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  "I sent my partner out so I could kill your monkey ass," Danny said calmly.

  "Come on, man," said Noon. "Look, you can take all that money over there. Just turn and let me go."

  "You know who I am, muthafucka?" asked Danny.

"Yeah, yeah I know."

"Say it!" Danny shoved the big gun at him.

  "You that crazy white boy, Two Gun, killed some homeys."

  "That's Danny Two Gun, you bitch, and it was
three
homeys. So, you know what's gonna happen if you fuck with me. Now, I got a question and I want an honest answer. If I even think you lyin' to me, we can cancel Christmas for your ass."

  "I didn't shoot that guy at the store today!" Noon almost yelled. "My man here did." He pointed to Paul, lying in a pool of blood.

  "I don't care about the damned camel-jockey you shot, lard-ass nigga."

  "What you want? I said take the money."

  Danny cocked the 9mm and put it to the man's head. "You know why I carry two different guns, my brotha?"

  Noon didn't answer. He just looked at Danny with fear and hatred in his face.

  "Well, I'll tell you," Danny continued. "See, guns have different weights, balances, you know. A nine millimeter is a precision thing, evenly balanced, controlled, but a revolver is front heavy, off kilter and shit. That's me. Sometimes I'm cool and other times—" Danny suddenly smacked Noon hard in the face with his free hand.

  Noon's head snapped to the side, then he tried to grab Danny's gun hand, but Danny moved it, and swiftly hit him in the side of the head with the butt of the gun.

  "Be nice. Okay, I know you muthafuckas been doing these party store jobs 'round town. I'm interested in the one you pulled last week. You got real lucky and found some drugs in the safe. About two keys. I want to know who you sold them to."

  "I can't tell you that man, you know I'll be—"

  Danny hit him again in the head with the butt of the gun. Blood trickled from the wound, running down Noon's meaty cheek.

  "Damn! Fuck!" Noon yelled. "Okay, we dropped it on Onion, that nigga from the west side. He drive that yellow Mustang."

  "Okay, you gonna meet some brothers from narcotics, and you gonna cooperate with them. 'Cause I'm gonna tell them what you told me, and I'm gonna get credit when they use you to bust Onion. If you fuck me, you'll be dead before the end of the day. Now, I know as soon as your lawyer gets here, you're gonna tell him what I said, and start acting like a punk ass—"

  "No, no I ain't gonna punk out."

  "Yeah, I know you ain't now, not while I'm here with this big-ass Glock in yo' face. But sometimes you forget about that shit when the lawyer show up. So, when you feel that urge, remember this—"

  Dan lowered his gun and shot the stocky man in the thigh. Noon yelled and fell over backward.

  "Danny! Shit!" yelled his partner, Vinny. "You promised me!"

  "He went for my gun." Danny stood up. "The bullet just grazed him. He ain't hurt, but he'll remember it." To Noon, he said: "Won't you?"

  The wounded man just screamed, holding his thigh, trying to stop the blood.

  "Why did you do that?" asked Vinny.

  "You know why. I'm working toward my goal."

  "This ain't the way to do it, Danny, and you know it."

  "If I had wanted a preacher for a partner, I would have requested one."

  "Everyone's coming," said Vinny. "Clean your shit up. I'm not backing you up on this one if it gets hot."

  "That's cool," said Danny. He stepped away from Noon, who was rocking back and forth and wailing like a child. Danny looked at his partner and smiled, his face suddenly turning softer. "You know, you lookin' fine today," he said.

M
arshall looked up from the auditorium stage into the rafters of Masonic Temple. At his feet were dried bloodstains, and the outline of Farrel Douglas's body. The shots had come from high up, and the blinding light had probably hidden any movement that might have been detected. The killer had been perched in a perfect place to do the job. And apparently, he had completely evaded the tight security surrounding the event after he killed Douglas.

  This troubled Marshall. He'd seen the security plan for the event himself. How could someone get through the net, and get up there? The answer was, they could not, not without a lot of planning.

  "Accomplices," he thought out loud.

  "You say something?" asked Robert Ryder. He was standing not too far from Marshall on the stage.

  "Just talking to myself," said Marshall. "A bad habit." Marshall focused his attention on a smallish man in a dark rumpled coat. He was Serrus Kranet, their ballistics expert. Serrus was good, the best by most reports. He spoke with two other men, who chatted feverishly.

  Marshall walked over to them. At the sight of him, the men all stopped talking.

  "Problem, Serrus?" asked Marshall.

  "No . . . well, I don't know," said Serrus. He was fifty or so and was balding badly.

  "Let's hear it," said Marshall. "Better I know about it now than in trial."

  The other men stiffened and seemed to back away from Serrus. He was the leader, and therefore, the one who ultimately got all the shit.

  "Well," said Serrus. "The trajectory shows that the shots came from up there, in a little crawl space by the left wall, but we are in the margin of error."

  "Are we beyond the margin?" asked Marshall. He understood that if they were, then the shots had come from somewhere else.

  "No," said Serrus. "We are within the margin, but barely."

  "Margin of error is acceptable as evidence. The defense, if there even is one, will attack it, but juries tend to hold on to this kind of scientific data like gospel. Is that all?"

  Serrus was quiet for a moment, and Marshall thought that whatever was coming was not good. "Well, we were going to run a test on the bullets that killed Douglas, but something happened—there were no slugs."

  Marshall was shocked for a second, and he knew that it registered on his face.

  "What the hell do you mean, no slugs?"

  "The bullets were .308 cartridges. Nothing strange there, but they left only fragments, the bullets shattered on impact, both of them."

