Sniffing along pulling Clyde, the dog bolted away, suddenly jerking the lead from Clyde's fist, charging along the median toward a blue Thunderbird parked at the curb.

Leaping at the car's windows, barking and pawing, scratching the gleaming paint, he spun in circles, his wagging tail beating against the metal-then he cowered away, ducking as if with fear.

There was no one in the T-Bird. Wilma looked through the windows. In the front seat lay the same plaid jacket that one of the woman rioters had worn. Wilma glanced into the nearby shops and cafes. She didn't see Fulman. She turned to look at Clyde.

"Tell Sheril I'll be a bit late," she said. "Tell her… tell her I'm chasing a loan applicant." And she headed away, across Ocean, in the direction of the police station.

The station was mobbed with women, pale-haired women dressed in jeans or shorts, and T-shirts-not the heavily garbed brunettes she had seen in Birtd's- all shouting. They were arguing and weeping, firing questions at the officers in some foreign language, screaming indecipherable accusations. A dozen officers were trying to sort them out. Entering, Wilma was nearly knocked flat by an energetic arrestee swinging her heavy arms and yelling.

Max Harper's station was one large, open squad room. The counter at the front was big enough to accommodate the dispatcher and her radios, a clerk, and, behind her, a row of tall file cabinets set into the wall. Beyond the counter, a dozen officers' desks filled the room, their surfaces invisible beneath stacks of papers and bound reports. Along the far, back wall, a credenza held a coffeemaker and assorted cups. Harper's desk stood near it, with a clear view of the room, of the front door, and of the hall to the back door and alley. Harper, at the moment, was near the front counter in the midst of the melee, five women screaming and crowding at him, waving their arms, demanding answers to questions that seemed to have no meaning-though the women at Birtd's a few minutes before had spoken in clear English. Wilma was backing away from a pair of enraged ladies when Harper saw her and motioned her on back to his desk.

At the credenza, Wilma busied herself making fresh coffee. Harper marched past her escorting two of the women toward the back door, taking them to the jail across the alley. He was followed by a line of officers, each with a female in tow. All blondes or sandy-haired, and one redhead, not a brunette among them.

Harper returned to his desk and poured himself a cup of coffee. Wilma sat down across from him. "How many black wigs did you collect?"

Harper smiled. "Eleven, most of them from the three cars we pulled over. Clothes, too. Big floppy coats and skirts. One of the women was in the midst of changing, Blake caught her with her skirt around her knees. Brennan and West are at Birtd's talking to witnesses." He settled back, sipping his coffee.

"Those are Greenlaw women."

Harper nodded. "I'm afraid so."

"My God, poor Lucinda. I wonder if she has any idea."

"They were booked in with all kinds of aliases. These people have been working up and down the coast for nearly two weeks. Here in the village, they've kept it low-key, until today. In most instances, the store owners thought it was just a couple of annoying customers. They didn't know what was coming down until the troublemakers left, and they found the cash drawer cleaned out."

"One of the drivers," Wilma said, "in the blue T-Bird, was a probationer of mine. Sam Fulman. Just a few minutes ago his car was parked over on Ocean." She gave him the license plate number that, earlier, she had given to Brennan.

Harper motioned an officer back to the desk and sent him to impound the T-Bird and bring Fulman in for questioning.

"I haven't seen Fulman in ten years."

"And he's a Greenlaw?"

"Shamas's cousin. A real loser. There are a few darker-haired, lighter-boned members of the family."

"We have two witnesses on store diversions up the coast that might be reliable. If we can ID the same women, here, and with your ID of Fulman, we might make something stick"

"Might?" She raised an eyebrow.

"Most of these cases walk, Wilma. You get them in court, no witness seems able to make a solid ID. Different hair color, different way of dressing, and the witness isn't that sure. And these people turn the courtroom into the same kind of circus, shouting, mouthing off in a language you can't understand."

Harper shrugged. "A judge can charge them with contempt and lock them up, but besides disrupting the whole courtroom, they'll trash the jail cells-those women can tear up a jail worse than a hundred male felons. And most times, the judge gets so tired of the noise and confusion in his courtroom and no solid witnesses, that he'll do anything to be rid of them.

"I've never seen you so negative."

"You've never seen me faced with one of these renegade families. You heard them up there at the desk, couldn't get anything intelligible out of them. That's the way they are in court. You can lock them up, but if your witnesses are uncertain, you've got nothing to hold them. Then usually, their hotshot attorney shows up and offers full restitution." Harper shook his head.

"All the shopkeeper wants is his money and the value of the goods they stole. Lawyer puts a little pressure on him and offers plenty of cash, and he'll drop charges."

Harper shrugged, and lit a cigarette. "Without charges, they walk."

He set down his coffee cup. "Your Sam Fulman-did he ever tell you anything about the Greenlaw family? Anything more than you know from Lucinda?"

"He said the clan is thick, that most of them come from one small town in North Carolina. Donegal, I think Three-story brick houses, long, curved drives, swimming pools and private woods, landscaped acreage. He claimed they practically own the town."

Wilma watched the officers settling back to their desks, the room calm now, and quieter. "Fulman told me the families all work together, but he never would say just what kind of work-the construction trades, I remember him saying once, rather vaguely. He said they all intermarry, all adhere to the family rules. Much, I suppose, like a tightly controlled little Mafia.

"Fulman is something of a renegade among them. He didn't knuckle under like the rest, didn't behave as the elders dictated. He moved out when he was young, came out to the coast, set up his own operation. I had him on probation for a chop shop. Later, at the time I got him revoked, he'd gone into business with Shamas."

"What kind of business?"

"Selling machine tools."

"What about Shamas's other business affairs?"

"When Lucinda and Shamas met, she told me, he was a rep for a roofing company in Seattle. Before they left Washington State, he had started the machine-tool company and entered into several related businesses- something about electroplating tools."

Harper swiveled his chair around, reaching for the coffeepot. "When they moved down here, he kept those enterprises?"

"That's what Lucinda told me, but she was pretty vague. Evidently Shamas didn't like to talk to her about business, would never give her any details. Never told her anything about bank balances, just gave her an allowance."

She looked at her watch. "Do you have anything on the Chambers stabbing? How is he?"

"He's doing okay. Doctors got the lung reinflated and repaired-he was lucky. He should be home in a few days. He says he didn't know his assailant, that he got only a glimpse. Said he'd stopped to use the phone, there by the rest rooms, that he was out walking and forgot he had an early appointment. The guy grabbed him from behind, a regular bear hug, and shoved the knife in his chest. Chambers fell and lay still, hoping the guy would think he was dead. His assailant heard someone coming and ran."