Funny, I suppose, but making a statement for the DA had been one of those things I always rather enjoyed about police work. I'm not sure why, the semi-formality of it all was part of it. The precision of having everything laid out in exact sequence.

Or maybe it was just the sense of closure ... as if getting it all down in black and white was what really meant it was finished.

It wasn't, of course - the TrenData business would be on and off my schedule for months. Maybe years. Eventually, there'd be a trial but, before then, there'd be depositions, queries, requests for clarifications ... all the hodge-podge of our judicial jockeying.

Still, it was an ending of sorts.

And the best I could hope for.

Nice thing about being private, of course, was that I wasn't involved in as much of the legalistic minutia as I had been as a police officer. In the private sector, things tended to be handled in a different fashion - more low key for the most part.

If I caught someone with their hand in the till, it wasn't likely to result in criminal charges. A quiet pink slip was more usual - or, sometimes, a restitution agreement might come into things - but formal charges were a headache which most businesses preferred to avoid anyway. No profit in them.

Industrial espionage was generally a more serious matter but, even so, it was usually something for the lawyers to work out - all very low key, resulting in some kind of gentlemen's agreement between the malefactors and the victims and nothing appearing in the public forum.

At any rate, nostalgic aspects aside, the assistant DA wasn't too hard to satisify and the business went relatively quickly ... quickly enough, anyway, for me to grab a sandwich and still keep my appointment at DSS with time to spare.

* * *

Entering DSS's offices in a wheelchair definitely wasn't a power play kind of move ... even if I had been wearing a power tie ... or even a suit.

Instead, I'd picked a sports coat, a knit shirt and contrasting slacks ... with one leg neatly folded and pinned. At this point, the idea was to look professional but, at the same time, to not look like a threat ... not, at least, to certain parties. Sometimes, being a crip did have it's advantages - however small they were.

Ms Zappa was waiting for my arrival and escorted me to the conference room where the assembled department heads were gathered along with the remains of box lunches. Obviously, mine was not the first business item on their agenda.

I kept my participation short, passing out copies of the memo and questionnaire sets for each and offering a brief review of each item.

"I have a few matters which I would like to go over with each of you personally," I concluded. "If you can spare me a few minutes this afternoon, I know you're busy and I promise to be brief."

Since I was the closing item on the agenda - as Irene had arranged - there were no objects and the assemblage scattered, most - as I noted - headed for the restrooms for a moment's relief.

After the board room emptied, I used the cell phone to check with Ted - just to make sure that everything was ready according to plan.

"No sweat, Boss," Ted assured me. "Tell me when - I'll start the clock."

"Ten minutes," I decided. There really wasn't any point in waiting - this time, we weren't fishing - we were using a harpoon ... so why be patient.

* * *

Ten minutes passed quickly enough. I was detailing some of the points in the memo I'd provided earlier - but which my quarry had not had time to peruse - when the phone rang.

"Go ahead," I invited politely. "I'm in no rush."

On the other side of the desk, my quarry picked up the receiver, answered, then listened with an increasingly puzzled expression but very few responses.

I amused myself by trying to link the responses to what I knew - roughly - was being said on the phone. I also resisted the temptation to echo the voice from the other end ... echo in the literal sense since the voice on the phone would be my own ... or, at least, sound like it very accurately.

"I don't know what kind of game you think you're playing ..." my quarry addressed the phone.

"No game at all," the voice must have interrupted. "Listen carefully because I'm not repeating these instructions. You've got a very nice game going ... but it's going to cost you a greens fee. The first installment's due tonight - nothing too heavy, fifty thousand dollars for a start. I'm sure you can raise that much. Listen carefully - the money will be in cash and you'll deliver it this evening. Understand? ... I asked if you understand?"

"Yes, I hear you," the answer was non-committal.

"Now, for this next part, you might like to take notes ..." - when I saw my quarry reach for a pen, I turned my attentions to the memo I'd been consulting, making it very plain that I was not watching anything transpiring behind the desk.

A moment later, after the receiver was replaced, I offered a suggestion. "You do seem to be rather busy this afternoon. Why don't I give you time to look things over - and take care of other matters - and we can discuss things further ... later."

Since there was no response - except for a silent glare across the desk - I smiled politely, then wheeled myself out to call on my next conferee. Exiting was a bit stressful - my back muscles kept wanting to tense up, expecting a knife ... or a bullet ... to be warded off.

* * *

The rest of the meetings went routinely. No surprises. A lot of questions, yes, and even some good suggestions but, somewhere behind me, the harpoon was solidly planted. Now it was just a matter of reeling in the catch.

