Hauck headed home from the coffeehouse in Old Greenwich, about five minutes up the Post Road. He planned to copy the recording onto a tape, then take it over to Carl Fitzpatrick, who lived close by in Riverside, that very night. Karen had found exactly what he needed—evidence that was untainted. Fitzpatrick would have to open everything back up now.

In Stamford he veered off the Post Road onto Elm, soaring. He crossed back under the highway and the Metro-North tracks to Cove, toward the water, Euclid, where he lived. There were lights on across the street from his house, at Robert and Jacqueline’s, the furniture restorers. It looked like they were having a party. Hauck made a left into the one-car driveway in front of his house.

He opened his glove compartment, pulled out the Beretta he had given Karen, and shoved it into his jacket. He slammed the Bronco’s door shut and bounded up the stairs, stopping to pick up the mail.

Taking out his keys, he couldn’t help but smile as his thoughts flashed to Karen. What Charles had told her before he died, how she’d put it all together and found the phone. Wouldn’t make a half-bad cop—he laughed—if the real-estate thing didn’t work out. In fact…

A man stepped out of the darkness, pointing something at his chest.

Before he fired, Hauck stared back at him, recognizing him in an instant, and in that same instant, his thoughts flashing to Karen, he realized he’d made a terrible mistake.

The first shot took him down, a searing, burning pain lancing through his lower abdomen as he twisted away. He reached futilely into his pocket for the Beretta as he started to fall.

The second struck him in the thigh as he toppled backward, tumbling helplessly down the stairs.

He never heard a sound.

Frantic, Hauck grasped out for the banister and, missing it, rolled all the way to the bottom of the stairs. He came to rest in a sitting position in the vestibule, a dull obfuscation clouding his head. One image pushed its way through, accompanied by a paralyzing sense of dread.

Karen.

His assailant stepped toward him down the stairs.

Hauck tried to lift himself up, but everything was rubbery. He turned over to face Richard and Jacqueline’s and blinked at the glaring lights. He knew something bad was about to happen. He tried to call out. Loudly. He opened his mouth, but only a coppery taste slid over his tongue. He tried to think, but his brain was just jumbled. A blank.

So this is how it is….

An image of his daughter came into his mind, not Norah but Jessie, which seemed strange to him. He realized he hadn’t called her since he’d been back. For a second he thought that she was supposed to come up or something this weekend, wasn’t she?

He heard footsteps coming down the stairs.

He put his hand inside his jacket pocket. Instinctively, he fumbled for something there. Charlie’s phone—he couldn’t let him take that! Or was it the Beretta? His brain was numb.

Breathing heavily, he looked across the street again to Richard and Jacqueline’s.

The footsteps stopped. Glassily, Hauck looked up. A man stood over him.

“Hey, asshole, remember me?”

Hodges.

“Yeah…” Hauck nodded. “I remember you.”

The man knelt over him. “You look a poor sight, Lieutenant. All busted up.”

Hauck felt in his jacket and wrapped his fingers around the metal object there.

“You know what I’ve been carrying around the past two weeks?” Hodges said. He placed two fingers in front of Hauck’s face. Hazily, Hauck made out the dark, flattened shape he was holding there. A bullet. Hodges pried open Hauck’s mouth, pushed in the barrel of his gun, all metallic and warm, smelling of cordite, clicked the hammer.

“Been meaning to give this back to you.”

Hauck looked into his laughing eyes. “Keep it.”

He squeezed on the trigger in his pocket. A sharp pop rang out, followed by a burning smell. The bullet struck Hodges under the chin, the smile still stapled to his face. His head snapped back, blood exploding out of his mouth. His body jerked off of Hauck, as if yanked. His eyes rolled back.

Hauck pulled his legs from under the dead man’s. Hodges’s gun had fallen onto his chest. He just wanted to sit there a while. Pain lanced through his entire body. But that wasn’t it. That wasn’t what was worrying him.

Dread that fought its way through the pain.

Karen.

Using all his strength, Hauck pushed his way up to his feet. A slick coating of blood came off on his palm from his side.

He took Hodges’s gun and staggered over to the Bronco. He opened the door and reached for the radio. He patched into the Greenwich station. The duty officer answered, but Hauck didn’t recognize the voice.

“This is Lieutenant Hauck,” he said. He bit back against the pain. “There’s been a shooting at my house, 713 Euclid Avenue in Stamford. I need a local team dispatched there.”

A pause. “Jesus, Lieutenant Hauck…?”

“Who am I speaking to?” Hauck asked, wincing. He twisted the key in the ignition, closed the door, and backed out of the driveway, crashing into a car parked on the street, and drove.

“This is Sergeant Dicenzio, Lieutenant.”

“Sergeant, listen, you heard what I just said—but first, this is important, I need a couple of teams, whoever’s closest out there, sent immediately to 73 Surfside Road in Old Greenwich. I want the house secured and controlled. You understand, Sergeant? I want the woman who lives there, Karen Friedman, accounted for. Possibly dangerous situation. Do you read me, Sergeant Dicenzio?”

“I read you loud and clear, Lieutenant.”

“I’m on my way there now.”