The rest of the reporters started in again, kids turned loose in the candy store. “When do we get a briefing? When do we get a briefing?”

“Who's going to handle the case?”

“What can you tell us about the explosion?”

“Has anyone interviewed the women yet? What do the victims have to say?”

Griffin sighed. Reasoning with the press was such a waste of breath. But in this job, you had to do what you had to do. He and Waters squared their shoulders, shoved aside two of the blue police barricades and waded bravely into the fray. Four microphones promptly appeared in front of Griffin 's face. He pushed them back, homed in on one reporter in particular, and stabbed at the man with his finger.

“You. You and your cameraman can start. Over here.”

He and Waters pulled the two away from the group. The pair weren't very happy, but then Waters and Griffin didn't much care. Griffin made the reporter review his notes, while Waters had the cameraman play back his tape. At the last minute, they were rewarded with a grainy image of the back of a man running across the courthouse roof. The focus was all wrong, though. The cameraman had been zoomed in on a close-up shot of his reporter talking in front of the courtyard. When he yanked up the camera after hearing the gunfire, the shooter was too far away to yield a good image.

“He was wearing all black,” the reporter provided. “With something on his head. Maybe a stocking. You know, like bank robbers do in the movies.”

Griffin grunted. Waters noted the names and news affiliate for the twosome, then they moved on. Their second subjects were even better. This cameraman liked gunshots so well, he dropped his five-thousand-dollar piece of hardware onto the lawn.

“I don't do well with loud noises,” he said sheepishly.

“For God's sake, Gus,” his reporter snapped, “what happens if they send us to Afghanistan?”

“We work for the UPN affiliate in the smallest state in the nation, Sally. When the fuck are we going to be sent to Afghanistan?”

“Did you at least look up?” Griffin intervened in this lovefest.

“Yeah,” Gus said. “Saw a person, running across the roof.”

“Person?” Waters pressed.

Gus shrugged. “All I could see was the back. Could be a man, could be a woman. In this day and age, who the hell knows?”

“Real observant, Gus, real observant.”

Griffin turned toward Sally. “And you?”

The hard-faced brunette gave Griffin an appraising stare. “I thought it was a man. Broad shoulders. Short, dark hair. Dressed in black coveralls, like the kind mechanics wear. Now then. You're looking good after your little vacation, Griffin. A sergeant of Major Crimes, light caseload from being gone so long. Twenty to one they're going to put you in charge of this baby. So why don't you give me an interview? Five minutes on the record. My boss will clear it with your boss. What do you say?”

Waters was looking at him strangely. He probably hadn't given any thought to who would be assigned as the primary case officer yet. The decision generally wasn't made right away. Sally was correct, however. Griffin was a sergeant, he had lead case experience and at the moment he had a remarkably light caseload.

“I'm sure the detective commander will be giving a statement to all of the reporters shortly,” Griffin told Sally. Then he walked back to the crowd. “Next!”

It took him and Waters two hours to make it through the nest of reporters. In the end, they had a description of a white male who was between five and six feet tall, who might have brown hair, blond hair or black hair, who was either heavyset or rail-thin, who was wearing a ski mask, a Zorro-like mask, a stocking mask or nothing at all, and who may or may not bear a striking resemblance to James Gandolfini's character on The Sopranos.

“That's it, I think we can arrange for a lineup right now,” Waters said.

“Absolutely. And here I thought it would take all day to learn that nobody saw nothing. Instead it's been what, two and a half hours?”

“The Boss will be pleased,” Waters agreed.

They both sighed heavily. They wandered away from the reporters, who had spotted the major arriving at the courtyard across the street, and were now resuming their manic cries for a briefing.

“What do you think?” Waters asked quietly, looking around to make sure no gung-ho reporter had spotted their break from the crowd. Acrid smoke from the car explosion still wafted through the air. It gave their voices a raspy edge.

“We're pissing in the wind,” Griffin said. “Single head shot, so most likely the guy was a pro. Left everything on the rooftop, so most likely he knew the assault rifle, etc., was untraceable. I'm betting the minute he finished shooting, he stripped down to civilian threads and headed into the courthouse where he blended into the rest of the pedestrian traffic.”

“He simply strolled down the street to his getaway vehicle,” Waters filled in.

“Where he made an even bigger exit than he planned.”

“A description's not going to help much, except down at the morgue,” Waters agreed.

“We're still going to have to know who he is to confirm his occupation, then figure out who hired him.”

“I don't know. Based on what we've heard, Uncle Vinnie's looking better all the time. Has a grudge, has the connections to hire a gun. Seems to me that Tom was onto something. Or”-Waters's voice grew more thoughtful-“the East Side wife obviously has money. Maybe she arranged for the hit. Or maybe all the women conspired together-I heard that they formed some kind of support group. Of course, I'm not sure why they'd kill the hired gun. Then again, once you've decided to kill one felon, what's one more?”

Griffin merely grunted. He didn't like to rush to conclusions when working a case. He flipped through his spiral notebook. “Hey, Mike, what happened to NBC?”

“I don't know. Seinfeld ended, ER lost Clooney?”

“No, no, I mean, we haven't interviewed anyone from WJAR. You really believe Channel Ten didn't send a news team?”

Waters frowned. He looked around the memorial park. And then his eyes widened. “There, at the end of the block. Doesn't that white van say News Team Ten?”

“Well, what do you know. Two reporters have actually left the herd and are holed up on their own. Now, why would two reporters run away from the pack?”

“They have something.”

“No, no, Mike, we have something. Let's get 'em.”

Sixty seconds later, Griffin rapped on the van's sliding metal door. It didn't magically open. He knocked louder. Immediately, the voices inside shut up.

“Come on, guys,” he called out. “This is Sergeant Griffin of the state police. Now open up, or I'll huff and I'll puff and I'll blow your van down.”

Another long pause. Finally, a click, then the door slid meekly back. Perched inside, Maureen Haverill gave both detectives her best reporter's smile.

“ Griffin!” she said warmly. “I heard you were returning to the fold.”

Maureen Haverill had been working at the local NBC affiliate for five years. A petite blonde, she was perky enough for one of those national morning news shows and probably figured it was only a matter of time. At the moment, her blue eyes were particularly bright. She looked like an addict who'd just gotten a fix. Or a reporter who'd just landed a scoop. Her cameraman was out of sight. Probably frantically dubbing the tape. Damn.

“Both of you, out, now.” Griffin 's voice was harsh.

“ Griffin -”

“Out!”

Maureen scowled. She made a big show of carefully maneuvering out of the van, the helpless blonde in a too-short, too-tight pale green skirt. She probably bought her cameraman another thirty seconds.

“So help me God, Maureen,” Griffin informed her, “you dub that tape and I will nail you for tampering with evidence.”

“I don't know what you're talking about.”