Carla Ruiz had fired forty-eight rounds before Thomas Quinn appeared behind the glass.

She knew he was there because his reflection joined hers between shots, tall and broad through the scratched observation window, a paper coffee cup held against his chest. He didn’t wave. Didn’t knock. Just stood there with the expression of a man who had arrived specifically to ruin somebody else’s morning.

Carla lowered the pistol, thumbed the safety and placed it on the bench with the muzzle pointing downrange. The paper target hanging twenty-five yards away had a fist-sized hole where its sternum should have been.

Quinn finally pushed through the range door. “Mathis wants us upstairs,” he said, raising the coffee as though that somehow constituted an apology.

Carla pulled off her ear defenders. “I’m booked until eight.”

“Apparently federal investigations outrank your range reservation.”

“They shouldn’t.”

Quinn looked past her at the target. “You planning on leaving any paper for the rest of us?”

Carla ejected the magazine and checked the chamber before setting the weapon down again. “You planning on saying something funny before my slot ends?”

“I thought I just did.”

“You didn’t.”

Quinn took a drink of coffee. “Good. You’re ready.”

Carla looked at him.

Quinn smiled. “See? Funny.”

It was 7:43 a.m.

By 7:51, Carla Ruiz’s morning had changed completely.

Theo Mathis had three folders waiting on his desk.

The Miami ATF office was beginning to wake around him. Phones rang beyond the glass. Typewriters hammered. Somewhere farther down the corridor, somebody swore at a copier. Morning sunlight pushed through the blinds in narrow white stripes, cutting Mathis’s office into alternating bands of light and shadow.

Carla took the chair nearest the door. Quinn remained standing until Mathis pointed at the other one.

“Sit, Thomas.”

Quinn sat.

Mathis pushed the first folder across the desk. “Eddie Navarro. Forty-one. Warehouse supervisor. Married, two children, mortgage, no criminal record. Bought six firearms legally over the last four years.”

Carla opened the folder.

Photograph. Address. Employment. Firearms transactions.

Nothing remarkable.

Mathis slid the second file forward. “Raymond Dorsey. Thirty-eight. Owns Dorsey Automotive on Northwest Twenty-Seventh. One arrest for disorderly conduct in seventy-nine. Charges dropped.”

The third followed.

“Luis Calderón. Thirty-five. Electrical contractor. Clean record.”

Quinn leaned forward. “What’s the connection?”

“Guns.”

That got his attention.

Mathis opened another folder, this one substantially thicker. “Metro-Dade recovered a Smith & Wesson during a narcotics arrest two weeks ago. Trace came back to Navarro. Navarro says he sold it privately seven months ago. Last week another handgun turned up during a robbery investigation. Originally purchased by Dorsey. Yesterday Fort Lauderdale sent us two serial numbers. One traces to Calderón. The other traces to Navarro.”

Carla was already looking through the purchase dates. “Same dealer?”

“No.”

“Same model?”

“No.”

“Purchases close together?”

“Sometimes.”

Quinn rubbed his jaw. “So maybe three guys sold some guns.”

“Maybe.”

Carla looked up.

Mathis was watching her.

That meant there was another page.

Carla turned it.

Three photocopied interview summaries lay underneath.

She read Navarro’s first.

Then Dorsey’s.

Then Calderón’s.

Quinn reached across. “What?”

Carla handed him the pages. “Read how they describe the sales.”

Quinn did.

Navarro had sold his handgun to a man he knew socially. Cash transaction. No receipt.

Dorsey had sold his handgun to a man he knew socially. Cash transaction. No receipt.

Calderón had sold two firearms to a man he knew socially.

Cash transaction.

No receipt.

Quinn lowered the pages. “That’s either coincidence or somebody handed them the same hymn sheet.”

Mathis nodded. “That’s what you’re finding out.”

Carla closed Navarro’s folder. “Are they suspects?”

“They’re three men attached to four recovered firearms. Right now, they’re people we need to talk to.”

“Together?”

“Separately.”

Quinn stood. “Where first?”

Mathis looked at Carla. “Your call.”

Carla glanced at the addresses.

Navarro worked at a freight warehouse near the river. Calderón had a job site in Coral Gables. Dorsey’s automotive shop sat between the two.

She tapped Navarro’s file.

“Start where the guns started.”

Mathis nodded once. “Keep it quiet.”

Quinn picked up his coffee.

Mathis looked at it. “And get her one.”

Carla stood. “I don’t drink coffee.”

