“Actually, she’s in the hospital,” Liska said. “Dahl abducted her last night. She’s lucky to be alive.”

Bobby couldn’t seem to muster up any sympathy. “If she’d just done what she was supposed to do, none of this would have happened.”

“Judge Moore didn’t let Karl Dahl break jail.”

“She would have let him walk,” the boy said. “He was supposed to go to prison, like, a long time ago. Maybe my dad could have had some closure and moved on if that had happened.”

“Life doesn’t always follow the plan, Bobby. Most of the time it just happens, and we do the best we can.”

Of course he wouldn’t go for that, she thought. This kid probably did an outline for a grocery list. He wanted everything neat and tidy and under his control. She couldn’t blame him. He’d had so little control over his own young life, he had to take it where he could.

On the wall at the far end of the bench, he had put up a coatrack and hung a variety of layers to put on when he started to get cold, in order of lightest weight to heaviest-a short-sleeved T-shirt, a long-sleeved T-shirt, a sweatshirt with a University of Minnesota logo, the black jacket he had been wearing the first two times she had spoken with him.

At least the clothes weren’t pressed and on padded hangers. The shirts hung crooked. He had tossed the jacket up on the hook inside out. Nice to know he wasn’t entirely perfect.

Liska stared at the coat, at the square white tag sewn into the back at the neck. About one inch by one inch. She frowned, but brought her attention back to the boy.

“Maybe your dad can have that closure now,” she said. “With Karl Dahl dead, maybe he’ll be able to let go some of the anger and start to heal. Maybe you can do that together.”

Bobby looked off in the direction of the house as if he could see through the walls and into his father’s bedroom. If he could have willed something to happen, he would have.

Liska’s eyes drifted back to the clothes on the hooks. A picnic bench beneath the coatrack gave a place to sit down and change shoes. Beneath the bench were a small herd of sneakers, a pair of army boots, and what looked like a small piece of luggage partially hidden by a greasy old towel.

No, not luggage.

Liska went to the bench and pulled the towel away, revealing an old brown leather briefcase big enough to carry a bowling ball, or the files, notes, briefs, and motions a judge might carry home at the end of the day.

“Great old briefcase,” she said. “My uncle William carried one of these when I was a kid. He was a real estate attorney.”

Bobby Haas said nothing. He looked from the briefcase to Liska.

“Lawyers like to carry so much paper,” she said. “I think it makes them feel like they must be important. Uncle William had one arm longer than the other from hauling that briefcase around.”

Stamped in gold beneath the heavy brass clasp and lock was a name partially rubbed away over the years, but she could still make it out:A. H. GREER, ESQ.

“Where did you get this, Bobby?” Liska asked as she straightened up and looked hard at the boy.

“I don’t remember. Salvation Army, I think.”

“Really? The things you can find,” she said. “This is really nice. They don’t even make them like this anymore. Did you know Judge Moore had one just like this?”

“No. How would I know that?”

“I don’t know,” Liska said. “You tell me. It was stolen from her when she was attacked Friday night.”

“Are you saying you think I stole it?” he said, becoming visibly upset at the idea. “I didn’t. That’s not even her name.”

“No, it isn’t. But I can tell you whose name it is. Alec Greer, Esquire, is Judge Moore’s father.”

Red in the face, the boy said, “Well, this isn’t hers. I got it a long time ago.”

“Then you won’t mind if I have a look inside,” Liska said.

His eyes went to the briefcase again, then back to her. He was breathing faster. “Don’t you need a warrant or something?”

“I can get a warrant. Is that what you want? I can call my partner, and we can stand here and wait for him to bring a search warrant. Then we can spend all night picking this garage apart, and it won’t make any difference. What’s in that briefcase isn’t going to change, unless you have some magical powers you haven’t shared with me.”

He was sweating a little bit now. He didn’t have an instant answer. Liska could all but see the gears in his brain racing as he considered and dismissed options.

“Bobby, the only way you have this briefcase is if you took it from Judge Moore,” she said. “Turn around, spread your feet, put your arms out to your sides and your hands flat on the counter.”

He did as he was told.

“Bobby Haas,” she said, walking up behind him with handcuffs, “I’m putting you under arrest for the assault of Carey Moore.”

As she went to put one of the bracelets on him, he jabbed back hard with an elbow, hitting her square in the sternum.

Liska staggered backward, seeing stars, the wind knocked out of her.

Bobby Haas spun around from the bench with something in his hand, something he had grabbed from the tools on the wall.

A hammer.

His beautiful face had darkened and twisted with rage. He came at her, swinging the hammer as hard as he could.

Liska caught a heel on some piece of lawn equipment, went down on her back, cracked her head on the garage floor. She rolled to one side just as the hammer’s blow bounced off the concrete where her head had been.

Making it to her hands and knees, she scrambled under the handles of a wheelbarrow and shot forward, gaining her feet.

The hammer hit the wheelbarrow and it rang like a Chinese gong.

“You fucking bitch,” he said, but he didn’t shout.

That frightened her almost as much as his actions. He was trying to kill her yet had the presence of mind not to shout, not to be heard by a neighbor or by his father inside the house.

He kept coming with the hammer.

Liska rounded a bicycle and shoved it into his path.

His eyes were absolutely black. Flat black, bottomless, emotionless. Like a snake, like a shark, like a killer.

She pulled her weapon, but he was so close she barely had it out of the shoulder holster before he was on her.

She ducked low. The hammer hit the wall, splintering wood.

Liska put a shoulder into the boy’s solar plexus and drove him back a couple of steps. As she started to raise the gun, he swung again.

The hammer struck the back of her hand. The gun went flying.

“You fucking cunt!” He spat the words at her, full of venom.

Liska ducked away from him, darted to the side. She stuck her hand into her coat pocket and came out with her tactical baton.

With a quick, practiced move, she snapped it out to its full length and swung it like a baseball bat as hard as she could into Bobby Haas’s ribs just as he pulled his arm back for another blow.

She felt a couple of his ribs give way, and he doubled over, dropping the hammer.

The second blow was a hard, downward overhand that hit his left shoulder and fractured his collarbone.

Screaming in pain, the boy dropped to his knees and elbows on the floor, fell sideways, and curled into a fetal position, crying like the child he should have been.

“Flat on your face, you little shit!” Liska shouted, the adrenaline roaring through her.

“It hurts!”

“It damn well better hurt, you rotten little bastard! On your face, now, or I’ll give you something to cry about!”

Sobbing, he moved in slow motion to his hands and knees. Furious and scared, Liska put a foot into his back and shoved him flat. She read him his rights even as she pulled her cell phone out to call for backup.