"All the way out," Glitsky said. "Then over to the fence, hands on it over your head. Okay, now slowly lift your shirt- I want to see your belt- and turn around. All the way. Pants. Up at the ankles."

"I'm not armed."

"That's what they all say. I'm happier making sure."

Glitsky had him step back from the fence and, still facing it, lean against his hands, his legs spread wide. After patting him down, Glitsky told him he could straighten up and turn around. "What do you want?" the man asked.

The gun never left the man's midsection. "Let me see some ID please."

The man's driver's license identified him as James Martin Ewing, of Redwood Shores, about fifteen miles south of where they were. Glitsky stuck the wallet into his back pocket. "What do you want?" he said again.

"I've been trying to make up my mind about that," Glitsky said. "I decided it's pretty much your lucky day. I'm San Francisco police."

This brought an outraged rise. "Bullshit! All by yourself?"

Glitsky was calm. "All I want from you right now is that little book of your clients' phone numbers. That and my money back, of course. You think we can handle that peaceably?"

Ewing's eyes were slits as he tried to figure out the angle. "What else?"

"How many silencers have you sold here in the past few months, would you guess?"

"I don't know."

"James." Glitsky steadied the gun on the man's kneecap, his voice calm and thrumming with menace. "Don't push this. You make most of these suppressors yourself, I take it?"

"Yeah. I got a metal shop at home."

"There. See? You're cooperating already. So I ask you again while you're still in the mood. How many of these have you sold in, say, the last month?"

"Say ten."

"Ten a month. Is that about your average?"

"Close. Look, man, if you really are a cop, you're screwing up big time."

"I appreciate your concern," Glitsky said. "Now let me see the notebook. Just toss it on the ground near my feet." Glitsky picked it up, opened it. It was a small book, two by three inches, with about ten lines on a page. It was about a third filled with phone numbers. Ewing had been in business awhile. Glitsky put the book in his shirt pocket. "Okay, James, here's what I want you to do. Let me have the keys to your van. Okay, now I want you to start walking across this lot here toward that exit way over there, the farthest one down. Go ahead now; the exercise will do you good."

"You're going to shoot me in the back."

"I doubt it, but either way, you start walking and don't look back. Go."

"You've still got my wallet."

"That's right, I do. I'll leave it in the car."

Ewing scanned the lot, possibly looking for some help, but it was a slow and peaceful Friday afternoon, not much going on. Finally he started to walk. When he'd gone maybe a hundred yards, Glitsky closed the back doors, climbed into the driver's seat, opened the windows and started the motor. Checking the rearview mirrow- Ewing was still walking away- he turned and lifted the metal box from the counter, extracting his money. He picked up the bills that remained, estimated the amount as close to two thousand more, closed the box with the money still inside, and put it back where it had been.

Putting the van in gear, he drove to where two empty Brisbane police cars were pulled up by the entrance. He stopped in front of them, blocking them intentionally, and got out, leaving the motor running and Ewing's wallet on the front seat. Then he walked out the exit gate and hopped into the backseat of his waiting ride- Paganucci's timing was perfect- and told him to step on it, lights and sirens if he had to. He had a date with his wife and didn't want to be late.

"… most fun I've ever had as a cop."

Treya put a soft hand to his face. "It's good to hear you talking about fun again."

"You think talking about it is good? Try having it. I was beginning to think it had all left the planet."

"Says the man who just recently stole his best friend's darts for fun."

"That was revenge, not fun. My sacred honor was at stake."

"Ah."

They had eaten borscht and sandwiches in a booth at a no-name deli on Clement, and now were pushing Rachel along in her stroller, taking advantage of the soft dusk light and the unseasonable warmth. "What I really love is that I'll have reverse listings on everybody in Mr. Ewing's book by Monday at the latest. These are real people we can work on, every single one of them in violation of the suppressor law, and I'll have the troops to go after them."

"And you really think one of them may have shot Allan?"

"No, it's not likely. But at least it's somewhere to look. Maybe one of the names will intersect with another part of the investigation."

"And meanwhile you're hip deep in a murder and all's right with the world."

Glitsky didn't answer, but he knew Treya was right. He put an arm around her, drew her in next to him. "I don't love feeling like I'm dancing on Allan's grave, but looking for his killer is how I ought to be spending my time. Not going to meetings." A thought struck him and he stopped. "How about this? I've been trying to figure out how to get the ATF to help us out here. They've got to have access to mailing lists from the net, people who have ordered silencers or the handbooks to make them. They won't be inclined to share, but once I get the names from Ewing's list, I've got something to trade, right?"

"This is what you need to be doing, Abe. Working cases. Really. You know that?"

He walked a few more steps, then stopped, turned and kissed her. "You think?" he said.

20

Laura Wright's parents wouldn't see Hardy. They didn't buy his opening gambit that he and they were working toward the same goal- to find Laura's killer. They did not even want to talk to anybody who had anything to do with defending the murderer of their daughter. Lanny Ropke's parents were wary, too, but ultimately allowed the interview. June wanted Mark to be home for any discussion Hardy might have with their son, so they scheduled it for 6:30.

Hardy rang the doorbell exactly at the stroke.

Now the four of them sat around a Pottery Barn wrought-iron table in a screened patio off the kitchen door of the Ropkes' Victorian. Irving Street, out here on Twenty-sixth Avenue, supported the occasional large home on a big lot, and the Ropkes' was one of them. A tall and well-trimmed laurel hedge hemmed the backyard on all sides, and long shadows fell across the deep lawn in the back. They'd also had room to erect a playground set by the back hedge- swing, slide, sandbox- and half a basketball court. To Hardy's left, there was another redwood porch off what he assumed was a bedroom, and on it was a large, covered hot tub. Hardy had been introduced to the rest of the family- two cute and well-mannered young adolescent girls named Kim and Susan- but they'd disappeared by the time Mark suggested the patio for the interview. June poured heavily lemoned iced tea from a beaded pitcher.

They were a handsome family, with a strong resemblance along gender lines. June's button nose and athletic figure were reflected in her two daughters, and Mark and Lanny- both lanky and big-boned, with prominent Adam's apples, milky blue eyes and ruddy cheeks- might have been brothers. Hardy had a copy of Lanny's transcipt and he got it out of his briefcase and came right to the point.

"The situation is this. Lanny, when you talked to the police, you told them about Andrew bringing his father's gun to school, and then talking about maybe using it on Laura and Mr. Mooney. I'm not going to try to get you to say anything that's not true, but I do want to ask you a few questions that might clarify some things for the defense. I'm assuming you're okay with helping us out if we're trying to help Andrew."