"Must have. Now let me take another look at these pictures." Dodson brought a photo close to his eyes, shaking his head incredulously. "Come now, Roy, cooking the books with Mr. Kirov is one thing; this is major wetwork. You think he has the cojones for this kind of thing?"

"You heard the tape, sir. Gavallan said if he had his way he'd shut the Private Eye-PO up forever. I don't think it's a coincidence that Gavallan's here. The man has the means, the motive, and the opportunity. I think you taught me that, too."

Dodson didn't believe it was coincidence either, but he couldn't get his arms around pinning Jett Gavallan, a wealthy, law-abiding citizen, a philanthropist, and an ex-Air Force officer, as a mass murderer. You didn't put a square peg in a round hole.

"I'll agree with you that it wasn't poor Mr. Luca here who made such a mess," he said. "My guess is gangland. One of Kirov's American cousins. Let's get on to surveillance in New York. See if any of the shooters in Little Odessa have taken a holiday of late."

"Yes sir. But would you let me bring him in now? Get a B-4 for the records. I'd say we have probable cause."

"All right, Roy, you can bring him in. Have the police issue an APB in the area, put some of our men on his house in San Francisco, get some agents into his office. We want him to know this is for real."

DiGenovese nodded, unable to hide a malicious grin. "I'll take real nice care of him, don't you worry, sir."

"But no arrest warrant until we collect some evidence, and I mean something that will stick in court. His lawyers come charging in now and we'll never get a conviction."

DiGenovese frowned, hanging his shoulders. "What about a fugitive flight alert?"

Again Dodson's instincts told him no. If Gavallan was hanging around the murder scene, he didn't appear to be in any hurry to leave the country or to fear being captured by the police. The acrid scent of burnt powder tickled his nose, making his eyes water. Standing there, feeling his assistant's gaze burrowing into him, appraising him, exhorting him, damning him, Dodson wondered if his hesitancy to act more boldly was really prudence, or just a neatly disguised fear of failing. He forced himself to stare at the bodies, one by one. Each was a member of a family, a loved one who would be missed and mourned and grieved over for years to come. Fathers, brothers, uncles, friends, neighbors. The admission of guilt clutched him by the neck, and he found it difficult to swallow. He tried to argue that he wasn't at fault, that he couldn't have prevented this, but his words rang hollow. He'd let professional hubris and personal comfort interfere with sound police work. He might as well have pulled the trigger himself.

"Put his passport on the watch list," said Dodson. "Get some men to the airport. Send a team of agents to his hotel. And get me his cell number. Guy like that's got to have at least one phone on him at all times."

Excusing himself, he made his way outside and hurried round the corner of the building. There on a neat patch of grass, Howell Dodson fell to his knees and vomited.

Never again, he swore to himself. Never again.

Gavallan drove the Mustang slowly, keeping his speed under the limit as he listened to news of the shooting on the radio. The announcer put the final tally at ten dead- eight males, two women. The Latino kid had been right: There were no survivors. The poor joe on the gurney hadn't made it. Police speculated the killer was a disgruntled trader working out of Cornerstone, but had not yet identified him. The announcer spoke of another grim American tragedy. A lonely man. A failed career. A last desperate act.

Gavallan knew better. Ray Luca was the target, even if he'd been made to look like the killer. If Konstantin Kirov hadn't pulled the trigger himself, he was responsible. By now the pattern was clear. Ask a question, risk Kirov's wrath.

He reached the end of Biscayne Boulevard and stopped the car at a red light. Staring out over the placid blue water, he felt a sea change come over him. He was done being the victim. Done feeling guilty. He'd never been well-suited to playing the patsy anyway. A new emotion took hold of him- maybe a whole cocktail of them. Anger. Vengeance. The will to act, not react. He'd come a fair distance in his life, but not so far as to forget his roots, or the struggle he'd waged to get where he was today. He wasn't about to let a smooth-talking Russian take it all away.

The light turned green. A left would take him to his hotel, where he could pick up his belongings. If he hurried, he could make his three o'clock flight home. He gazed up the road, at the seaside hotels and neat bike path. An elderly couple walked hand in hand along the sidewalk.

Gavallan looked to the right. The road offered the same amusements, but led in another direction altogether, to the uncharted places on ancient maps decorated with serpents and dragons.

Gavallan turned right.

30

Damn it!" muttered Gavallan as he turned the doorknob and found it locked.

He was standing at the back door of Ray Luca's house, a run-down clapboard cottage with dormer windows, a weather vane, and paint peeling by the bucketload. Bougainvillea, ferns, and frangipani grew untended on three sides of the small home, enough vines and vegetation to qualify the place as a jungle. Frustrated, he took a step back, looking for spots where Luca might have hidden a key. He ran a hand along the door frame; his only rewards a splinter and a dead beetle. A few potted plants dangled from exposed rafters. His fingers probed the moist dirt, again without success. Behind him, a redbrick patio stretched twenty feet in either direction. A hot tub occupied one corner, a rusted hibachi and a flimsy set of lawn chairs the other. He walked to the hibachi and removed the lid. Fired charcoal briquettes dusted the interior. He replaced the lid carefully, his grasp that much tighter because of the sweat rolling down his forearms. The heat and humidity, coupled with his anxiety, made him feel plugged in, electric. He held out his hand and it trembled slightly, not so much with fear as with adrenaline.

He had parked two blocks up the road and walked boldly to Luca's front door, calling out his name to show the world he was a friend. He'd decided that noise was less suspicious than silence, and that an innocent visitor wouldn't think to camouflage his arrival. The neighborhood was sleepy bordering on comatose, with quaint cracker box houses spaced twenty to thirty yards apart and a scarred macadam road shaded by a palm canopy. Though he hadn't seen a soul, he could be sure someone had laid eyes on him. He figured he had fifteen minutes before his window of safety closed. After that he had no idea who might come- police, the FBI, a nosy neighbor.

His anxiety growing as the seconds ticked by, Gavallan returned his gaze to the rear of the house. A watering jar, a can of insecticide, and a terra-cotta pot holding a spade and a trowel sat a few feet from the door. Taking out his handkerchief, he wiped his forehead and dried his palms. Eeny-meeny-miney-mo. He chose the watering jar. Wrong again.

The key was under the insecticide.

Inside the kitchen, Gavallan stood with his back pressed to the door, listening. He heard the tick of the oven clock, the whir of the ice machine, the deafening static of abandonment. Mostly, though, he heard the draw of his own shallow breathing and the boom-boom-boom of blood thumping in his ears.

Satisfied the home was deserted, he made his way through the dining room, past the front door, and into the den, or what his daddy would have called "the parlor." A sky blue La-Z-Boy recliner occupied pride of place, four feet from a big-screen television. Luca hadn't watched TV; he'd bathed in it.