"I disagree. I think he blew his wad."

"Nice mouth."

She shrugged, took a bite from her sandwich.

"So you want to shut this case down?"

She nodded, swallowed her piece of sandwich and took a sip of c.o.ke. "He's done. I think we've punished him. We didn't bring Karen Nichols back, but we rocked his world a bit. He had a few million within his reach and we s.n.a.t.c.hed it from him. Stick a fork in him. It's over."

I considered it. There wasn't much I could argue with. The Dawes were fully prepared to face exposure on the baby-switching they'd done. Carrie Dawe was no longer vulnerable to the charms of McGoldrick/Pea.r.s.e. It wasn't like Pea.r.s.e could hit them over the head and take their money. And, I was reasonably sure, he hadn't been prepared for us and just how hard we can hit back if you make us mad.

I'd been hoping to anger him to the point where he'd do something stupid. But what? Come after me or Angie or Bubba? There was no percentage in it. Angry or not, he'd see that. Kill Angie, and he'd sign his own death warrant. Kill me, and he'd have Bubba and my case notes to deal with. And as for Bubba, Pea.r.s.e would have to know that it would be like launching an a.s.sault on an armored car with a squirt gun. He might pull it off, but he'd suffer a lot of damage, and again, to what end?

So, I had to agree in principle with Angie. Scott Pea.r.s.e didn't seem to pose much of a threat to anyone anymore.

Which is what worried me. It's the exact moment that you perceive an opponent as defenseless that you, not he, are most vulnerable.

"Twenty-four more hours," I said. "Can you give me that?"

She rolled her eyes. "Oh, okay, Banacek, but not a second more."

I bowed in appreciation and the phone rang.

"h.e.l.lo."

"Tu-na!" Devin crowed. "Tu-na! f.u.c.king Pah-cells," he said in his best Revere accent, "I think he's, like, G.o.d, but smahta."

"Rub it in," I said. "Wound's still good and fresh."

"Timothy McGoldrick," Devin said. "There's a bunch of them. But one stands out-born in 1965, died in 1967. Applied for a driver's license in 1994."

"He's dead, but he drives."

"Neat trick, huh? Lives at One-one-one-six Congress Street."

I shook my head at the sheer size of Pea.r.s.e's b.a.l.l.s. He kept a loft on 25 Sleeper Street and another place on Congress. It might seem like a short walk, but it got even shorter when you realized that his building on Sleeper Street also fronted Congress and both addresses were under the same roof.

"You still there?" Devin asked.

"Yeah."

"No record on this guy. He's clean."

"Except that he's dead."

"That might interest the Census Bureau, sure."

He hung up and I dialed the Dawes.

"h.e.l.lo?" Carrie Dawe said.

"It's Patrick Kenzie," I said. "Is your husband home?"

"No."

"Good. When you met McGoldrick, where did you meet?"

"Why?"

"Please."

She sighed. "He sublet a place on Congress Street."

"Corner of Congress and Sleeper?"

"Yes. How did you-"

"Never mind. You thought anymore about that gun in New Hampshire?"

"I'm thinking about it now."

"He's ruined," I said. "He can't hurt you."

"He already did, Mr. Kenzie. And he hurt my daughter. What am I supposed to do with that-forgive?"

She hung up, and I looked over at Angie. "I'm not too keen on Carrie Dawe's emotional state at the moment."

"You think she still might go gunning for Pea.r.s.e?"

"Possibly."

"What do you want to do?"

"Pull Nelson off Pea.r.s.e, put him on the Dawes for a while."

"What's Nelson charging you?"

"That's irrelevant."

"Come on."

"A buck fifty a day," I said.

Her eyes widened. "You're paying him a thousand-fifty a week?"

I shrugged. "It's his price."

"We're going to go broke."