''Yeah, take off,'' Lucas said. ''You coming back to the office?''

''Soon as I get the stuff to my old lady,'' Franklin said. He nodded at Palin.

''Arne,'' he said, and he was gone.

''What the hell?'' Palin asked Lucas. ''What the hell?''

''Last night you called in a routine make on a Wisconsin pickup that belonged to an Elmore and Sandy Darling. Why'd you do that?''

Palin's wife looked at him, and Palin's mouth opened and shut, and then he turned his head, thought for a moment, then looked up at Lucas and said, ''I never did that.''

''We got you on tape, Arne.''

''I never,'' Palin protested.

''Elmore Darling was shot to death last night and Sandy Darling is running, maybe, with LaChaise and these other nuts. We know you ran their tags…''

''You wanna fuckin' listen to me?'' Palin screamed. He started to stand up but

Lucas held a hand out toward his chest. He sat down again and shouted, ''I didn't run no Wisconsin plates, and you ain't got it on tape because I never did it.''

Sloan said, his soft act, ''Arne, you might want to get a lawyer. ..''

''I don't need no fuckin' lawyer,'' Palin shouted, bouncing on the couch.

''Bring the fuckin' tapes in here. Bring the fuckin' tapes in here.''

Lucas looked at him for a long beat, then at his wife, who was weeping. ''All right,'' he said. ''Why don't you get your coat on? Let's go downtown and listen to the tapes, and see if we can figure out what's going on.''

''I want to come, too,'' Palin's wife said.

Lucas nodded. ''Sure, that'd be fine.'' He'd been about totell her to get her coat, as well. He didn't want anyone left behind, if they were talking to

LaChaise.

STADIC LOOKED AT THE BODY OF SELL-MORE. Sell-More's head was bent against the curb, twisted hard to the right, and his legs had apparently been crushed by the car that hit him. There was no visible blood.

''Shit,'' he said to Harrin, the homicide cop. ''I just talked to him, a few hours ago. Davenport's gonna freak out. This is LaChaise's work. Wonder what the hell's going on.''

Lucas took the call from Stadic on the way back to the office: Sell-More? Why in the hell would somebody hit Sell-More? Because he was asking questions?

FRANKLIN LIVED IN NORTH MINNEAPOLIS, IN A SINGLESTORY rambler in a neighborhood of mixed housing styles and ages. Across the street, a brick four-square looked across at him, while to his left, a white clapboard split-level crowded his driveway. Franklin drove slowly down toward his house, tired, feeling the day.

There was a little drifting snow around, from the squalls that had come through during the night.

Maybe he ought to get the snowblower out and blast his driveway clean, before it got too deep, or run over too much by the paper delivery guy. He had an insulated jumpsuit in the front closet, along with some pacs; he could clean it out in ten minutes. But had he gassed up the snowblower?

LACHAISE AND MARTIN HAD CRUISED FRANKLIN'S house, then the side streets.

''If there's anybody around, they sure gotta be inside,'' Martin said. ''Can't see shit out here.''

''I been thinking about it,'' LaChaise said. ''No point in both of us taking him on. So, you drop me up the block, where I can walk back. Then you find a place to park-you see that streetlight?''

LaChaise pointed at a streetlight on the corner two houses up from Franklin's.

''Yeah?''

''You park where you can see the light. If you can see it, then you can see his car lights when he shows up. As soon as you see him turn in, you come on down.

I'll take him as soon as he gets out of his car.''

''What if he goes in the garage, stays in the car, drops the door without getting out?''

''Then I'll go right up next to his car window and fill him up from there,''

LaChaise said. ''That might even be easier.''

''Wish we had a goddamn AR,'' Martin said again.

''The 'dog'll do, and the forty-five.''

''You'll freeze out there…''

''Not that cold,'' LaChaise said. ''We'll wait for an hour. I can stand an hour.''

THEY'D BEEN WAITING TWENTY MINUTES WHEN FRANKLIN showed, Martin a block and a half down the street, La-Chaise ditched behind a fir tree across the street from the mouth of Franklin's driveway.

Four cars had passed in that time, and a woman in a parka and snowpants, walking, carrying a plastic grocery bag. She passed within six feet of LaChaise, and never suspected him. As she passed, LaChaise pointed the 'dog at the back of her head and said to himself, ''Pop.''

He had six shots in the 'dog. He thought about that for a minute. Martin had given him one of the. 45s he'd bought from Dave. Now he took it out of his pocket, racked the slide to load and cock it and flipped the safety up.

• • •

WHEN FRANKLIN TURNED ONTO THE STREET, LACHAISE leaned forward, tense. The car was moving slow, and he had a feeling… yes. He clicked the safety down on the. 45.

The garage door started up, a light on inside, and Franklin took a hard left into the driveway. The door was moving up quickly enough that Franklin could keep rolling into the garage. LaChaise unfolded from behind the fir, stumbled-his legs were cramped, he'd been kneeling too long-recovered, started to run after the car, stumbled again, caught himself and saw the car door swing open. But the stumbles had slowed him down…

FRANKLIN WAS A BIG MAN, BUT AGILE. HE SWUNG HIS feet out of the car and stood up, still thinking about the snowblower, and at that moment saw LaChaise running up the drive, knew who it was and said, ''Shit.''

LaChaise saw the big man turn toward him and saw his hand drop, and he flashed on Capslock making the same quick move. He was ready this time, and he pulled up and fired the first shot with the 'dog, into Franklin's chest from twenty feet, saw Franklin stagger back. He closed, walking, fired again at fifteen feet, then a third, a quick bang-bang-bang and then Franklin's hand came up and LaChaise jerked off a fourth shot and knew that it had gone wide to his right…

And then Franklin's gun was up and LaChaise saw the muzzle flash and he fired once with the. 45 with his off hand; missed, he thought. Franklin fired again and LaChaise thought he felt the bullet zip through his beard and he was firing and Franklin fell down but he was still firing and LaChaise turned and ran…

Martin was there, skidding to a stop, the door opening. LaChaise piled through the passenger-side door and Martin took off, the back end slewing wildly once, twice, then straightening. LaChaise caught the door and slammed it, andlooking back, saw Franklin on the floor of the garage…

''Got him,'' Martin said.

''I don't know,'' LaChaise said uncertainly. ''He was this big motherfucker, and

I kept shooting him and he kept bouncing around and he wouldn't go down…''

''You can shoot a guy in the heart, he can be good as dead, but he can go on pulling the trigger thirty seconds or a minute,'' Martin said. ''That's what happened to them FBIs down in Miami. Those old boys were good as dead, but they kept on shooting, and they took the FBIs down with them.''

''I don't know…'' LaChaise said. He twisted to look back, but Franklin's place was gone in the night.

WHEN THE FIRST SLUG HIT, FRANKLIN FELT LIKE SOMEBODY had smacked him in the breastbone with a T-ball bat. Same with the second one, and the third. Then he had his own weapon out, but the fourth shot caught his arm, and stung, as though somebody had hit him with a whip, or a limber stick, and turned him. He thought,

Don't be bad, and he opened fire, knowing that he wasn't doing any good, his left arm on fire. Then another shot hit him in the chest and he fell down, slipping on the snow that had come off his car. He had no idea how many times he'd fired, or how many times he'd been shot at, but a slug ripped through his leg and he rolled, and now was hurting bad, but he kept his pistol pointing out toward the door, and kept it going…