Two fellow detectives, Mark Ginsberg and George Parker, were alone in the squad room at Parker’s desk, sitting out the last thirty minutes of their morning tour. Rizzo crossed the room, pulling up a chair and greeting the two men.“How was your night?”Parker shrugged, huge shoulders straining against his thin cotton shirt. “Quiet,” he said. “All the white folk were sound asleep, nice and peaceful.”Ginsberg laughed. “That’s why I told you to transfer over here, George,” he said. “We’re gettin’ too old for excitement.”“Yeah, I know the feelin’.” Rizzo glanced at his wristwatch. “Can you give me a minute, guys?”“Sure,” Parker said. “What’s on your mind?”“Those two street robberies you guys are carrying. And the Hom case, the third robbery me ’n Jackson caught.”“What about ’em?” Ginsberg asked.Rizzo smiled as he answered. “I got a name.”“No shit?” said Parker. “From where?”Rizzo shrugged. “Came to me in a vision.”“Oh,”
