All characters named in this story were created by Janet Evanovich, except the rookie cops and the teen gang members, created by AutumnDreaming for this story.

All of Morelli's cop experiences in this story have been creatively adapted from the experiences of Ralph L. Dettweiler, former Sergeant of South Carolina Sheriff's Department, found at

Additional inspiration was gleaned from Charles Martin's novel Chasing Fireflies.

I was feeling pretty wound up, and I was almost glad when I got a call to join Pendersmythe, the rookie I scared half to death at lunch. He was headed to a domestic disturbance and had requested backup.

I pulled up behind him three blocks from the address with my Kojak light flashing on top of my SUV. He waved, and I followed him to the building which was located in a very low-income area near downtown Trenton. I put on my gun belt and checked my gun, securing it, and then I made sure Pendersmythe did the same.

We entered a ghetto-style apartment building and walked up three flights of stairs and down the hall to the apartment door. We could hear men's voices inside arguing loudly and a woman crying and screaming for them to stop. I pulled out my Mag-light and knocked on the door. And elderly man answered, babbling in Portuguese, then in English, that his son had come home drunk and was talking disrespectfully to him and his wife and was tearing up the apartment. I asked if his son lived there, and he responded that he sometimes did but hadn't lately.

We followed the man into the apartment. A robust woman who looked three inches taller than she was because of her black and gray hair-bun was brandishing a rolling pin and shouting at a man in his mid-twenties who looked like he'd had a drinking problem since he was six. The offender had long dark hair and was way more into rock and roll and joints than getting a job, according to his mother. He was wearing a ripped Van Halen T-shirt and jeans. He was being held down by two big black guys with Marine Corp tattoos and buzz cuts.

"I want him arrested," the father was saying. "How much you charge me to make him sleep this off in jail? Not here."

"You'll have to file a complaint against him so that I can arrest him. Since he lives here and I didn't witness him doing anything illegal, I can't arrest him."

"What?" The man started screaming at us in pure Portuguese while waiving his walking cane around. The rookie tucked himself in behind me, edging closer to the door.

"If I don't see him breaking the law, I can't arrest him unless you file a complaint against him."

"I can't afford to do that," he was saying. The woman was crying hysterically now.

"It doesn't cost you anything," I explained, trying to stay calm so he would calm down.

"I don't want to sign, just take him," he argued.

"I can't arrest him unless I see him acting out," I explained.

Suddenly, the man stopped yelling and smiled. "Oh," he said, nodding. "Okay. Boys, let him up," he ordered.

The two black men stood, releasing the long-haired drunk who started flailing his arms and screaming obscenities at his father. His mother was yelling at them both, and then the son came charging at me. I stepped out of the way while extending the Mag-light, allowing him to clothesline himself. He fell to the floor gagging and gasping. I knelt down and placed my hand on his diaphragm and pressed all my weight into it so he couldn't breathe. His eyes were big as half-dollars and they were locked on me.

"I'm going to let you up, and when I do, you're going to put your hands behind your back so I can cuff you. And you're going to walk calmly and quietly down to the patrol car. Do you understand?" I made it clear there was no other option.

He tried to nod. I slowly released him and yanked him up off the floor. He was dazed and confused, but he complied. I cuffed him with Pendersmythe's cuffs, and the rookie took him away without further incident.

"I didn't think you could handle that boy," the father said. "I had to call those fellas from down the hall to help me, and they had a dickens of a time. And they were Marines." He seemed to be proud of the fact that his boy was so difficult to take down.

"All in a day's work," I told him, taking the Kojak light off the top of my SUV.

My phone had vibrated twice in my pocket while we were messing around. I looked at the readout. It was Steph. I rang her back.

"What?" I asked.

"You asked me to call you if I saw anyone tagging."

"Yeah. Where."

"I was down at the button factory talking to Carol Nadich on her break. After the break was over, I was sitting in my car and I saw these two guys run around from behind the building and into the metal building where the break area is. Everyone else had gone back to work and the place was empty. One was tagging the wall inside. I tried to grab him, but all I got was his leather bomber jacket."

I squeezed my fist till my knuckles were white. "I told you not to do anything. Just watch and call me."

