Back in my pickup, I tried to rethink what I had learned. Rosey had found something. Whatever it was, it had value, obviously much more than the fifty bucks Goofyfoot claimed. Pawn brokers are not known for their generosity and warm fuzzies. If they loaned fifty bucks on an item, it had to be worth several times that much. Whatever the value, it was enough to get Rosey killed. So if it were that valuable, why wasn’t the theft reported?

Unless—I nodded. Why didn’t I think of that before?

One reason some missing valuables are not reported is the same reason a drug lord wouldn’t report a missing suitcase of money. The items were stolen or illegal.

On impulse, I climbed out of my pickup and walked down the recently washed-down alley where the Blackhawk Towers kept its Dumpsters. I stood there studying the four of them lined up along the rear wall of the hotel.

Suppose whoever lost the item had never been at the Blackhawk? Suppose he was just looking for a place to dump it so he could later retrieve it?

Then Rosey stumbled onto it.

I looked up and down the alley. All a person driving past had to do was open the window and toss the item into the Dumpster. But, if that were the case, how would he know Rosey was the one who found the item? The old wino seldom ventured more than half-a-dozen blocks from Sixth Street. That meant whoever killed Rosey might possibly be a street regular who picked up word of Rosey’s windfall from someone on the street.

Scratching my jaw, I tried to remember some of Rosey’s back-alley cohorts. Goofyfoot and Downtown came to mind instantly. Try as I could, I couldn’t recollect the others.

Avoiding puddles of water and staying next to the hotel wall so I would be out of any alley traffic, I headed back to my pickup, still pondering my newest theory that the killer was from Sixth Street.

Suddenly, the squeal of tires jerked me back to the present. At the end of the alley, the bigger-than-life grill of a massive Lincoln town car snarled at me as the heavy car scraped along the hotel wall, sparks flying as it bore down on me. The engine erupted from a roar to a howling scream, and the massive vehicle leaped forward.

I glimpsed a face covered by a ski mask behind the wheel just as I spun and raced for the Dumpsters thirty feet away. I dared not glance over my shoulder. I could hear the tires splashing through the puddles of water. I ran harder. My heart pounded against my chest.

Clenching my teeth, I kept my eyes on the ten-food space between the first two Dumpsters. That was my closest sanctuary.

The last five or six steps, I expected the impact of the massive grill. I leaped into the gap, landing on my shoulder and rolling over, but I didn’t have time to relax.

Tires bit into the alley, squealing on the dry spots as the Lincoln shot backward. The engine roared again, followed by the deafening clangor of metal as the Lincoln slammed into the Dumpster, knocking it several feet toward me. I leaped back, bouncing off the second Dumpster, and then came the high-pitched shriek of metal against metal as the first Dumpster started moving inexorably toward me again. Without hesitation, I darted from my would-be sanctuary and dashed down the alley.