Almost magic.

He looked down at the print in his hand. This was-ordinary.

"It's a bad job, I know," said Swahn. "Miss Rice loaned me the negatives, and I ordered these prints from the drugstore in town. No comparison to Josh's work. He was gifted in a dying art form. I don't think he would've cared for the age of digital cameras."

Oren picked up a photograph of a birthday ball. In this shot, the stout hotelier, Evelyn Straub, was in her thirties, still lean and fine, her short skirt showing the endless long legs of a former Las Vegas showgirl.

Swahn leaned over to glance at it. "Your brother was probably ten when he took that one, and I'm not just guessing by Mrs. Straub's age. It's the perspective of a child looking upward. That angle changes subtly as he gets taller." He looked down at the other pictures spread out on the rug. "Even though Josh doesn't appear in any of these pictures, it's like watching the boy grow up."

Oren noticed that only his brother was referred to by his given name. Even Hannah, a longtime acquaintance, was always called, more formally, Miss Rice. Was Swahn only comfortable with the dead, or had he lied about never meeting Josh?

"I think your brother knew his killer."

The photograph fell from Oren's hand.

"According to your housekeeper, the boy was carrying a camera the last time she saw him."

"He always took one of his cameras when he left the house."

"But this one wasn't his pocket camera," said Swahn. "It was the old Canon FTB, the heavy one. Why would he carry that dead weight on a hike in the woods? The boy wasn't a nature photographer. Look at these images-only people. That was his subject. Did he take pictures of you that day?"

No." Oren saw no need to mention the picture Josh had taken before they left the house, the portrait of two brothers that Hannah had framed in silver.

Miss Rice said she packed a lunch in Josh's knapsack… but nothing for you." Swahn waited a moment for the explanation. It never came. "I understand that you and your brother went your separate ways after a while. So Josh had his own plans for the day. And he obviously intended to take pictures in the woods-but the boy only photographed people." Swahn allowed the import to settle in for a moment, and then he said, "Beer?" Without waiting for a reply, he slowly rose to his feet, using the cane as a climbing pole, and limped out of the room.

Oren emptied a bulky envelope containing pictures that had not been married up with interviews. Nowhere in this lot was a standard print of the photograph that Hannah had enlarged for his homecoming present. Every detail pictured in that silver frame was fixed in memory, and it brought to mind the interview with Cable Babitt shortly after Josh had gone missing.

"Talk to me, son," the sheriff had said to him then. "I need to account for your time." The judge had answered for Oren, saying, "Cable, you can't expect the boy to know where he was at this hour or that hour. What teenager wears a watch on a Saturday?"

In the silver-framed portrait of two brothers, Josh had been wearing a wristwatch.

Swahn returned with two bottles. He leaned down and handed one to his guest. Oren accepted the cold beer, but hesitated to pop the cap and drink with the man-given his errand in this house. He stared at the telephone, as if this would make it ring.

"Expecting a call, Mr. Hobbs? Oh, shot in the dark, a call from Sheriff Babitt?"

One casual wave of Oren's hand took in the surrounding paper storm. "Did you share all of this with the sheriff?"

Swahn set his own bottle on a table by a chair, but he remained standing. "I gave him everything that might help with the investigation."

"But not everything, right? You held out on him."

"Is that what Babitt told you? I suppose this means I'm on his shortlist."

"I'm sure you are." Oren glanced at the phone. How long did it take the sheriff to make a simple call? He chose his next words carefully, aiming to rattle and topple a cripple. He studied the man's face, hoping for giveaway tics and other tells when he said, "A cane makes a good weapon."

Swahn never blinked, nor did he miss a beat. "That it does." He leaned his walking stick against a small table and made an effort to stand up straight, though it caused him pain, and he could not quite achieve it. One shoulder was lower than the other because of one leg twisted inward. The hand that had held his cane was empty but still frozen in a curl. Beginning with the scarred face, all the damage ran down the left side of Swahn, a man broken by half. "You thought I might do a lot of hiking in the woods?"

"If my brother's grave is near a road-you'll make my shortlist."

The man retrieved his cane. "So Josh was buried… and Sheriff Babitt said more than you let on." The atmosphere of the room had changed; the air was charged. "He also passed along some old rumors, didn't he?" The tip of the cane rose in a warning. "Please don't deny it. I'm aware that he's been digging into my past. So now you think you know all about me." Swahn lightly touched his scar, the jagged A, a show-and-tell exhibit for AIDS. "And you've just got to know-in addition to my other crimes- rampantly fucking men and spreading disease-was I also in the habit of diddling young boys in the woods?"

"Were you?"

The telephone rang, and Swahn ignored it, though it sat on a small table only inches from his hand. "I believe it's for you."

On the third ring, Oren rose from the floor and approached the phone, skirting the man. He picked up the receiver and said, " Hobbs." After listening to the sheriff for less than a minute, he answered the only question. "No, that's not a case of cops being tidy."

Hanging up on Cable Babitt, he turned to his host. "About those old rumors. It surprised the hell out of your ex-partner when he found out you were gay. Jay Murray heard that rumor during his interrogation by Internal Affairs-after you were attacked. So tell me if I've got this right. You believe a whole precinct full of cops conspired against you for being a gay man with AIDS." Oren splayed his hands. "But your own partner never heard that rumor? How is that possible?"

"I can't discuss this with you."

"Of course not. You signed a nondisclosure agreement with the LAPD. Lots of money at stake if you talk." Oren sat down on the couch and stretched out his legs. "You and Jay Murray rode together for a year. All that time, and it never occurred to him that you were gay. He just took you for an overeducated geek, an awkward kid who had no shot with women. You don't believe that? You were a rookie. So your first partner would've been an older guy, a mentor. I bet Murray gave you more advice about women than police work. Am I right?"

He was right. He could see the first fault line in Swahn's composure. Gears were shifting behind the man's eyes as he considered this one true thing.

"You were set up that night." Oren raised his beer bottle and took a swig. "You were just wrong about everything else." He pointed at the scar on Swahn's face. "Cops had nothing to do with that."

Ah, this was heresy. Was the man gripping his cane a little tighter with that damaged hand? Yes. But Swahn said nothing. Continued silence was worth millions, and Oren was counting on that. He could bang away at his leisure and never have to dodge a counterpoint.

"Your ex-partner made some cash for calling in sick that night. I'll tell you how I know. According to Murray 's tax records, he left the force without a pension. He was terminated right after you were ambushed. That's what the sheriff called to tell me. So there was no time for a formal department hearing. That's how I know Jay Murray lost his pension in a plea bargain. He was looking at jail time for taking a bribe, and there had to be solid evidence. Detectives probably tossed his place and found the payoff money. You think Murray knew what was going to happen to you that night? Give me a break. Calling in sick was like painting a target on his own chest. So what's left? The dispatcher, who conveniently disappears before she can make a sworn statement-a civilian dispatcher. And that's how I know-when you called in for help that night-you got the same woman who sent you into that ambush."