And then he laid Grace’s printout of the S.S. officers down on the table, showed them Arlen Fischer as a young man named Heinrich Verlag, and told them all about it.

Langer picked up the picture and looked closely. ‘Fischer was the prize catch for somebody – Morey or Ben Schuler, I suppose, since they were both at Auschwitz with this animal.’

‘Yeah,’ Gino said. ‘I don’t even want to know what he did to them to deserve the death he got.’

‘But the thing that puzzles me,’ Langer went on, ‘is that he was right under their noses for decades. Why did they wait so long to kill him?’

Magozzi shrugged. ‘Maybe they just found him. We still don’t know how they tracked these people down, but they obviously had an edge over Wiesenthal and the rest of the groups that were looking – Fischer’s been on the watch list since the fifties. Or maybe it was something as simple as serendipity. Fischer was something of a shut-in, remember; the only place he went regularly was a Lutheran church, and it’s not likely that Morey Gilbert or Ben Schuler would have run into him there over the years. But maybe he took a walk a few weeks ago, and one of them just happened to be driving by. We’ll probably never know.’

Gino nodded. ‘So Morey Gilbert and the rest of them go over to Fischer’s house Sunday night. They’ve got it all planned, what they’re going to do to him, right down to bringing along a gurney. But maybe Fischer fought back or tried to run away. Whatever happened, somebody panicked and let off a shot, and there’s Fischer bleeding to death before they can get him to the train tracks.’

‘So they grab the runner off the coffee table and make a tourniquet,’ said Langer.

‘Right. Then they take him to the tracks, do their thing, and a few hours later Gilbert’s dead. Next day Rose Kleber is killed, Schuler the next. I’m thinking maybe somebody close to Fischer saw what went down and went after them to even the score.’

McLaren shook his head. ‘Everything fits but the last part. Nobody was close to Fischer. No wife, no kids, no friends that we can find, and I sure can’t see the old housekeeper toddling after a bunch of killers for a little payback.’

‘Then we have to go back farther than Fischer,’ Magozzi said. ‘Could be someone’s been tailing them for a while – maybe a family member of one of the earlier victims – and took his shot when Morey came home late that night. We’ve got to start calling the cities listed on those pictures, see if we can match up murders to the dates, and then start looking hard at their families.’

They all moved in on the table and started helping McLaren disassemble the pictures. Gino was shaking his head while he worked. ‘Calling all these places, sweet-talking the locals, tracking down families… this could take forever.’

‘I know,’ Magozzi said. ‘Where the hell’s Peterson?’

‘Damnit,’ McLaren muttered, heading for the nearest desk and phone. ‘He went along to Rose Kleber’s house to help with the search. I’ll get him back in here.’

‘I’ll do it,’ Malcherson said quietly from the doorway, making McLaren jump. He’d forgotten the chief was there. ‘You need to get back to what you were doing.’

And that was the very best thing about Malcherson, Gino was thinking. He’d jump in and take care of the small stuff when things got heavy, because he trusted his detectives to do their jobs, and knew when to back away and let them get to it. He threw a little salute to the chief as he walked out.

Five minutes later they had all the pictures in chronological order, barely glancing at the cities, except when they rang a bell, like the ones on the Interpol list, and one just last year in Brainerd, Minnesota, which creeped Gino out because he went to Boy Scout camp there when he was a kid. Five minutes after that, Peterson hustled in, his pasty face flushed.

McLaren gaped at him. ‘How the hell did you get here so fast?’

‘Sixty miles an hour on the surface streets. I feel like I’m going to have a heart attack. Malcherson had me on the cell all the way, bringing me up to speed. Give me somebody to call.’

Magozzi handed him a photograph. ‘We’re starting with the most recent dates and going backwards. You know what to do?’

‘You bet. Call the locals, find a murder for our date, track the families.’

‘Right. But remember, the name on the photo probably won’t match the name of the victim. If these guys were Nazis, they were hiding.’

‘Got it.’ Peterson snatched the photo and headed for his desk.

‘Holy shit, Leo, take a gander at this one.’ Gino shoved a photograph under his nose. ‘1425 Locust Point, Minneapolis, fourteen April, 1994. You know who that is? That’s the plumber somebody turned into a sieve. The cold case I brought over to your place Sunday, remember?’

‘Valensky?’

‘Gotta be. The name’s different, but unless there was another murder at that address on that date and nobody told me, that’s our guy.’ He took a beat and looked at all the pictures. ‘I’ll bet we’re going to solve a lot of cold cases for a lot of departments before we’re finished with this mess.’

McLaren straightened from the table, his normally affable face furious. ‘Okay, that tears it. Goddamn that son of a bitch, that really pisses me off. The whole time Morey Gilbert’s convincing me and Langer he’s God in a pair of overalls, he’s out killing people in our city.’

‘He had reasons we’ll probably never understand, Johnny.’

McLaren looked at his partner as if he were out of his mind. ‘Our city, Langer. If anybody has a problem with people in our city, they come to us and we take care of it. That’s the way it’s supposed to work.’

Langer looked at the conviction in Johnny McLaren’s face, remembering when things had been that clear for him. Murderers are bad, catching murderers is good. So simple. So black and white. It was examining the gray areas that got you in trouble. At that moment he realized that of the two of them, McLaren was the better cop.

‘Let’s get moving,’ Magozzi said, grabbing the most recent pictures and passing them out. His phone was ringing by the time he got to his desk.

Dave from Ballistics had a reedy voice so distinctive you could recognize it immediately, and right now it sounded tight and strained. ‘I’m backed up to my balls here, Leo, but you and Gino need to know this right away.’

Magozzi motioned for Gino to pick up the line. ‘Okay, Dave, we’re both on. Go.’

‘I just got a chance to run Jack Gilbert’s Smith & Wesson through the system, and got a hit. The same gun killed a resort owner in Brainerd last year. I’m pushing the fax button now.’

‘Okay, Dave, thanks.’

‘Hold on a second. There’s something else. Is Langer there? Or McLaren?’

‘Both here, both on the phone.’

‘Well pass this on, will you? Tell them I’m really sorry about this, I don’t know how it happened, it’s been a god-damned zoo down here this week, but that.45 in their Arlen Fischer case?’

‘Right. The one used in the Interpol hits.’

‘Yeah, well that wasn’t the whole of it. Another match came in a little later and somehow got lost in the paperwork. Just laid eyes on it about three minutes ago, and I faxed that up, too. Tell them their.45 killed Eddie Starr.’

Magozzi squinted, pulling the name up from his good memory. ‘The same Eddie Starr who killed Marty Pullman’s wife?’

At his desk a few feet away, Langer’s head jerked up and his face went cold.

‘That’s the one,’ Dave said. ‘Marty Pullman’s wife, Morey Gilbert’s daughter, Jesus, guys. What the hell is going on with that family?’

‘We’re going to have to get back to you on that.’

McLaren looked over, his phone hooked in his shoulder. ‘I got Muzak. What was that about?’

‘Ballistics Dave says the gun Wayzata took off Jack Gilbert this morning killed a guy in Brainerd last year.’

‘The Brainerd guy on the back of our picture?’