Quinn stopped at the door. “Now I’m suspicious.”

Eddie Navarro looked exactly like his file photograph, except more tired.

They found him beneath a corrugated-steel awning behind a freight warehouse, clipboard in one hand and sweat already darkening the collar of his pale blue work shirt. Forklifts beeped behind him. Trucks growled through loading bays. The Miami morning had barely started and the heat was already climbing.

Quinn did the talking.

Carla watched.

It became their rhythm almost immediately.

Quinn could make an interview feel like a conversation between strangers waiting for a bus. He smiled just enough. Asked questions without making them sound like accusations. Let silence hang when it needed to hang.

Carla watched hands.

Eyes.

Breathing.

The direction somebody looked before answering.

Navarro looked at Quinn when he knew the answer.

He looked at the ground when he didn’t like the answer.

“His name was Frankie,” Navarro said.

Quinn rested one shoulder against a loading post. “Frankie what?”

“Salazar.”

“You know him well?”

“Not really.”

Carla saw Navarro’s right thumb rub across the edge of his clipboard.

Quinn saw it too.

He didn’t react.

“Where’d you meet Frankie?”

“Range.”

“What range?”

Navarro hesitated.

Carla said nothing.

Quinn waited.

“South Coast Shooting Club.”

“You a member?”

“Was. Don’t go much anymore.”

“Frankie a member?”

“I guess.”

Quinn smiled faintly. “Eddie, you’ve given me three answers in thirty seconds that all mean you don’t want to give me an answer.”

Navarro exhaled. “I knew him, okay? Everybody knew Frankie.”

“How?”

“He bought guns.”

Carla’s eyes shifted to Quinn.

There it was.

Quinn didn’t move. “From you?”

“Sometimes.”

“How many?”

“Three. Maybe four.”

“You told Metro-Dade you sold one.”

“They asked about one.”

Quinn’s smile disappeared.

Navarro immediately realized his mistake.

Carla stepped in for the first time. “Did Salazar ever ask you to buy a firearm for him?”

Navarro looked at her.

“No.”

“Did he ever tell you what to buy?”

“No.”

“Offer you money before you purchased one?”

“No.”

“Did he ever ask whether somebody else could purchase one?”

Navarro hesitated.

That was enough.

Carla waited.

Navarro swallowed. “Once.”

Quinn straightened.

“When?” Carla asked.

“Last year. Maybe October.”

“What did he want?”

“Two pistols. Same kind.”

“Did you buy them?”

“No.”

“Who did?”

“Nobody. Not that I know.”

Carla studied him. “Why did he ask you?”

“He said his dealer couldn’t get them.”

“Which dealer?”

“I don’t know.”

“You didn’t ask?”

Navarro looked irritated now. “Lady, people don’t sit around the range swapping biographies.”

“Agent Ruiz.”

“What?”

“You can call me Agent Ruiz.”

Navarro looked away. “Fine.”

Quinn pushed away from the post. “Where do we find Frankie?”

“I don’t know.”

“When did you last see him?”

“Couple months.”

“Phone number?”

“Changed.”

“Address?”

Navarro shook his head.

Carla watched him.

This time she believed him.

Quinn handed Navarro his card. “If Frankie calls you, you call me.”

Navarro stared at it. “Am I in trouble?”

Quinn looked at Carla.

Carla answered. “That depends on what we find.”

They walked back toward the government sedan.

Navarro called after them.

“Dorsey knows him better.”

Quinn stopped.

Carla didn’t.

She had already known where they were going next.

Dorsey Automotive occupied a faded concrete building behind a chain-link fence. A hand-painted sign leaned toward the road as if even it had grown tired of the heat.

Ray Dorsey wasn’t there.

A teenager in oil-blackened coveralls said he’d gone to collect a transmission and wouldn’t be back before lunch.

Quinn returned to the car.

Carla remained at the fence.

“What?” Quinn asked.

She pointed through the links.

Parked beside the workshop was a dark green Chevrolet pickup.

A South Coast Shooting Club sticker sat in the rear window.

Quinn looked at it. “That prove something?”

“No.”

“Then why are we staring at it?”

“Because Navarro didn’t tell us Dorsey was a member.”

“He didn’t tell us Dorsey wasn’t.”

Carla looked at him.

Quinn opened the passenger door for her. “You’re going to be a joy to work with.”

She got in. “You talk too much.”

“That’s why Mathis gave me you.”

Carla looked across the roof.

