"No reason, really," Evan said. "I just thought it was interesting. I don't think I've ever heard of somebody being killed that way. At least not here in the States."
"Yeah, well." The lieutenant chewed thoughtfully. "It's not the norm, I'll give you that. Somebody wanted these people completely dead, in a big loud way. It wasn't some gangbanger taking potshots at a residence and hoping somebody gets hit."
"Could the guy, the victim, have done it himself?"
Spinoza shrugged. "Not impossible, I guess. There's no evidence pointing to anybody else. But also there's absolutely no sign so far of why Mr. Khalil would want to do that. The businesses were going great. He apparently loved the wife. No health problems. At least that's what we got from the rest of the family. And, believe me, there's a lot of the rest of the family. So I'm betting against murder/suicide, which leaves a pro. 'Cause I'll tell you one thing. Whoever did this did it right. At this moment, the only evidence we've got is-maybe-the bits of the frag grenade. And just between you and me, I'm kind of hoping we don't have that."
"Why not?"
"Because as we stand now, we've got a local murder of a businessman. At least we can get away with calling it that, since Ibrahim was a naturalized citizen."
"Where'd he come from?"
"I thought I told you that last night. Iraq. Half his family, evidently, still lives there. The other half has the 7-Eleven concession for the Bay Area wrapped up here."
"So what's the issue if you've got a frag grenade?"
"You can't own a frag grenade. It's a federal offense. Which means the ATF's involved. Which, in turn, sucks."
"So how do you find out if it was a frag grenade?"
Spinoza came down in his chair, brought his feet to the floor. "Fear not, my son. The ATF has already picked up samples from the scene. They'll have it analyzed by tonight and soon we'll all know for sure. If it is what it is, the FBI's in before morning. The preliminary call is yep, frags. So it's gonna be their case."
"Why's that so bad, Fred? Don't they have a lot more resources than we do?"
"Oh, no question," Spinoza said. "More resources, more money, more access to data, the whole nine yards. The thing is, though-they don't share. So we wind up spending a week finding stuff they already have. It's kind of a race to see who can get there fastest, but we've got one leg tied behind our backs."
"I don't think that's exactly the expression."
"No?" Spinoza popped his last bite of sandwich. "Well, that's what it feels like."
HE KNEW THE LOCKSMITH from Ace Hardware both from his high school class and from his men's softball team. Now, at a few minutes before two o'clock on an afternoon after Evan had told
Evan, in his police uniform to reinforce his legitimacy, got out of his car and they high-fived each other on the sidewalk. After a couple of minutes of catching up-Saldar had heard some of Evan's story from guys on the team-they got around to what Evan had called Dave up here for.
"You didn't hide a spare under a rock or something?" Saldar asked.
"No. I didn't think I'd ever forget my keys. Who forgets their keys?"
"My wife does every time she leaves the house."
"Yeah, well, I don't. I never have before."
"I would love one thin dime for every time I'd heard those exact words. Why do you think the world invented locksmiths?"
"I never could figure that out."
"Well, now you know." Saldar inclined his head toward the town-homes. "Okay, which one's yours?"
They went down to Nolan's doorway, partially enclosed and blocked from the street by an L-shaped, glass-block privacy screen. Saldar got out his tools and went to work. Evan found that his legs were weak enough that he had to lean against the screen for support. With each passing second, the enormity of the implications of what he was doing worked on his system. He felt as lightheaded as he'd been on Nolan's night raid outside of BIAP. A jackhammer pulse pounded where they'd cut open his skull. The migraine he'd invented for Lieutenant Lochland threatened to become a reality-pinpoints of light exploded at the outer edges of his vision. He kept looking to the street, nearly passing out when a yellow Miata convertible crested the incline and drove by.
Saldar, noticing something in his reaction, glanced up at him. "You all right?"
"Good," he said. In fact, he could feel the sweat breaking on his forehead. Summoning all the control he could muster, he brought his hand up and dragged it across his brow.
At last, Saldar turned the knob and pushed the door open. "There you go, a minute and fifteen seconds. This could be a new record."
"I'm sure it is, Dave. That's awesome."
Saldar was holding open the front door. "Hey, are you okay, Ev? You really don't look so good."