* * *

Leaving the building, I made a point, first, of checking the tattletales from my VW. The remote in my hand blinked a steady green, assuring me that no one had opened any doors or the engine compartment or disturbed the vehicle in any way. It had been a long shot anyway but better safe than sorry ... much better safe than sorry.

As harpoon's go - or traps, if you prefer - this one was a bit on the elaborate side, granted. But, there were reasons as well. For one, the sheer degree of elaboration was designed to spook - to put the quarry off balance. And the time limit - fifty thousand demanded with only a few hours to arrange - was further pressure. I wanted the quarry reactive - where I could control the game - not proactive where they would have the initiative.

And there were other reasons for time pressure as well. One was that we couldn't keep the charade up for very long - Madame Lu simply didn't have the funds for a protracted buying spree ... or even for a short one.

Plus the fact that I'd been lucky to reach Gerald on short notice ... but, friendship aside, he had other demands on his time ... not all of his jobs involved kinky sci-fi flicks.

And another was that time - in many respects - was on the quarry's side. That we had come late to the game and, even though we could have proved a case - and arranged a bust with minimal delay - there was one point where we simply had no proof.

We could prove conspiracy ... and grand larceny ... and misappropriation ... and probably make a case for stock fraud as well ... but it was a little matter of murder which stuck in my craw. A stupid murder - a harmless security guard who'd probably been killed simply because he was trying to do the job he'd been hired for.

I didn't really care why. The fact that Mr. Jeffery Carlton had been killed - murdered - was reason enough to want to pin that crime firmly on the perpetrator. Nail it to them if possible. Not a suspicion of murder - I wanted it beyond suspicion.

And it was the one point where we had no proof at all.

Granted, there was that one brief comment in the recorded conversation ... but it wasn't enough to bring any kind of charges. It might have been enough to trigger an investigation ... but that was no guarantee either.

And I wanted a guarantee. A smoking gun, so to speak.

Which was exactly what I planned to have ...

Along with the kind of case that the perpetrator can't walk away from. I'd seen too many murders go unsolved and, of those which were solved, I'd seen too many go unproven ... Maybe it was just my own personal quirk but ... It didn't matter why - I could always rationalize my intense distaste for letting a murderer escape - but I wasn't going to waste time talking to a shrink about why I felt this way. It was enough that I did.

And it was also a reason - or a factor, anyway - behind my decision to leave the force.

I'd been tired of watching perps - who were guilty beyond question but unconvicted in court - walking out to repeat their offenses.

But this was one I could do something about ... and I damned well intended to ...

* * *

Nobody was following as I left the parking lot. No suspicious vehicles as I drove cross-town, taking a few detours to be certain. No dark limousines with evilly leering drivers and threatening protrusions from the rear windows.

Satisfied, I caught the freeway and headed south.

* * *

Despite his diminutive size, Gerald was easy to spot ... by where he wasn't.

I pulled in and parked next to a rental truck, then reached in the back for a pair of crutches. I hated them but there were times - and places - where a wheelchair simply didn't work very well. I knew some folks who had 'off-road' chairs - using mountain bike style wheels - but my was better suited for pavement and interiors than even mildly rough terrain. Here, it was crutches or nothing.

Which was okay - this was the setting I needed.

Ted - along with several helpers - was facing a low wall built from old railroad ties. Sitting on the wall, a figure waved at me and, in a voice suggestive of an asthmatic frog with socially unacceptable ambitions, greeted me: "Gooood evening. Won't you step into my lair?" The figure waved an awkward hand, then a changed voice - recognizably Gerald's - commented. "How's it look, Mac?"

"Lousy," I swung a few steps closer. "Don't you think the makeup's overdone?"

The face on the figure was almost garish - in coloration, more like a child's drawing than a real face.

"It'll be fine this evening," Gerald's head popped to one side of the figure. "The lighting's going to be pretty bad - in the dark, you need emphasis for recognition."

Well, I wasn't going to argue the point - Gerald was one of the best in the business - but, if I really looked like that - or that looked like me - maybe I needed to talk things over with a plastic surgeon.

"Quick work," I commented, looking around. "Any problems?"

"Snap," Gerald climbed out of the pit behind the barracade. "We were just waiting for you to show up. It's Miller time ... and you're buying."

Gerald's suggestion was answered by a low-voiced round of enthusiasm from Ted's crew.

"I'm buying," I agreed. "What about the gear?"

"Back in the truck for now," Gerald instructed. "We'll set it up again at eight. The hard part's already done. The rest is a snap."

I hoped he was right ...

* * *

At eight, three of us were back on site, with Ted and Gerald setting up the props. The temporary help had been paid, fed, beered, thanked and discharged.

