“We got him.”

I turn. “Who?”

“Have a seat,” he says. “All will be revealed.”

My heart’s already racing as I sit down. He circles the desk, grabs a thin folder, and slaps it down in front of me, the same way a poker player throws down a winning hand. The paper trembles in my hand. Inside the folder are test results on the handgun recovered from Salazar’s boat.

“First off, there was dried blood on the muzzle and slide, which had been wiped down but not too carefully. The samples match Joe Thomson.”

A long breath escapes me. “This is it.”

“There’s more. The drop-in barrel and the rounds in the magazine both had prints all over them, also Thomson’s.”

“And the frame?”

His smile’s as wide as a crocodile’s, showing just as many teeth. “That’s where it gets really good. Like I said, the gun was wiped down. The lab had a hard time lifting prints from the frame and slide. But they pulled a partial off the hammer, another partial off the front of the trigger, and a thumb that wasn’t Thomson’s on the magazine.”

“Are you going to tell me whose it was?”

“Look and see.”

I flip the page over, scanning the lines, until my eye rests on the name. REGINALD ALLAN KELLER. I let out another breath. “The man himself.”

“And it gets better. That particular P229, the serial number traces back to Keller, too.”

“So it’s airtight.”

“Exactly.”

We observe a moment of silence. This was a long time coming, and now that it’s here, now that my old nemesis is literally in my hands, it doesn’t seem real. The feeling’s very different from the sense I had kneeling next to Hannah Mayhew’s corpse, the numbness at the end of what I knew all along would be an unfulfilled quest. There’s nothing conflicted or ambiguous about this. If anything, I’m giddy, and Wilcox must be, too, the way he’s grinning ear to ear, the way he insisted on us sharing this moment together.

I start to laugh.

He laughs, too, slapping his hand on the desk. “You got him.”

“I got him,” I say. “No, we got him.”

He shrugs the honor off. “It was all you, March.”

“It was Thomson,” I say. “If his conscience hadn’t gotten to him – ”

“It was you.”

He comes around the desk, clasps my hand in his, shaking, stoking the ember inside me into a full-blown flame. Whatever came between us before, whatever drove Wilcox away, it’s not there anymore, or at least it’s abated for now. I rise out of the chair and he gives me a manly, one-armed hug, beating my shoulder blade with his open hand.

“Now what?” I ask, reeling back.

“What do you mean, now what? We’re gonna frog-march him out of here. The man killed a cop. He’s going down.”

“When?”

“I’ve got people on him now. He’s holed up in his apartment as we speak. As soon as I can get the team together, we’re taking him. The warrant’s in process now.”

“I’m in.”

“I know you are.”

“And what about Salazar?”

“We don’t have eyes on him, but we will.” His smile fades. “To be honest, I’m not sure we can make as strong a case there – ”

“It was Salazar who tried to have me killed,” I say, my voice thick.

“I realize that, but tying it to him is another matter.”

“We have him on video carrying the body. It’s his boat the gun was on.”

“Right,” he says. “Now, think about that. Why would Salazar hold on to that gun? I’m assuming Keller didn’t intend him to. If you ask me, he kept it so he’d have some leverage over his boss, just in case. Which means Salazar might be willing to pull a Thomson. He might be willing to roll over on Keller. Would you be okay with that?”

“I don’t know. I don’t think so.”

“You might want to prepare yourself.”

So the guy who dirtied up my shooting years back will go down, but the one who undoubtedly arranged to take me off the board gets a walk? It’s hard to wrap my mind around. So I don’t even try. There’s no point admitting clouds on what ought to be a sunshine moment. Keller’s done, that’s what’s important.

My head’s still swimming as I exit the elevator on the sixth floor, punching the keypad code to admit myself into Homicide. When I return to my desk, Aguilar’s gone, replaced by an unexpected visitor. Carter Robb sits across from Cavallo, elbows on his knees, talking earnestly in a subdued voice.

“What’s the deal?” I ask.

They both look up. Cavallo speaks first. “Carter came by to talk. He’s got some interesting ideas about the case.”

“Really.”

He gazes up at me with haunted eyes, an expression I recognize all too well from the mirror. I know this man is carrying a load of guilt, floundering for some way to slough it off, but I also know he’s not going to find deliverance here, not through talking. And anything helpful he might have been able to give is already in our hands. Cavallo is too compassionate to tell him so, and if I didn’t have somewhere to be, an old enemy to slap the cuffs on, I might even play along. I like the guy, after all. But Wilcox is going to give the signal any second, and I don’t have time to mess around.

“It can’t be a coincidence her body was found so close to the outreach center,” Robb says. He rubs at his face the whole time he speaks, probably not aware of what he’s doing, running his fingers so hard across the stubble on his cheeks that I can hear the friction. “There’s some kind of connection, isn’t there? And that’s when all the trouble in Hannah’s life began, when I took the kids to the outreach center. That’s where everything started going wrong.”

I check my watch. “Mr. Robb, I’m going to have Detective Cavallo take another statement from you, all right? I’ve got to be somewhere, otherwise – ”

Cavallo’s eyes harden. “Where are you going?”

I don’t have time for the statement, I don’t have time to explain, and the way they’re both looking at me, one despairing and the other expectant, both thinking they have a claim on my attention -

“Has something happened with the case?” Robb asks.

“Not this one.”

Cavallo stands. I take a step back, only to bump into Aguilar, who extends two coffee cups out at arm’s length, trying to avoid spilling on his shoes.

“Hold your horses,” Aguilar says.

My desk phone starts to bleep. I squeeze forward, nudging Robb’s chair aside. Since I can’t push these people out of the way, I push the contents of the cramped cubicle instead, accidentally toppling the topmost box from the nearest stack. Cavallo dives for it, pushing a pile of paper off the edge of the desk, half of it landing in Robb’s lap while the other half hits the floor. Aguilar jumps back for no reason, splashing more coffee on himself.

I lift the receiver.

“Be up here in ten,” Wilcox says. “And grab a vest on the way.”

“Will do.”

I put the phone down, surveying the scene. While Cavallo reaches across Robb to wrestle the box back in place, he’s on his knees retrieving overturned files from the floor. Aguilar curses his spattered shoes, saying something under his breath about ruined calfskin. It’s ridiculous enough to laugh at, if only I hadn’t set the comedy in motion.

“Sorry,” I say.

My fellow detectives glare, while Robb reappears from under the desk with an armload of now intermingled paperwork, which is going to require some organizing. Later. I take it from him, drop it on the desk, and turn to go.

“Where are you going?” Cavallo asks.

“I’ve got to grab a vest.”

“A vest? For what?”

I glance around, making sure no one’s near enough to overhear apart from Aguilar.

“Keller,” I whisper. “We’re about to kick his door.”

“That’s not our case.”

“It’s not yours.”

Robb steps closer, holding Thomson’s sketchbook open in his hands. “What is this?”

“Nothing to do with you,” I say, snapping it away.

He ignores my reaction, his brows knitted. “No, really. What are those pictures?”