. He had a head full of long dreadlocks that were captured behind his head with a band. The dreads lay in neat locks and hung down his back, almost to his waist. He looked more like a reggae artist than a detective. Everyone called him Lonzo for short.
    The two detectives were in sharp contrast as partners, but together their work was efficient. So far, they had managed to pardon what they each considered the shortcomings of the other.
    Hubert stood at the head of the sheet-covered corpse. It was laid out on a slab of steel. The two detectives stood on either side. Lonzo’s cell phone rang. He removed it from his back pocket. “What’s up? Lonzo here.” He nodded his head. “Yeah, we’re on it.”
    He clicked off and looked at Monica. “Tracie Burlingame, Randi’s mother.” He lifted his chin in the direction of the corpse. “She’s here to identify the body.”
    Monica cleared her throat. She glanced at the medical examiner. “I’ll start the procedure. This isn’t going to be easy for her.”
    The standard procedure was to show the family of the deceased a photograph. However, they were always prepared in case a family member requested to view the body in person.
    Monica walked out the door with an air of authority. She was an extremely svelte young woman, brimming with confidence.
    Outside in the corridor, Tracie