A short time later, as Ted drove the truck out, to park it behind a gas station a half-mile distant, Herb and three associates arrived, their vehicle also being removed from the vicinity.

As the sky darkened, the scene was set. My VW van - unavoidably - was parked to one side of the open space, a single figure - with two crutches resting to one side - was seated on the low wall and the rest of the scene was empty ... a long row of firing stands stretching emptily parallel to a long bunker faced with tattered targets.

Over all, the scene was a study in grays and shadows, a still-life without life.

* * *

A bit past nine-thirty, the vehicle entered with parking lights only. A light colored sedan, the paint gray in the darkness but not identifiable with any precision. The license plates were obscured by mud - not, I suspected, that it made any difference. If the vehicle were not on the hot sheet, it was only because the owner hadn't yet discovered their loss.

The car came to a stop, roughly facing the seated figure. Not that it mattered, but the lights remained off.

"I suspected you might be early," I spoke calmly but loudly enough to be heard clearly. An arm moved slightly, enough to reveal a raised gun covering the silent vehicle. "I hope you aren't planning anything foolish. I'd hate for our relationship to get off to a poor start."

The car's door opened, allowing the driver egress. The figure stood, partly shielded by the angled door. "You said we'd talk later. I assume you meant now."

"As good a time as any," I agreed. "You brought the money, of course." It wasn't a question.

"Of course," the driver agreed. "You didn't leave me much choice."

"No, I suppose not. And I suppose you're wondering just what the rest of the terms would be? Quite simple really - I'm expecting a regular income. Participation, as it were. Nothing onerous, a simple matter of consulting fees. Paid by DSS. A simple business expense - nothing to cause you any personal pain."

"I see. Just that simple. A business arrangement."

"Exactly," I agreed. "Payment for value received. I assume that that's agreeable?"

"You aren't going to tell me how you come to know so much or try to convince me how much trouble you could be if I don't pay? You're really refreshingly cool about all this."

"Do you need convincing?" I asked. "You're here. I'd say that meant that you were pretty well convinced. Or are you stalling for some reason? Maybe you dropped someone at the entrance and you're trying to give them time to walking and sneak up on me. It's dangerous terrain in the dark, lots of target pits and barbed wire, fences and what not. Really, there's no point in stalling. If you'll bring the money, I'll let you leave. It's late, you're busy, we can discuss details later."

"All right," the figure agreed, reaching into the vehicle and producing a gym bag. "I suppose you want to count it?" A hand pulled the zipper open and reached inside.

"Not necessary," I disagreed. "I can count it later. Just set the bag on the ground and you can ..."

I was interrupted by a staccato barrage of gunfire erupting from the bag, the shots raising spurts of dust beginning just below the knee of the seated figure and traversing rapidly up and across the chest and shoulder before returning toward the center of the torso.

The figure jerked a brief but deadly St. Vitus dance before collapsing heavily forward.

The bag - ripped open by the automatic fire - was burning at one end when the gunman jerked the weapon free, dropping the bag to the ground. A nine-millimeter Ingram it appeared.

As if triggered by the burning gym bag, spot lights flashed on from both sides, washing the bright flames to virtual invisibility and pinning the figure in their glare.

"DROP IT!" Herb's voice boomed through the night-turned-day. "THIS IS THE POLICE! DROP YOUR WEAPON AND RAISE YOUR HANDS!"

When the figure hesitated, the muzzle of the Ingram wavering uncertainly from side to side, I added my own instructions: "It's no use, Ms Chen. You've lost. Drop it now or they'll drop you."

Lacking the bullhorn, I wasn't as loud as Herb but hearing her name produced a jerked response which collapsed into a slump as the automatic weapon left her hand to land on the smoldering gym bag.

Her voiced response was low but audible in the silence. "You whoreson bastard prick! I'll kill you, you prick-headed dog. You ..." On the monitor, I could see her hands curled into spread claws ... claws hanging helpless at her sides.

I quit listening and concentrated on climbing out of the target pit where I'd sat, surrounded by a video recorder which - through the nightscope - had captured my assassination, the audio link which had carried my voice to the dummy and the radio which had kept me in touch with Gerald and with the police officers concealed in their vantage points.

By the time I was back on relatively level ground - supported by my own crutches - Gerald was already out of the pit behind the bulwark and was using a flash to examine the remains of his cable-operated puppet. "I hope you got that in one take," he called across to me. "Dummy here's going to need a lot of work before he can do a retake."

"Got it in one," I agreed. "Lovely." And it was. It was always nice to be able to depend someone - particularly a perp. To push a button knowing how they'd react.