"I did call you. You didn't answer."

"I was on a call."

"Well, I'm sorry."

"Where are you now?"

"I'm at the button factory office with Carol reporting the incident. You want to come write up a report on the vandalism?"

"Sure. I'll be right there," I told her, hanging up.

I peeled rubber and pulled into the button factory parking lot twenty minutes later after battling rush hour traffic. I talked to the office manager and followed Steph out to the break area.

There was a tag in black spray paint, 420BURN. The number 420 could mean a number of things. It was the code for a homicide on CSI and had been picked up into urban lingo. It was also used in reference to smoking pot, which was most likely since BURN could be short for burn-out or pot-smoker. The other possibilities were Hitler's birthday and the date of the Columbine massacre.

"Describe the boys."

"They were mid-teens. The one with the spray paint was white with straight, light brown hair hanging down to his shoulders, wearing slightly baggy jeans, a brown and white T-shirt, and this brown bomber jacket," she said, holding the jacket out to me. We looked through the pockets. There was a hole in one waist pocket, a couple of plastic bottle caps with prize numbers printed inside, a black permanent marker for tagging, and a two-inch buck knife. It was old and the deer-antler grip was scratched and worn.

"And the other?"

"Black, husky, half inch of hair, wearing black jeans with wide legs and black canvas high-top sneakers with white toes and laces. He didn't say anything. He ran when I yelled at them. The white kid cussed me out and was very angry."

I took a picture of the wall and the jacket and the contents of the jacket. I took down the information for a report and then Steph and I went cruising around looking for the boys. They were on foot, so they were probably locals.

We were driving by some back street businesses when Steph signaled me that she'd spotted them. I pulled over and we got out. They were sitting in a laundromat watching the clothes spinning in the dryers.

"What are they doing?" she asked.

"Watching for someone to leave their clothes unattended, looks like."

"Why?"

"Maybe to sell them, maybe to wear them. Who knows."

We walked in and the boys saw Steph, then me. I suddenly remembered I was in uniform when they took off at a run through the back. A lady yelled and I took off after them. Steph ran after me. We chased them around to the front where the white kid pushed a man away from the door of his car as he was getting out. The boys had locked the doors and the man was beating on the window of his own car as the engine turned over. He jumped back, watching his toes as the gears were grinding. The car lurched forward, stopped, lurched forward, stopped. The car died and was started again as I reached the driver's window. The car again lurched forward, stopped, and died. The idiot couldn't drive stick.

"Get out of the car," I yelled at the driver. I had pulled my gun and had it trained several inches above his head. The black kid jumped out and ran, never looking back. Steph tackled him, jumping off only long enough to zap him with her stun gun. The kid was twitching in the dirt and I was thinking we were in for one hell of a law-suit.

The white kid got out of the car like I told him to and I cuffed him and walked him back to the sidewalk. The owner of the car got in and took off. He didn't want to press charges, and I didn't ask any questions. I had bigger problems.

"Name," I demanded.

The boy glared at me, wanting me dead. I was used to that kind of defiance. It didn't phase me. I stood with hands on hips looking down at him, about to start demanding answers. Instead, I got undermined when Steph sat down on the curb next to him, his jacket in her hand. She had a softer touch, which was often the reason her skips got away from her.

"Why did you break into the button factory break room?" she asked as if they were old friends.

"Maybe we were hungry," he said sarcastically. He glared at her, clearly thinking she was stupid for even asking. I was sure we'd gotten our answer, though, when his stomach gave a long, loud growl.

"Were you hungry?" she asked. You'd think he was a lost puppy to be pittied the way she said it.

He shrugged. This kid was working it. He'd take her for every cent she had if I wasn't standing there.

"Why did you tag the wall?" I asked, drawing his attention back to me.

The boy looked guilty as he averted his eyes. His stomach rumbled again.

"What's 420BURN mean?"

He shrugged again. Stephanie took his chin in her hand and gently turned his face to hers. He pulled back and called her a few choice names, getting very angry very quickly. He didn't like being worked over, even if it was being done with kid gloves.

"Hey!" I yelled, getting his attention. His anger was directed back at me now. "I only have one more question for you," I told him, indicating that he would cooperate with me or else. "Do you know where I can find LINC13?"

