Forcing a weak smile, Claire said, “You do.”

“You’re damn right I do,” Rafferty said. “Damn right.”

Massaging his temples and doing his best to ignore his throbbing headache, Jared stared at his computer screen. For the past two weeks, he’d sought out the firm’s best criminal-defense attorneys. From each one, he tried to learn one more trick, one more hint, one more maneuver to win the case and save his wife.

Even the poster board was getting more attention than usual. Every day, he stared adamantly at the layout of the crime scene. Arriving no later than seven in the morning, he spent the first fifteen minutes of each day playing it through his head. Leaving no earlier than eleven at night, he always took one final look. He catalogued every moment. He indexed every minute. He did everything in his power to visualize every nuance of the crime.

Finally, to pick up where Barrow left off, Jared hired a well-recommended private detective, who scoured every inch of every block between Doniger’s house and the spot where McCabe picked up Kozlow. Under Jared’s instructions, the detective spoke to the garbagemen who did the early morning pickup, questioned the late-shift doormen from nearby buildings, and even called local taxi companies to see which drivers were in the neighborhood on the night in question. No matter how tenuous, how unlikely, or how outrageous the lead was, Jared and his staff searched for anyone who might be able to put Kozlow at a spot that was different from the one where McCabe said he was. But, in the end, after all the examining and exhaustive research, they couldn’t find a single new witness.

“There must be someone we’re forgetting,” Jared said, staring at the poster on his wall.

“Are you kidding?” Kathleen asked. “We’ve thought of everyone.”

“Did you ever find out about the paperboys?”

“Which ones? The New York Times, New York Post, Daily News, or Newsday? I spoke to all of them and none of them started delivering before five-thirty that morning.”

“What about-”

“There’s no one else,” Kathleen interjected. “We’ve been through everyone. The local bakeries that start kneading dough at sunrise, the corner groceries that are open all night, even the high-end escort services that frequent the area. I think the only person we haven’t spoken to is Arnold Doniger, and that’s only because he’s dead.”

“I know,” Jared said. “I just don’t want to miss anything.”

“Jared, killing yourself isn’t going to bring Lenny back. And it’s certainly not going to save your wife. When we find out about your motions, we’ll know a lot more about the shape of the case. But until that happens, you can’t keep running yourself like this.”

“I’m fine,” Jared said, turning toward his computer screen.

“Jared, you’re not-”

“I said I’m fine,” he insisted, raising his voice. “Now let’s move on to the next subject.”

“How much farther is this place?” Guff asked, sitting between Sara and Conrad in the backseat of the taxi.

“Stop asking already,” Conrad said as the cab pulled out of the Holland Tunnel. “We’ll be there soon enough.”

“I can’t help it,” Guff said. “I get anxious during field trips. It makes me feel like I’m back in junior high.”

“Junior high, huh?” Conrad asked. “Then how’s this? Shut up until we get there, or I’ll stuff you into a gym locker.”

“Ahhhh, childhood,” Guff said with a smile. “How I miss those now-gone days.”

Ten minutes later, the cab pulled up to the front entrance of the Hudson County Pistol Range. As the three coworkers got out of the car, Conrad announced, “Here it is – the best firing range in the tristate area.”

“You mean besides Manhattan itself?” Sara asked.

Within twenty minutes, Conrad, Sara, and Guff were armed, outfitted, and ready to begin their shooting practice. Following Conrad through the long, understated brick building, Sara and Guff were led to an enormous room that held eight private shooting booths. At the far end of each booth was its respective target. Some booths had standard bull’s-eyes, others had outlines of animals such as deer and lions, and still others had outlines of human beings. The booths were organized into beginner, intermediate, and advanced areas, with the target located twenty feet away for the beginners and thirty yards away for the advanced. Without pause, Conrad walked straight to an advanced booth.

“I guess we’re beginners,” Sara said to Guff.

“No way,” Conrad said. “Stay here with me.”

“But I’ve never shot a gun in my life.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Conrad said. “Best way to teach someone to swim is to throw them in the deep end.”

“What if I don’t want to learn how to swim?” Sara asked.

Conrad pointed to the booth next to his. “Everybody swims. Now get in.”

When all three of them were in their booths, Conrad put on his protective goggles and headset. “Can everyone hear me?” he asked through the headset’s small chin microphone.

“I read you loud and clear, Bandit,” Guff said through his own headset. “Now how ’bout helping me with these here smokeys on my tail.”

Ignoring Guff and getting a thumbs-up from Sara, Conrad picked up the.38-caliber handgun he had rented. With six quick shots, Conrad ripped apart the paper target of the human being thirty yards away.

“Not bad, Slim, but check this out,” Guff said, aiming his own gun. He fired six shots, then lowered the gun and looked at the target. He hadn’t hit a thing. “My gun’s broken,” he said.

“Your turn, Sara,” Conrad said.

“Before I go, I have to once again ask my little question: What the hell are we doing here?”

“I already told you, we weren’t getting anywhere sitting in the office, so I thought we could use a change of scenery. And whenever I hit a logic wall, this is always the best place to calm down and reevaluate.”

“This is how you calm down? Wearing yellow glasses and an oversized headset while shooting giant holes through paper people?”

“Some people like classical music; others prefer a more aggressive aesthetic,” Conrad explained. “Either way, we all needed our heads cleared. Now stop complaining and start shooting.”

“Whatever you say, colonel,” Sara said. “But I still don’t understand how this helps us with the case.” Holding up her gun, Sara carefully aimed at the target. She fired one shot. Then aimed again. Then fired another shot. Then aimed again. Then fired another shot. After six shots, she hadn’t hit the target once.

“You’re trying too hard,” Conrad said when Sara was done. “Shooting a gun is an instinctive act. The gun’s an extension of you. It’s like throwing a baseball – you can’t wait around and aim it – you just have to throw it.”

“Ohhhh, another physical-fitness analogy,” Sara said. “And this time a Zen one.”

“I’m serious,” Conrad said. “Try again, but this time just point and shoot.”

After reloading, Sara once again faced the target. “Here we go,” she said. “Be the bullet.” She then raised her gun and fired off another six shots. This time, two of them hit the very top of the target.

“Not bad,” Conrad said, stepping into her booth. “I think the only problem is your stance. Your center of gravity is off, so the kick of the gun is forcing you back and making you shoot high.” After reloading Sara’s gun, Conrad said, “Don’t keep your feet together. Put one in front of the other and let your back leg be your anchor.” When Sara rearranged her feet, Conrad stood directly behind her and positioned her hips.

“Easy there, cowboy. Now you’re getting a little personal.”

“That’s the point,” Conrad said. With a grin, he held on to her waist. “Now center your weight there. Your back leg’s your anchor, but your weight’s balanced there.”

“I’m anchored,” Sara said. Then, in a quick blur, she pulled her gun and got off six shots. Four of them hit the paper human target. One of them plowed through his face.