"Jesus," said Angelina as they came back downstairs. "This place is the definition of retro anal retentive. It's like we broke into Mike and Carol Brady's house."

"Who the hell are Mike and Carol Brady?"

Angelina paused at the top of the basement stairs. "You don't know the Brady Bunch?"

Kurtz gave her a blank look.

"Christ, Kurtz, you've been locked away longer than twelve years."

The basement had a laundry room, a bare rec room with a dusty Ping-Pong table, and a room locked away behind a steel door with a complicated security keypad.

"Wowzuh," said Angelina and whistled.

"Same code as upstairs?"

"No way. This is a serious piece of circuitry." She started pulling instruments and wires from her bag.

Kurtz glanced at his watch. "We don't have all day."

"Why not?" said Angelina. "You have things to see and people to do today?"

"Yeah."

"Well, don't get your jockey briefs in a bunch. In two minutes, we'll either be in or we'll have armed private-security people all over our ass here."

"Private security," said Kurtz. "This guy's alarms don't go to the cop house?"

"Get serious." She focused her attention on removing the keypad from the wall and connecting her wires to its wires without setting off the silent alarm.

Kurtz wandered back upstairs and looked out the front window. Their black Town Car was parked in plain sight, although the increasing snowfall made visibility more problematic. Kurtz was thankful that Hansen had bought a relatively isolated house with such a long driveway.

"Holy shit!" Angelina's voice sounded far away.

Kurtz trotted down the stairs and went through the open door. It was quite a private office—mahogany-paneled walls, a lighted gun case running from floor to ceiling, a heavy, expensive-looking wooden desk. On the wall above and behind that desk were photographs of James B. Hansen posing with various Buffalo worthies, plus a scad of certificates—Florida Police Academy diplomas, shooting awards, and commendations for Lieutenant and Captain Robert G. Millworth, Homicide Detective.

Angelina's eyes were narrow when she wheeled on Kurtz. "You had me break into a fucking cop's home?"

"No." He walked over to the large wall safe. "Can you get into this?"

She quit staring daggers at Kurtz and looked at the safe. "Maybe."

He looked at his watch again.

"If this were a small, round safe, we'd have to pry the fucker out of the wall and take it with us," said Angelina. "You just can't get any blast leverage on a round safe. But our boy went in for the heavier, more expensive type."

"So?"

"So anything with corners, I can get into." She set her bag down near the safe door and began removing timers, primers, thermite sticks, and wads of plastique.

"You're going to blow it?" Kurtz was wishing that he'd gone to check on Arlene, Frears, and Pruno before doing this errand.

"I'm going to burn our way into the lock mechanism and get at the tumblers that way," said Angelina. "Why don't you make yourself useful and go make us some coffee?" She worked for a few seconds and then looked up at Kurtz standing there. "I'm serious. I didn't get my full three cups this morning."

Kurtz went up to the kitchen, found the coffeemaker, and made the coffee. He found some cannoli in the refrigerator. By the time he started down the stairs with two mugs and a dish with the cannoli, there came a loud hiss, a muffled whump, and an acrid odor filled the air. The safe looked intact to Kurtz's eye, but then he saw a fissure around the combination lock. Angelina Farino Ferrara had attached a slim fiberoptic cable to the Visor organizer and was watching a monochrome display as she clicked the combination.

The heavy safe door swung open. She accepted the cup of coffee and drank deeply. "Blue Mountain roast. Good stuff. Cannoli's just okay."

Kurtz began removing things from the safe. A heavy nylon bag contained more than a dozen carefully wrapped cubes of what looked to be gray clay nestled in with foam-wrapped detonators, delicate-looking timers, and coils of primer cord.

"Military C-Four," said Angelina. "What the hell does your homicide captain want with C-Four in his home?"

"He likes to burn down and blow up his homes," said Kurtz. Shelves in the safe held more than $200,000 in cash and bearer's bonds, a bunch of certificates and policies, and a titanium case. Kurtz ignored the money and carried the case to the desk.

"Excuse me," Angelina said. "You forgetting something?"

"I'm not a thief."

"I am," she said and began transferring the money and bonds to her bag.

"Shit," said Kurtz. The locks on the case were also titanium and did not give when he went at them with the small crowbar.

"That little case may take longer to crack than the safe," said Angelina.

"Uh-uh," said Kurtz. He took out his.40-caliber Smith & Wesson and blew the locks off. The gap allowed the crowbar to get a grip and he popped the briefcase open.

Angelina finished loading the contents of the safe, lifted her heavy bag, and came over to the desk where Kurtz had laid out some of the photographs. "So what exactly are you… Holy Mother of God!"

Kurtz nodded.

"Who is this motherfucking pervert?" whispered Angelina.

Kurtz shrugged. "We'll never know his real name. But I was sure that he'd keep trophies. And he did."

It was Angelina's turn to look at her watch. "This is taking too long."

Kurtz nodded and hefted the bag of C-4 over his shoulder.

Angelina was sipping her coffee and heading for the door. She gestured. "Bring the other bag with the money and my burglar's stuff. Leave the cannoli."

Hansen showed his badge to three nurses and two interns before being told where Nurse Gail DeMarco was.

"She's out of the O.R. and is… ah… right now, she's in the Intensive Care Unit on nine." The fat, black nurse was checking her computer monitor. Evidently all the hospital personnel were tracked by electronic sensors.

Hansen went up to the ICU and found the nurse speaking on a cell phone while looking down at a sleeping or comatose teenage girl. The girl had bruises and bandages and at least three tubes running in and out of her.

"Mrs. DeMarco?" Hansen showed his badge.

"I have to go," the nurse said into the phone and punched the disconnect button, but kept the phone in her hand. "What is it, Captain?"

Hansen showed his most engaging smile. "You know that I'm a captain of detectives?"

"It said so right on the ID you just showed me, Captain. Let's step out of this room."

"No, we're all right here," said Hansen. "I'll just be a minute." He liked the glass doors and walls separating them from the nurses' station. He went closer to the bed and leaned over the sleeping girl. "Car accident?"

"Yes."

"What's the kid's name?"

"Rachel."

"How old?"

"Fourteen."

Hansen gave his winning smile again. "I have a fourteen-year-old son. Jason. He wants to be a professional hockey player."

The nurse did not respond. She checked one of the monitors and adjusted the IV drip. She was still carrying the stupid cell phone in her left hand.

"She going to make it?" asked Hansen, not giving the slightest damn if the kid survived or went into cardiac arrest right then and there, but still wanting to get on Gail DeMarco's good side. Most women were blown away by his smile and affable persona.

"We hope so," said the nurse. "Can I help you, Captain?"

"Have you heard from your sister-in-law Arlene, Mrs. DeMarco?"

"Not for the last week or so. Is she in some sort of trouble?"

"We don't know." He showed the Frears photo. "Have you ever seen this man?"