Quinn grinned.

She almost smiled.

Almost.

By noon, they had three men and one club.

By two, they had a fourth.

Franklin Salazar.

Frankie.

Thirty-nine years old. No felony convictions. No current firearms dealer’s license. Two former addresses in Magic City, one in Hialeah, one in Fort Lauderdale. A succession of ordinary jobs that seemed to last just long enough to leave no impression: car salesman, shipping clerk, appliance repairman, warehouse dispatcher.

Quinn sat at a records desk surrounded by paper.

Carla stood beside a photocopier comparing dates.

There were no computers doing the thinking for them. No glowing screen capable of finding Frankie Salazar because somebody typed his name into a box.

There were telephones.

Directories.

Forms.

Microfilm.

Carbon copies.

People who remembered things.

And paper.

Mountains of it.

Quinn held up another sheet. “Salazar bought a Buick in eighty-one.”

“Useful.”

“Sold it in eighty-two.”

“Less useful.”

“He had a motorcycle.”

Carla didn’t look up. “Do you want me to arrest him for that?”

“You don’t like motorcycles?”

“I don’t like this conversation.”

Quinn dropped the page.

Carla stopped.

Something had aligned.

She moved Navarro’s purchases beside Dorsey’s. Then Calderón’s.

Three columns.

Dates.

The first Navarro sale had taken place four days after a South Coast Shooting Club monthly meeting.

Dorsey’s was six days after another.

Calderón’s first was three days after another.

Carla reached for a calendar.

Quinn watched her. “What?”

“Club meets first Thursday of every month.”

“So?”

“So every recovered gun was sold to Salazar within a week of a meeting.”

Quinn leaned over the desk.

Carla tapped the dates.

One.

Two.

Three.

Four.

Quinn’s expression changed.

“He wasn’t waiting for people to advertise guns.”

“No,” Carla said. “He was shopping at the meetings.”

Quinn picked up Navarro’s statement again. “Hears somebody complaining about a pistol. Somebody wants a new rifle. Somebody’s wife wants the shotgun out of the house.”

“He offers cash.”

“Better than trade-in.”

“No paperwork between friends.”

“And everybody goes home thinking Frankie did them a favor.”

Carla gathered the files. “We need Dorsey.”

Quinn checked his watch. “And Calderón.”

“Separately.”

“That was Mathis’s instruction.”

Carla looked at the three matching patterns on the desk.

“Not anymore.”

At 4:17 p.m., Dorsey’s pickup was back outside the workshop.

There were two other vehicles beside it.

One belonged to Eddie Navarro.

They checked the third registration from the car.

Luis Calderón.

Quinn stared through the windshield.

“You’ve got to admire efficiency.”

Carla didn’t answer.

All three men they’d spent the day trying to interview separately had assembled themselves under one roof.

Quinn reached for the radio.

Carla put a hand on his wrist.

“What?”

“Wait.”

“For?”

She looked at the workshop.

The roller door stood halfway open. Music played somewhere inside. An electric guitar beneath the clatter of tools.

Three men.

Possibly frightened.

Possibly involved.

Possibly armed.

“Let’s see what we’ve got before we turn this into something it isn’t,” Carla said.

Quinn considered that.

Then nodded.

They got out.

Neither drew a weapon.

Not yet.

Quinn approached the office door.

Carla moved toward the open workshop.

She could see Dorsey first.

Heavyset. White T-shirt. Jeans. Grease across one forearm.

Navarro stood near a workbench.

Calderón was beside a pickup with a wrench in his hand.

All three looked toward Quinn when he knocked on the metal doorframe.

“Gentlemen,” Quinn said, holding up his credentials, “ATF. Nobody needs to get excited.”

Dorsey’s eyes widened.

Navarro muttered something.

Calderón froze.

Then Carla saw the workbench.

Black automatic pistol.

Magazine beside it.

Cleaning cloth.

Oil.

Nobody holding it.

Nobody near enough to touch it without moving.

Still a gun.

“Hands where I can see them,” Carla said.

Dorsey turned his head toward her.

Then his eyes flicked to the pistol.

It might have meant nothing.

Probably did.

Carla didn’t wait to discover which.

Her pistol cleared the holster.

Quinn drew at almost exactly the same moment.

“Don’t touch it,” Carla said, her voice hard but controlled as she brought the weapon onto Dorsey. “Hands up. All three of you.”

Dorsey lifted his hands immediately. “Okay.”