I saw recognition flash in his eyes.

"Where can I find him? What's his name?" I demanded.

"That's two questions," he spat at me.

"Please tell us," Steph said. "We need to find him."

"No shit," the kid said. "Wait long enough, and his gang will find you," he told her in a harsh tone.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Steph asked.

"What do you know about the threats being made against police officers?" I demanded.

"I know you may as well paint a target on your back as wear that uniform, ya dumb Jake."

"Who's paying?" I asked.

"Who cares? It's all good," he said, giving me a nasty grin.

"I care," Steph told him. "I brought your jacket back. Maybe we can get you something to eat." She was still trying to buy his trust. I knew from the start that was a wasted effort, but there was no way to tell her that.

"I don't need no handouts, especially from a bacon bitch like you," he said, spitting in her face.

I was about to yank him up off the sidewalk and knock him into next week, but Steph put up her hand to stop me and slowly wiped the spittle off her pretty face. Oh boy, was this kid is trouble now, I thought There was a click-click, and the kid looked down at the silver bracelet on his wrist. She had one cuff on her own wrist and one on his. He wasn't going anywhere now.

I tried not to laugh as I walked over to check on his buddy who was lying quietly on his face. He was breathing, and he was cuffed. Good thing Steph had been to Sally's for a second pair. I picked the black boy up - no easy task - and dragged him back to my SUV and stuffed him in the back.

Steph had opened her big black bag and pulled out a Butterscotch Krimpet, her favorite Tastykake, and was eating it slowly, taking small bites in time with the rumbling of the white boy's empty stomach.

"It's a shame you don't want any," she said, licking her lips. "These are so good. They're sweet and so filling." She took another slow bite, rolling her eyes in ecstasy.

He was swearing at her again, and she gave him a look that told him that if he played nice, she might have a Butterscotch Krimpet with his name on it. He tried to look away, so she just moaned louder with each bite till she'd finished. Then she reached into her bag, making sure to crinkle the plastic wrapper as loudly as possible, and pulled out another.

"I sure wish I knew who this LINC13 was," she said, giving me a knowing smile. She slowly unwrapped the Krimpet and offered the kid a bite. It was all he could do to keep his mouth closed as she rubbed icing from the Tastykake onto his lips. He tried to turn away, but his nostrils were flaring, taking in the scent. Suddenly, like a shark attack, he bit into the Krimpet. Steph came close to losing the tips of her fingers.

She pulled back and waved the other half of the Tastykake in front of him like a carrot. The kid chewed and chewed, not wanting to swallow. He really was hungry, and he didn't seem unfamiliar with the experience. It was hard to tell if he was malnourished with his clothes so baggy, but he was thin. Still, growing boys his age were bottomless pits. They were always hungry.

"Tell us where to find LINC13," Steph coaxed.

"Fine," he said. "Why don't you look for him to be working on a piece down by NJSP on 2nd St." He was referring to a series of walls where the real graffiti artists put up big murals near the New Jersey State Prision. Steph smiled with satisfaction as she fed him the other half of the Krimpet. The kid chewed, then with his mouth full laughed and said, "I hope you find him. I really do. Because if you find him, they'll find you."

I had Steph unlock herself from the cuffs. Then I cuffed him, hands behind his back, picked him up by his upper arm and yanked him along to the SUV. I stuffed him in the back with his cohort, slammed the door shut and signaled Steph to get in. I drove her back to the button factory so she could get her car and follow me back to the station, but when I pulled up next to her car, she didn't get out. She just looked at me with those big blue eyes.

"What?"

"Are you really going to run them in?"

"Uh, yeah," I told her. "I really am. I have a complaint against them for vandalism. I have a witness," I reminded her. I was trying to ignore the threats of law suits and harassment claims coming from the back.

"What if they really were hungry?"

"What do you want me to do? Take them with us to your mothers for dinner?"

"No, but I think maybe they really were hungry."

"Yeah, so hungry they stopped to paint the walls before chowing down. Give me a break!"

"Joe, if you take them in, what will happen to them? Nothing good, right? Can't we help them somehow?"

