“The killer was sitting right opposite your brother. They were looking at each other. The killer raised the gun and fired through the screen.”

Jesus, Dane thought, seeing Michael, his head cocked just slightly to one side, listening so carefully to the penitent, trying to feel what the person confessing was feeling, trying to understand, wanting to forgive. But not with this guy, Dane was sure of that. His brother had been worried about this guy. The guy just raised the damned gun and shot him right through his forehead? For a moment, Dane couldn’t even think, the horror of what had happened to Michael deadening his brain. He wished it would deaden the rest of him, but of course it didn’t. He felt hollow with pain.

Delion gave Dane Carver some time to get himself together, then said, “We’ve already started checking local gun shops to see if they still carry either of these models or have carried them in the past, and if so, who’s bought one in the last few years. Our local gun shop folk keep very thorough records.”

Dane couldn’t imagine using such a gun to murder someone, particularly if he’d bought the gun here in San Francisco. He’d get caught in no time at all if he bought it here, but it was an obvious place to begin.

“How was he discovered?”

“An anonymous call to nine-one-one, made only minutes after the murder.”

“A witness,” Dane said. “There’s a witness.”

“Very possibly. It was a woman. She claims she saw the man who shot your brother come out of the confessional, the proverbial smoking gun still in his hand. She says he didn’t see her. She started crying-and then she hung up. Nine-one-one calls are taped, so if you’d like to listen to the call, we can do that. We haven’t got a clue who the woman is.”

“The woman hasn’t called again?”

Delion shook his head.

“She didn’t say whether or not she could recognize him?”

“Said she couldn’t, said she’d call if she thought of anything helpful.”

Great, okay, Dane thought. At least there was someone. Maybe she would call back. He said, “Have you spoken yet to the other priests at the rectory?”

For the first time Vincent Delion smiled beneath his thick mustache, the ends actually waxed, Dane realized when he saw him smile. “Guess what? I figured you’d be ready to climb up my ass if I didn’t let you in on that. So, Special Agent Carver, are you ready to move out?”

Dane nodded. “Thank you. I really appreciate this. I’m officially on leave from the FBI, so I’ve got time. Father Binney’s got to be first. When we exchanged e-mails last week, Michael mentioned Father Binney.”

“Oh? In what way? Something pertinent to this?”

“I’m not sure,” Dane said, shrugged. “He just wrote of problems with Father Binney. There’s something else,” Dane added, raising his head, looking straight at Delion’s mustache. “My brother said something to me on the phone the other night-something about how he felt helpless and he hated that. I’m hoping that Father Binney will have some ideas.”

They passed the small kitchen area with microwave, coffeepot, and three different bowls of peanuts.

“Hey, you hungry? Want some peanuts, a cup of coffee?”

“Peanuts, not donuts?”

“Cops living on donuts, all sporting a big gut-that’s a myth, that’s just television,” Delion said. “We’re not big on donuts here, all of us are into fitness. We like peanuts in the shell from Virginia. Sometimes even the spicy ones.”

“What’s that then?”

“Well, that’s just one jelly donut, probably the cleaning guy brought it in.”

It was hanging off a paper plate, ready to make its final leap to the floor. Dane thought it more likely that the cleaning guy wouldn’t touch it. He smiled, shook his head. “I ate on the plane. Thank you, Inspector.”

The god-awful reality of it hit Dane when he saw his brother through the glass window in the very small viewing room at the morgue. Dr. Boyd, a tall, white-haired, commanding man, with a voice to make a sinner confess, had taken them through the security door, down the short hall into the room, and drew back the curtains. There was Michael, a sheet pulled up to his neck, only his head visible. Dane felt a lurch of pain so deep he almost gasped. He felt Delion’s hand on his shoulder. Then he saw the red dot on Michael’s forehead; it looked so fantastical, like it had just been painted on, nothing more, just a dab of makeup, some sort of fashion statement or affectation. He wanted to ask Dr. Boyd why they hadn’t cleaned it off, but he didn’t.

Dr. Boyd said very gently, “He died instantly, Agent Carver. There was just the slap of the bullet, then he was gone. No pain. I’m very sure of that.”

Dane nodded.

“You know that we’ve done the autopsy, taken fingerprints and DNA samples.”

“Yes, I know.”

Delion stepped back, his arms folded across his chest, and watched Special Agent Dane Carver. He knew what shock was, what anguish was, and he saw both in this man. When Dane finally nodded and stepped back, Delion said, “Chief Kreider wants to see us now.”

Chief Dexter Kreider’s secretary walked them into the chief’s office. The room wasn’t all that big, but the view was spectacular. The entire side wall was windows, looking out toward the Bay Bridge, a huge Yahoo! sign and a neon-lit diet Coke sign the other landmarks in view. There was a large desk, and two large cabinets filled with kitsch, something that made Dane smile, for a moment. Just about every higher-up’s office he’d been into had had at least one display case. And here, there was also a touch of whimsy-in a corner stood a colorful wooden carousel horse. Utilitarian and whimsical, a nice combination.

Dane knew that Chief Kreider could never sit on that carousel horse. He was a huge man, at least six-foot-four-inches, a good two hundred sixty pounds, not much of it excess, even around his belly. He had military-short hair, steel gray, and lots of it, wore aviator glasses, and looked to be in his mid-fifties.

He wasn’t smiling. “Carver? Dane Carver? Special Agent?”

Dane nodded, shook the chief’s hand.

“It’s good to meet you. Come, sit down. Tina, bring us some coffee.”

Delion and Dane sat at the small circular table in the center of the room. The chief still didn’t sit, he stood towering over them, his arms crossed over his chest. Then he began to pace until Tina, an older woman, with the same military precision as the chief, poured coffee, nodded to the chief, and marched out. Finally he said, “I got an e-mail from Dillon Savich, your boss back at Disneyland East.”

“That’s a good one,” Delion said.

Kreider said, “Yeah, fitting. Savich writes that you’re smarter than you’ve a right to be and you’ve got great gut instincts. He asks that we keep you in the loop. Delion, what do you think? You want to cooperate with the Feds?”

“No,” Delion said. “This is my case. But I’ll accept Carver in on the case with me, as long as I’m the boss and what I say goes.”

“I don’t want to take over the case,” Dane said, “not at all. I just want to help find my brother’s murderer.”

Kreider said, “All right then. Delion’s partner, Marty Loomis, is out with shingles, of all things, laid up for another couple of weeks. Inspector Marino has been in on this since Sunday night with Delion. I’ve given this some thought.” He paused a moment, smiled. “I knew Dillon Savich’s father, Buck Savich. He was a wild man, smart enough to scare a crook off to Latvia. I hear his son isn’t wild-not like his father was-but he’s got his father’s brains, lots of imagination, and is a professional to his toenails. I respected the father and I respect the son. You, Carver, I don’t know a bloody thing about you, but for the moment I’ll take Savich’s word that you’re pretty good.”