Navarro’s hands went up.

Calderón still had the wrench.

Quinn shifted his aim. “Sir, put the wrench down.”

Calderón looked at it as though he’d forgotten he was holding it.

He crouched slowly.

Set it on the concrete.

Then raised both hands.

Nobody shouted.

Nobody ran.

Nobody reached for the pistol.

The radio continued playing.

A compressor kicked in at the rear of the workshop and made Navarro jump.

Carla didn’t.

“Step away from the bench,” she said.

Dorsey moved.

“Keep coming.”

He did.

“Stop.”

He stopped.

Quinn moved Navarro and Calderón against the wall, checked their waistbands and kept them separated.

Carla remained on the pistol.

Dorsey looked at her. “That’s mine.”

“I didn’t ask.”

“It’s legal.”

“I didn’t ask that either.”

“I was cleaning it.”

Carla glanced at the cloth.

Disassembled cleaning rod.

Oil.

Open pistol case.

The evidence supported him.

She didn’t lower her weapon yet.

“Any other firearms in the building?”

Dorsey nodded toward the office. “Shotgun. Locked cabinet.”

“Anything else?”

“No.”

“Anyone else here?”

“My kid left an hour ago.”

Carla looked at Quinn.

Quinn had Navarro and Calderón under control.

He nodded.

Carla lowered her pistol.

Not holstered.

Lowered.

“Mr. Dorsey, I’m going to secure the weapon while we’re here.”

“Okay.”

That word changed everything.

Not because Dorsey said it.

Because all three men had.

Okay.

No resistance.

No threats.

No heroics.

No gunfire.

Just three frightened men suddenly understanding how badly their day could have ended if any one of them had made a stupid decision.

Carla cleared Dorsey’s pistol and set it aside.

Quinn finally holstered his.

Carla followed.

Three guns had been present in the workshop.

Two federal sidearms.

One legally owned pistol on a bench.

Not one had been fired.

That was how Carla Ruiz preferred it.

The interviews lasted ninety-three minutes.

Separate corners.

Separate stories.

Same name.

Frankie Salazar.

Dorsey knew him from South Coast.

Calderón knew him through Dorsey.

Navarro knew him through both.

Quinn interviewed Dorsey first.

Carla took Calderón.

“He said he collected,” Calderón explained, sitting on an upturned bucket outside the workshop. “That’s how he put it.”

“Collected what?”

“Guns.”

“For himself?”

“I thought so.”

“You sold him two.”

“Yes.”

“Together?”

“No.”

“When?”

Calderón gave her the dates.

They matched.

“Did Salazar ever ask for a particular weapon?”

Calderón rubbed his palms against his trousers. “Once.”

Carla waited.

“He wanted a Mini-14.”

“Did you have one?”

“No.”

“What did you tell him?”

“I told him no.”

“Then what?”

“He asked if I knew somebody who did.”

“Did you?”

“No.”

Carla watched his face.

“Mr. Calderón, think carefully. Did Salazar ever tell you where the guns were going?”

“No.”

“Did you ask?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

Calderón gave a tired laugh. “Because I thought they were going to his house.”

Carla didn’t smile.

His laugh disappeared.

“Anything else?”

Calderón shook his head.

Then stopped.

Carla saw it.

“What?”

“There was a car.”

“What car?”

“Frankie’s.”

“You remember it?”

“No. Not really.”

“Try.”

Calderón looked toward the street.

“Brown. Maybe gold. Big.”

“Make?”

“I don’t know.”

“Two-door? Four-door?”

“Four.”

“Anything distinctive?”

“No.”

Carla waited.

Calderón rubbed his forehead.

Then his eyes changed.

“Plate.”

Carla leaned forward slightly. “You remember the plate?”

“Part.”

“How much?”

“Three numbers.”

“Certain?”

“Pretty sure.”

Carla took out her notebook.

Calderón gave them to her.

417.

She wrote them down.

“Anything else?”

He shook his head.

Carla closed the notebook.

“Think again.”

“I don’t—”

“Think.”

He did.

The sun was lower now, burning orange through the gaps between buildings. Somewhere along the avenue a truck changed gear. The compressor inside Dorsey’s workshop shut down, leaving a strange sudden silence.

Calderón looked at her.

“There was a letter.”

“Before or after?”

“After. I think.”

“What letter?”

“R.”

Carla opened the notebook.

417 R.

It wasn’t much.

It was more than they’d had ten minutes earlier.

