Bishop, pouring milk in his coffee, hit the speaker button on the phone.

"Thanks for calling back, Officer Pittman."

"Not a problem, Detective." The man's voice was distorted by the cheap speaker. "What can I do for you?"

"Well, Charlie, I know you have that Peter Fowler investigation open. But next time we have an operation underway, I'm going to have to ask that you or somebody at the county police comes to me first so we can coordinate."

Silence. Then: "How's that?"

"I'm speaking of the operation at the Bay View Motel yesterday."

"The, uh, what?" The voice in the tinny speaker was perplexed.

"Jesus," Bob Shelton said, turning his troubled eyes toward his partner. "He doesn't know about it. The guy you saw wasn't Pittman."

"Officer," Bishop asked urgently, "did you introduce yourself to me two nights ago in Sunnyvale?"

"We got a misunderstanding going on here, sir. I'm in Oregon, fishing. I've been on vacation for a week and I'll be here for another three days. I just called the office to get messages. I heard yours and called you back. That's all I know."

Tony Mott leaned toward the speaker. "You mean you weren't at the state police Computer Crimes Unit headquarters yesterday?"

"Uh, no, sir. Like I said. Oregon. Fishing."

Mott looked at Bishop. "This guy claiming to be Pittman was outside yesterday. Said he'd had a meeting here. I didn't think anything of it."

"No, he wasn't here," Miller said.

Bishop asked Pittman, "Officer, was there some kind of memo about your vacation?"

"Sure. We always send one around."

"On paper? Or was it on e-mail?"

"We use e-mails for everything nowadays," the officer said defensively. "People think the county's not as up-to-date as everybody else but that's not so."

Bishop explained, "Well, somebody's been using your name. With a fake shield and ID."

"Damn. Why?"

"Probably has to do with a homicide investigation we're running."

"What should I do?"

"Call your commander and get a report on the record. But for the moment we'd appreciate it if you'd keep this to yourself otherwise. It'd be helpful if the perp doesn't know we're on to him. Don't send anything by e-mail. Only use the phone."

"Sure. I'll call my HQ right now."

Bishop apologized to Pittman for the dressing-down and hung up. He glanced at the team. "Social engineered again." He said to Mott, "Describe him, the guy you saw."

"Thin, mustache. Wore a dark raincoat."

"Same one we saw in Sunnyvale. What was he doing here?"

"Looked like he was leaving the office but I didn't actually see him come out the door. Maybe he was snooping around."

Gillette said, "It's Shawn. Has to be."

Bishop concurred. He said to Mott, "Let's you and me come up with a picture of what he looks like." He turned to Miller, "You have an Identikit here?"

This was a briefcase containing plastic overlays of different facial attributes that could be combined so witnesses could reconstruct an image of a suspect – essentially it was a police artist in a box.

But Linda Sanchez shook her head. "We don't usually do much with facial IDs."

Bishop said, "I've got one in the car. I'll be right back."

In his dining room office Phate was typing contentedly away when a flag rose on screen, indicating that he had an e-mail – one sent to his private screen name, Deathknell.

He noticed that it'd been sent by Vlast, his Bulgarian friend. An attachment was included. They'd traded snuff pictures regularly at one time but hadn't for a while and he wondered if that's what his friend had sent him.

Phate was curious what the man had sent but he'd have to wait until later to find out. At the moment he was too excited about his latest hunt with Trapdoor. After an hour of serious passcode cracking on borrowed supercomputer time Phate had finally seized root in a computer system not far away from his house in Los Altos.

He now scrolled through the menu.

Stanford-Packard Medical Center

Palo Alto, California

Main Menu

1. Administration

2. Personnel

3. Patient Admissions

4. Patient Records

5. Departments by Specialty

6. CMS

7. Facilities management

8. Tyler-Kresge Rehabilitation Center

9. Emergency Services

10. Critical Care Unit

He spent some time exploring and finally chose number 6. A new menu appeared.

Computerized Medical Services

1. Surgical Scheduling

2. Medicine Dosage and Administration Scheduling

3. Oxygen Replenishment

4. Oncological Chemo/Radiation Scheduling

5. Patient Dietary Menus and Scheduling

He typed 2 and hit ENTER.

In the parking lot of the Computer Crimes Unit Frank Bishop, on his way to fetch the Identikit, sensed the threat before he actually looked directly at the man.

Bishop knew the intruder – fifty feet away, half hidden through the early-morning mist and fog – was dangerous the way you know somebody is carrying a weapon just because of the way he steps off the curb. The way you know that a threat awaits you behind the door, down the alley, in the front seat of the stopped car.

Bishop hesitated for only a moment. But then he continued on his way as if he suspected nothing. He couldn't see the intruder's face clearly but he knew it had to be Pittman – well, Shawn. He'd been staking out the place yesterday when Tony Mott had seen him and he was staking it out again.

Only today the detective had a sense that Shawn might be doing more than surveillance; maybe he was hunting.

And Frank Bishop, veteran of the trenches, guessed that if this man was here then he'd know what kind of car Bishop drove and that he was going to cut Bishop off on the way to his vehicle, that he'd already checked angles and shooting zones and backgrounds.

So the detective continued on his way toward the car, patting his pockets as if looking for the cigarettes that he'd given up smoking years ago and gazing up at the rain with a perplexed frown on his face, trying to fathom the weather.

Nothing makes perps more skittish and likely to flee -or attack – than unpredictability and sudden motion by cops.

He knew he could sprint back inside CCU for help but if he did that Shawn would vanish and they might never get this chance again. No, Bishop would no more miss this opportunity to nail the killer's partner than he'd ignore his son's tears.

Keep walking, keep walking.

It all comes down to this…

A bit of dark motion ahead, as Shawn, now hiding beside a large Winnebago camper, peeked out to gauge Bishop's position and then ducked back again. The detective continued strolling over the asphalt, pretending that he hadn't seen.

When he was nearly to the Winnebago, the detective ducked to the right, pulling his well-worn gun from his holster, and sprinted as fast as he could around the corner of the camper. He raised his weapon.

But he stopped fast.

Shawn was gone. In the few seconds that it had taken him to circle behind the vehicle Phate's partner had vanished.

To his right, across the parking lot, a car door slammed. Bishop spun toward the sound, crouching and raising his weapon. But he saw that the noise had come from a delivery van. A heavyset black man was carrying a box from the vehicle to a nearby factory.

Well, where could Shawn have gotten to?

Then he found out – the door to the camper behind him flew open and, before he could turn, Bishop felt a pistol barrel nestle itself against the back of his head.