Then Stephen Miller, on the phone, stiffened and his face broke into a smile. He said, "Pac Bell's got him! He's in the Bay View Motel – in Fremont."

Bishop pulled out his cell phone. He called central dispatch and had them alert the tactical team. "Silent roll up," he ordered. "I want troopers there in five minutes. He's probably sitting in front of the window, watching the parking lot, with his car running. Let the SWAT folks know that." Then he contacted Huerto Ramirez and Tim Morgan and directed them to the motel too.

Tony Mott saw this as one more chance to play real cop. This time, though, Bishop surprised him. "Okay, Officer, you're coming along on this one. Only you stay to the rear."

"Yessir," the young cop said gravely and pulled an extra box of bullets from his desk.

Bishop nodded at Mott's belt. "I think the two clips you've got with you'll be enough."

"Sure. Okay." Though when Bishop turned away Mott slipped a furtive handful of bullets into his windbreaker pocket.

Bishop said to Gillette, "You come with me. We'll stop by Bob Shelton's place, pick him up. It's on the way. Then let's go catch ourselves a killer."

Detective Robert Shelton lived in a modest neighborhood of San Jose not far from the 280 freeway.

The yards of the houses were filled with the plastic toys of youngsters, the driveways with inexpensive cars -Toyotas and Fords and Chevys.

Frank Bishop pulled up to the house. He didn't get out immediately but appeared to be debating. Finally he said, "Just want to let you know, about Bob's wife… Their son dying in that car crash? She never really got over it. She drinks a bit too much. Bob says she's sick. But that's not what it is."

"Got it."

They walked to the house. Bishop pushed the doorbell button. There was no ring inside but they could hear muted voices. Angry voices.

Then a scream.

Bishop glanced at Gillette, hesitated a moment then tried the door. It was unlocked. He pushed inside, his hand on his pistol. Gillette entered after him.

The house was a mess. Dirty dishes, magazines, clothes littered the living room. There was a sour smell to the place – unwashed clothing and liquor. An uneaten meal for two – sad-looking American cheese sandwiches – was on the table. It was 12:30, lunchtime, but Gillette couldn't tell if the food was meant for today or leftover from yesterday or even before. They couldn't see anyone but heard a crash and footsteps from a back room.

Both Bishop and Gillette were startled by a shout – a woman's slurred voice: "I'm fucking fine! You think you can control me. I don't know why the hell you think that… You're the reason I'm not fine."

"I'm not-" Bob Shelton's voice said. But his words were lost in another crash as something fell – or maybe was flung by his wife. "Oh, Jesus," he shouted. "Now look what you've done."

The hacker and the detective stood helplessly in the living room, not sure what to do now that they'd intruded on this difficult domestic situation.

"I'm cleaning it up," Shelton 's wife muttered.

"No, I'll get-"

"Just leave me alone! You don't understand anything. You're never here. How could you understand?"

Gillette happened to glance into the open doorway of a room nearby. He squinted. The room was dark and from it came an unpleasant musty odor. What caught his attention, though, wasn't the smell but what sat near the doorway. A square metal box.

"Look at that."

"What is it?" Bishop asked.

Gillette examined it. He gave a surprised laugh. "It's an old Winchester hard drive. A big one. Nobody uses them anymore but a few years ago they were state of the art. Most people used them for running bulletin boards and early Web sites. I thought Bob didn't know much about computers."

Bishop shrugged.

The question as to why Bob Shelton had a server drive never got answered, though, because just then the detective stepped into the hallway and blinked in shock at the presence of Bishop and Gillette.

"We rang the bell," Bishop said.

Shelton remained frozen, as if trying to decide how much the two intruders had heard.

"Emma okay?" Bishop asked.

"She's fine," he responded cautiously.

"She didn't sound-" Bishop began.

"Just has the flu," he said quickly. He looked coldly at Gillette. "What's he doing here?"

"We came by to pick you up, Bob. We have a lead to Phate in Fremont. We've got to move."

"Lead?"

Bishop explained about the tactical operation at the Bay View Motel.

"Okay," the cop said, with a glance toward where his wife now seemed to be crying softly. "I'll be out in a minute. Can you wait in the car?" He then glanced at Gillette. "I don't want him in my house. Okay?"

"Sure, Bob."

Shelton waited until Bishop and Gillette were at the front door before turning back into the bedroom. He hesitated, as if working up his courage, then walked through the doorway into the dim room beyond.

It all comes down to this…

One of his mentors on the state police had shared these words with rookie Frank Bishop years ago, on their way to kick in the door of a walk-up apartment near the Oakland docks. Inside were five or six kilos of something the tenants weren't willing to part with, along with some automatic weapons they were all too willing to use.

"It all comes down to this," the older cop had said. "Forget about the backup and medevac choppers and newscasters and public affairs and the brass in Sacramento and radios and computers. What it comes down to is you versus a perp. You kick in a door, you chase somebody down a blind alley, you walk up to the driver's side of a car where the guy behind the wheel's staring straight ahead, maybe a fine citizen, maybe holding his wallet and license, maybe holding his dick, maybe holding a Browning.380, hammer back to single action and safety off. See what I'm saying?"

Oh, Bishop saw perfectly: Going through that door was what being a cop was all about.

Speeding now toward the Bay View Motel in Fremont, where Phate was currently raiding the CCU's computer, Frank Bishop was thinking of what that cop had told him so many years ago.

He was thinking too of what he'd noticed in the San Ho warden's file on Wyatt Gillette – the article the hacker had written, calling the computer world the Blue Nowhere.

Which was, Frank Bishop decided, a phrase that could apply to the cop world too.

Blue for the uniform.

Nowhere because that place on the other side of the door you're about to kick in, or down that alleyway, or in that front seat of the stopped car is different from anywhere else on God's good earth.

It all comes down to this…

Shelton, still moody from the incident at his home, was driving. Bishop sat in the back. Gillette was in the front passenger seat (Shelton wouldn't hear of an unshackled prisoner sitting behind two officers).

"Phate's still online, trying to crack the CCU files," Gillette said. The hacker was studying the screen on a laptop, online via a cell phone.

They arrived at the Bay View Motel. Bob Shelton braked hard and skidded into the parking lot where a uniformed cop directed him.

There were a dozen state police and highway patrol cars in the lot and a number of uniformed, plainclothes and armor-suited tactical officers clustered around them. This lot was next door to the Bay View but was out of sight of the windows.

In another Crown Victoria were Linda Sanchez, along with Tony Mott, who was decked out in his Oakley sunglasses – despite the overcast and mist – and rubberized shooting gloves. Bishop wondered how he could keep Mott from hurting himself and anyone else during the operation.