  Marshall was not a ballistics expert, but he did know the basics. A bullet contained a lead projectile and a powder charge. The firing pin ignited the charge, which sent the bullet along its merry way. But there was always a slug in the corpse, unless it passed through. Bullets were known to shatter, but what were the odds that two of them would?

  Serrus answered this question before Marshall could ask it.

  "The odds are astronomical that two ordinary bullets would shatter like that."

  "So, if we catch the killer and get his weapon, we won't be able to get a match."

  "Not to those slugs," said Serrus. "But that lawyer, Wendel Miller, has a slug in him. It hit his spine, but if we try to get it, he'll probably be paralyzed. The fourth shot went through the stage and ricocheted off several metal beams. It's pretty beaten up. Probably no good for a match."

  "Shit," said Marshall. Reasonable doubt loomed already without the ability to match the bullet. "What are the fragments from the Douglas bullet made of?"

  "It's lead, of course, but they shattered in a way that I've never seen," said Serrus. "You could say they exploded."

  Marshall flagged this as a potential problem. If they couldn't explain the ballistics results, then the defense could color it any way they wanted to. They certainly couldn't match a gun to a shattered or severely damaged bullet, and that might be the end of the case right there.

  "Get me all the reports tonight," said Marshall. "And you know the drill—no leaks to the press."

  Marshall went over to Ryder, who was talking with Christine Sommers, an FBI agent whom Marshall was acquainted with, though he could not remember the case.

  "Chris," said Marshall. "Good to see you again."

  "Same here," said Sommers. Marshall remembered that she was a nice-looking woman. She was medium height but for some reason seemed taller. She was graying, and it became her. Sommers looked tired. As a senior agent, she was probably catching a lot of hell.

  "I want to check out the shooter's position," said Marshall. "And you and I have to talk about the ballistics reports, Robert."

  "It's Bob," said Ryder. "Chris here says that they've been getting a lot of calls on the murder."

  "Right," said Sommers. "We got the usual crackpots, Oswald did it, and shit like that. But there are some things that might turn into leads."

  "Such as?" asked Marshall. He didn't really need to know right now, but he always wanted to know the caliber of person he was working with.

  "We've got your Douglas haters," said Sommers. "Black fringe groups and black militia; yes, they do exist. Also we're checking into anyone who has made a threat against a public official in the last five years."

  "Great," said Marshall. He was satisfied for the mo ment. Sommers rattled off the answers like it was second nature. The sign of a pro. He glanced up at the rafters. "Shall we?"

They stood outside of the small crawl space as the lab men continued to work. The crawl spaces were above the second balcony and circled around the heart of the room. The killer had chosen one by the wall because it was near the door. He shot Douglas, then quickly ran out of that door and down the stairs. In the commotion with the mystery man and the fake gun, the killer had gotten out of the building.

  Marshall could see down to the stage and all around the first twenty or so rows of seats. The space had a good vista. The killer had picked his place well.

  "The security team did a sweep of these the day before, and the day of. They found nothing," said Sommers. "So far, the lab guys have no prints or anything. And I suspect that they won't find any. Our boy was smart."

  "We're getting all of the TV tapes from that day. Maybe he was caught by a camera," said Marshall. "And maybe he talked to someone we can ID."

  "You think he'd be that stupid?" asked Ryder.

  "Not stupid, unlucky," said Marshall. "There were so many cameras, maybe he got caught in a sweep."

  "Never thought of that," said Sommers. "It's a good bet."

  Marshall was reaching, but he'd done a lot of cases in his years as a lawyer, and sometimes after all the hard work, fancy procedures, and high-tech shit, you just lucked up into something.

  "Does the FBI have a package for me?" asked Marshall.

  "Yes indeed," said Sommers. "And it's big. We're still putting it together, but I'll swing by your place later if you don't mind."

  "You gonna swing by my place, too?" asked Ryder. The flirting in his voice was unmistakable.

  "Sure thing," said Sommers in a very businesslike tone. "You get one too, sir."

  That was the end of Ryder's fantasy, thought Marshall. Sommers had nary a hint of amusement in her face as she looked at him. Ryder smiled a little anyway and seemed to back off.

  Marshall regarded the crawl space. It was small, but large enough to accommodate a man. Whoever had gone in there did so with great passion and determination. They would need to be just as tenacious in the investigation if they wanted to catch such a man.

  "Got something!" yelled a man from inside the crawl space.

  "Gordon's got something," someone said.

  All eyes turned to a tiny man with brown hair as he slowly pulled himself out of the hole. Marshall went to the man and helped him up.

  "Careful," said Gordon. "I'll drop it." Gordon was a small man with a rather large head. In his hand was a pair of forceps.

  "What did you find?" asked Marshall.

  "Well, I was looking at the inner wall, which would have been to the killer's back," said Gordon. "But I thought, what the hell, you know? Then, I saw the tip of a nail and there was something on it. I had to work it out carefully, but I got it all. Look there."

  Marshall examined the tiny nail fragment. On its tip, he could see a small strand of black hair.

M
arshall was exhausted as he pulled into the driveway of his home in Palmer Woods. He'd been going for twenty hours straight, and wanted only to see his bed. He got out of his car and lifted the heavy files that filled his backseat.

  They were all excited by the find of the hair in the crawl space. A call had gone out to Toby and the president. Nate Williams had almost jumped for joy. But the elation was short-lived. They compared the hair they'd found to the hair on the mystery man they'd shot, and it did not match. Douglas's assassin was not the man who had been killed. Still, they had hard evidence. That was always a good thing.