Quinn was waiting beside the sedan when she finished.

“How’d you do?”

Carla showed him the notebook.

Quinn looked at the partial plate. “That’s it?”

“That’s four characters more than you got.”

“I got Salazar’s favorite beer.”

“Excellent. We’ll arrest the refrigerator.”

Quinn looked at her.

There it was again.

Almost a smile.

“You’re getting funnier.”

“No.”

“You are.”

Carla opened the passenger door.

Behind them, Dorsey stood in the workshop entrance. Navarro and Calderón were with him.

Three men.

None in handcuffs.

Not yet.

Maybe never.

That would depend on what came next.

Quinn rested his arms on the roof of the sedan. “You think they’re clean?”

“No.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

Carla looked back at them. “I think they’re stupid.”

“Federal offense?”

“Should be.”

Quinn laughed.

Carla got into the car.

The Miami Field Office was quieter when they returned.

Night shift had begun.

The daytime noise had thinned to ringing phones, fluorescent lights and the occasional clack of a typewriter from somewhere beyond the corridor.

Mathis was still there.

Of course he was.

He stood at his desk reading when Quinn and Carla entered.

Mathis looked first at Quinn.

Then Carla.

Then their holsters.

“Report.”

Quinn put the folders down. “Navarro, Dorsey and Calderón all admit selling firearms to Franklin Salazar. Multiple transactions. Salazar approached sellers primarily through South Coast Shooting Club. Appears he was identifying firearms at the meetings and purchasing them privately afterward.”

“Knowing participants?”

“We don’t have that.”

Mathis looked at Carla. “You agree?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Anything useful?”

Carla tore the notebook page free and placed it on the desk.

Mathis read it.

417 R.

“Partial plate?”

“Salazar’s vehicle.”

“How reliable?”

“Enough to check.”

Mathis placed the page beside the files.

Then he looked at both agents again.

“Anything else happen?”

Quinn glanced at Carla.

Carla knew exactly what Mathis meant.

“We drew our weapons.”

Mathis’s eyes settled on her. “Why?”

“Visible firearm. One subject looked toward it after we identified ourselves.”

“Did he reach?”

“No.”

“Did anyone resist?”

“No.”

“Anyone injured?”

“No.”

“Shots fired?”

“No.”

Mathis leaned back against the desk.

“What happened?”

Carla answered simply. “They listened.”

For the first time since they’d entered, Mathis’s expression softened.

Barely.

“Good.”

Quinn nodded toward the partial plate. “We can pick this up tomorrow.”

Mathis looked at him.

Quinn reconsidered.

“Or tonight.”

Mathis slid the note back toward them. “Tonight.”

Quinn sighed.

Carla picked it up.

Mathis returned to his paperwork. “Find me Salazar.”

They headed for the door.

Quinn stopped in the corridor. “You know what I hate about this job?”

Carla kept walking. “You haven’t eaten.”

Quinn stared after her.

“How the hell did you know that?”

Carla pressed the elevator button. “You’ve complained about everything else.”

The doors opened.

Quinn followed her inside.

“You hungry?”

“No.”

“Coffee?”

“No.”

“Drink?”

“No.”

“Do you actually enjoy anything?”

Carla looked at him as the doors closed.

“The range.”

Quinn nodded.

“Right.”

The elevator descended.

Outside, Magic City was changing shifts.

Daylight had burned away behind the skyline. Neon signs were waking one by one along the streets. Headlights moved beneath palms. Radios played through open windows. Payphones rang unanswered beneath buzzing fluorescent strips, and somewhere beyond the glow of downtown, Franklin Salazar was still driving a car with 417 R somewhere on its plate.

Carla looked down at the four characters in her notebook.

The recovered guns hadn’t begun with Navarro.

Or Dorsey.

Or Calderón.

Those three men were simply points on a line.

She wanted the other end.

Quinn glanced at her. “You’re doing it again.”

“Doing what?”

“That thing where you look like you’ve already solved something.”

Carla slipped the notebook into her jacket. “I haven’t.”

The elevator reached the garage.

The doors opened.

Quinn stepped out. “Good. Because I was starting to feel unnecessary.”

Carla followed him toward the sedan. “You have the keys.”

Quinn stopped beside the driver’s door and looked at her.

Then he smiled.

“See? Partnership.”

Carla walked around to the passenger side.

“Drive, Quinn.”

He did.

And somewhere in the neon darkness ahead of them, Frankie Salazar was waiting to be found.