"Cupcake, I don't even know who these guys are. I have a job to do. I have to uphold the law. If it makes you feel better, I'm not even going to try to press charges for the car-jacking I witnessed since no complaint was filed. But you and I witnessed these juvenile delinquents breaking several laws in the space of an hour. I can't just let that go."

"Well, what if they were able to help you solve the cases you're working on?"

"I don't think they're going to cooperate." I couldn't believe she was really arguing against me on their behalf.

"What if they were witnesses to one of the crimes? It seems possible." Actually, I hadn't thought seriously about that.

"What do you suggest?"

"Let's find out who they are and where they live, and then try to make a deal with them."

"I knew it," I groaned. "Cupcake, these guys don't want to be friends."

Stephanie turned around and looked into the back cargo compartment through the cage barrier that I had installed to keep Bob at bay.

"If we agree to turn you guys loose, you have to tell us your real names and where you live. That's the deal," she said.

"I didn't authorize that deal," I told them.

"Take us in," the black kid said. "We like Juvie. It's better than where we've been living."

"Is that why you ran?" I asked sarcastically.

"Just forgot till now. I wanna go." He started singing tunelessly, "Take me back to Juvie, take me back to Juvie."

I turned out of the drive and took them to the Juvenile Reception and Assessment Center in Bordentown. I called ahead and had the JJC admissions social worker on duty meet us in the parking lot. She looked in the back of the SUV and identified the boys as previous visitors of the system. They were both living in group foster care at a local boys' home. She gave me the address and I drove them there. It was run down, over-run with gang tags and oozing trash and debris from doors and windows.

I walked to the back of the SUV and opened the hatch. I yanked them each to their feet and removed the cuffs. They were stunned, but silent…at last.

"You're not taking us in?" the black boy named Joe asked.

"Not yet," I said, giving him every indication that I might change my mind. "It seems my partner isn't entirely sure she can identify you as being the ones who defaced the button factory break room, but she might recall the details if you don't help me out, Joe," I told him.

"Not Joe, man. Cuppa."

"You go by Cuppa?" Steph asked.

"Sure, like, I'm dark as a Cuppa Joe."

"Ah," she said, looking back to the white boy named Lucas Berne. "Can I just call you Lucas?" she asked.

"Burn," he corrected her.

"Cuppa and Burn," she repeated. "What is LINC13's name?"

Cuppa shifted back and forth looking antsy. Then again, maybe feeling was finally returning to his limbs. "Man, that guy is MS-13. His crew would kill us for stooling on him. They hang in the D Block of the city, man. That's all I'm sayin'."

"What street?" I asked.

"You know what street. I told you enough. Find him yourself." Cuppa turned and walked on up to the door of the home which was hanging wide open.

"Care to add anything?" I asked Burn, not expecting anything helpful.

"You got another goodie for me?" he asked Stephanie.

"You got a name for us?" I asked, stepping between them, blocking his line of sight. From behind me I could hear the crinkle of a Tastykake wrapper. He heard it too, and I could tell his mouth was watering. "Don't lie to me," I warned.

He licked his lips. "Lino Pavia is the tagger. He's one of the best. Does real art pieces. But he's Dimas Varela's boy. Varela is the new leader of the local chapter of MS-13. He's already hardcore, and he's really up and coming because he's got the funding."

"Where's he getting this funding?"

"Word on the street is he's got connections from El Salvador, but he was small time till a few weeks ago. He's come up too fast and he hasn't been to college." That meant he hadn't been in prison, which was a given at his age. He was really too young to be a hardcore leader.

"What's the word on the cop killers? Who's offering the money?"

"If I knew that, I'd be rich," he said, making a gun with his thumb and index finger and pretending to shoot me. Steph smacked his hand away. He snatched his jacket back from her and walked towards Cuppa who was hanging out in the doorway with some other guys. Burn looked back once at Steph and then went inside.

"You really will be the death of me," I groaned. Steph tried to suppress a grimace.

I closed the back of the SUV and walked Steph back to the passenger door, keeping my body between her and the boys on the porch. I was sure they were armed. She got in and I shut the door, then walked around to the driver's side. We took off, but I didn't breathe easy till we were back in the Burg.

To be continued…