Holly shoved the magazine into the Beretta, worked the action, flipped off the safety, and fired two rounds into the tank.

“Just a minute,” Jimmy said. He went to the other end, opened a flap and, using a flashlight and a pair of tongs, retrieved the two slugs. “Here you go,” he said, handing them to her.

“Thanks,” she said, dropping them into her purse.

He nodded and let her out of the room.

She went back to her station and flipped a switch that moved her target back to fifty feet. She put on ear protectors, took up a combat stance-knees bent, pistol held out before her with two hands-and emptied the magazine into the target. Then she removed her Walther from her handbag and emptied another magazine into the target. She flipped the switch and brought the target back to her.

“Nice grouping,” a voice said from behind her.

She turned to find Jimmy standing there. “Thanks.”

“That’s a really good grouping with the Walther.”

She examined the target. The 9mm shots formed a tight group at the bull’s-eye, while the.765 shots were a little more dispersed. “I haven’t shot for a while,” she said. “At that range, I ought to be able to fire just as tight with the Walther as with the Beretta.”

He put another target up for her, and she moved it to 100 feet and fired both pistols. When the target came back, the groupings were looser, but still good.

“Where’d you learn to shoot?” Jimmy asked.

“My father taught me when I was a kid-he’s a lot better shot than I am-then I was in the military. I did the twenty.”

“Me too,” he said.

“Nice little business you’ve got here.”

“Thanks.” He put another target up for her, and she moved it to 150 feet. The groupings were wider, but the man-shaped target had taken all the slugs in the chest.

“I’m impressed,” Jimmy said.

“Think I’ll take a break, then see if I can improve my groupings,” she said. “Can I buy you a beer?”

“We don’t sell it here, but I’ll buy you a cup of coffee.” He indicated for her to follow him. A moment later, she was seated in his office and he was pouring her a cup of coffee.

“Thanks,” she said, accepting the cup.

“You live around here?”

“No, up the coast.”

“What brings you to my place?”

Holly decided to play it straight with him; she figured she had a chance of learning more. “I’m chief of police in a little town called Orchid Beach,” she said, laying her ID on his desk.

He picked it up and examined it. “Holly, not Helen.”

“Sorry, I was being too careful.”

He tossed back her wallet. “So, like I said, what brings you to my place?”

“A customer of yours took one in the back of the head up in my jurisdiction.”

“That would be Carlos Alvarez, unless I’ve lost another customer I don’t know about.”

“That would be Carlos. I’m working the murder.”

“There’s a guy named Barker up there. Know him?”

“Ham? That would be my old man.”

Jimmy smiled. “I was at Bragg with him a few years back. I didn’t know him, really, but I saw him shoot a couple of times. It was really boring, looking at those targets; he’d blow out the middle every time.”

“He still does.”

“I’d say tell him hello, but he wouldn’t know the name. Tell him a fan said hello.”

“I’ll do that; it’ll please him.”

“So, Holly, how can I help you?”

“Carlos shot in here once a week.”

“Yeah, he did. He was a good shot, too; not as good as your old man, but good.”

“Who did he shoot with?”

“Bunch of Cuban guys.”

“You think they’d talk to me?”

Jimmy laughed. “An Anglo female cop? Yeah, sure. That would violate four or five different kinds of macho.”

“That’s what I figured, but maybe you can tell me what I need to know.”

“If I can.”

“What did Carlos fire when he came?”

“He usually brought a forty millimeter and a Beretta.”

“I’m firing the Beretta tonight.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah. The forty is missing; I think it might have been used to kill him.”

“A shame about that. He had a really pretty girlfriend he brought in here once.”

“Yeah. Did Carlos ever fire a rifle here?”

“Sometimes he’d swap pieces with somebody. Once, he brought a twenty-two Winchester with a scope in here.”

“How long ago?”

“I don’t know, three, four weeks, I guess.”

“How’d he shoot with it?”

“Sweet, just like with everything else.”

“Jimmy, let me ask you something entirely off the record.”

Jimmy’s expression didn’t change, and he said nothing.

“If Carlos wanted a silencer made for the rifle, who would he go to?”

Jimmy didn’t move, didn’t say a word.

Holly waited him out. Jimmy stared at her for the longest moment, before he spoke.

“Why do you want to know?”

“Because there are a lot of pieces to this puzzle, and if I’m going to put them all together, I’ve got to know everything. The silencer is an important piece.”

“I might be able to arrange a brief meeting,” he said. “But no names, and when it’s over, it never happened.”

“That’s good with me.”

“Pour yourself another cup of coffee,” Jimmy said, getting up from his desk. “I’ll be back.” He left the office and closed the door behind him.

Holly got up and walked around the room. There was a display of army stuff on the walls-Jimmy’s shooting qualification certificates, awards for winning competitions.

The door opened and a man followed Jimmy into the room. Small, rat-like, nervous, he took a chair, as did Jimmy.

“Go ahead,” Jimmy said.

Holly looked at the man. “Did you ever make a silencer for Carlos Alvarez?”

The man looked at Jimmy, then at the floor.

“This is completely off the record,” Jimmy said. “A meeting that never happened.”

“I’ll never be asked to testify?”

Holly shook her head. “Carlos is dead; you can’t hurt him.”

The man looked at her again. “I made something for a Winchester twenty-two rifle,” he said.

“He does good work,” Jimmy chimed in.

“My work is as good for accuracy as for noise,” the little man said. “I do rifling; they’re perfectly machined.”

“He’s right,” Jimmy said. “I’ve seen his work.”

“How long ago?”

“A month, maybe; I didn’t count.”

“Thanks,” Holly said. “I appreciate your help.”

“That it?” he asked Jimmy, and Jimmy nodded. The man got up and opened the door, then closed it again.

“Something else?” Jimmy asked.

“I made something for a forty-millimeter Heckler and Koch, too.”

“Same time?” Holly asked.

“Same time. Next time I saw Carlos, he said he was real happy with my work.”

“Thanks again,” Holly said, and the man left the room and closed the door behind him.

“That what you wanted?” Jimmy asked.

“That was it,” Holly said. “One more thing.”

“Shoot.”

“I noticed that when I checked in, your lady took the serial numbers of my weapons.”

“We always do. Keeps people from bringing illegal pieces in here, and we throw out anybody who brings in something with the number filed off.”

“Then you’ll have the serial numbers of Carlos’s rifle and two pistols?”

Jimmy went to a card file, flipped through it, and extracted three cards. He lined them up on a copying machine and pressed the button. “There you are,” he said, handing her the copy. “In Carlos’s own handwriting, with his signature.”

“That’s great, Jimmy. I can’t thank you enough.” She didn’t get up.

“Something else?”

“I think Carlos made a connection here. Does the name Pellegrino mean anything to you?”

“There’s a restaurant in Miami by that name; my wife and I have had dinner there a couple of times, on special occasions.”

“You remember the headwaiter, Pio, the guy who seats everybody? He’s tall, slim, very slick-looking.”

“Sure. He owns the place, doesn’t he?”