The kid - I couldn't remember his name - who'd sent the dud bomb, set the homies on me and torched the office - had also been consistent in his way. With him, it had been a knife - attacking Ted first and me second. He'd also been consistent in reacting with stupidly mindless violence, little if any planning or consideration for consequences.

But that was typical of most violent criminals ... the same mindset which made them violent also predicated against forethought. There were other types - the careful, deliberate criminals who planned their crimes with methodical foresight ... and rarely - almost never - exhibited any inclination to violence.

Across the firing range apron, Ms Chen was classically the former.

Chen - quivering with fury - was firmly in the grip of two officers while a third - female - was performing a body frisk. "You have the right to remain silent," Herb was using his flashlight to read from a pocket miranda card. "You have the right ..."

Ms Chen looked like she had a lot she'd like to say but said nothing.

I punched Ted's number on the cellular to tell him he could bring the truck back.

Then I made a second call - no codes this time - to Ms Zappa.

And a third to warn Jane that Madame Lu would have company - official but plain clothes - when she opened for business this morning. "Just don't let them haul our people," I reminded her. "And I'll see you later."

* * *

"Ballistics reports that the Ingram checks against the Bay View shooting," I reported to the group gathered - this time - around my conference table. "And that, in itself, is enough to settle your Ms Chen ... and her associates."

Behind me, the morning sun was fighting its way through the bay fog. In a few hours, the waters in the bay would be sparkling, inviting me to fetch my sailboard and spend the afternoon chasing fresh spring breezes across the waters - a change I felt like I definitely deserved.

Unfortunately, most of those at the table would be otherwise occupied - busy picking up the pieces from the shambles Thea Chin and friends had made of DSS.

Last night, when I'd called Ms Zappa to report, if I had not declined, she would have gathered everyone immediately ... wherever and whatever they happened to be doing. At my instance - I was tired of late night hours and morning was soon enough - the meeting had been deferred until ten ... in the AM, not the PM.

For one item, the respite had allowed me time for several hours of sleep ... and, this morning, time enough to get answers to several open questions. The answers were mostly details, unimportant in themselves but serving to fill in some of the blanks in the overall picture.

The sources of the answers, of course, were several individuals collected at Madame Lu's during the early hours of the morning when they appeared with two trucks loaded with computers, big-screen televisions, jewelry, two motorcycles, assortments of video games and - naturally - assorted furs. All in all, one night's deprivations - traced to five malls around the area - had come to nearly two hundred grand at retail ... or roughly twenty-five thousand expected from Madame Lu.

As a measure of the deprivations occasioned by DSS employees, it was impressive.

I was also impress with the speed with which Herb - who had taken charge of the affair - had persuaded several of those arrested to talk ... in return for considerations, of course. "Getting cooperation," Herb had recounted in an early phone conversation, "is really easy when there's a complicity to murder charge in the wings. I wish they were all this simple."

While it wasn't the primary reason, having heavy charges for leverage had been one further motivation behind last night's charade.

I'd still been on the phone this morning when the DSS contingency - one and all - had arrived - early, of course. Granted, one and all had not included Ms Thea Chin.

Our own mole - Allison - was still at DSS ... where she could keep an eye open for any further evidences of involvement by other employees. "Ninety percent of investigation," I'd told her by phone that morning, "is patience and keeping your eyes open. Just keep an eye out for anyone exhibiting unusual stress. Oh, and keep an eye on the paper shredder too - just in case."

A few minutes later, as I took my position at the head of the conference table, I was introduced to a Mr. Thomas Carlotti who, I was informed, would be Ms Chin's interim replacement in Personnel.

Mr. Carlotti appeared to be a bit uncertain whether he was enjoying the elevation ... or whether he was finding himself balanced on a pinnacle with no idea how he had arrived there nor what he should do next. His comfort with the position, however, was a matter he would have to settle for himself.

Ms Zappa - seated at my right - looked short on sleep - understandably - but also looked ten years younger than she had when we'd first met. The stress lines in her face had softened and a smile kept threatening to break through her business-like demeanor. Once she did smile, I decided, she would be a very attractive lady ...

Mitch Jorgenson - Training - had taken the chair to my left with Tami Anderson - Marketing - next to him and Martha Simes - Accounting - at the end. Individually, they were exhibiting mixed reactions, shifting from curiosity to nervous finger tapping and twisting pens to 'what are we doing here' restless shifting in their chairs.

The reactions were understandable enough since Irene Zappa - under the circumstances - had kept everyone in the dark and, Irene aside, they were all trying to assimilate several weeks of events in a very short time ... and to figure out how these events affected them, their jobs and the company.

"As far as we know at the moment," I continued, "the only office personnel involved were Ms Chen and Ms Thornton - her partner in several senses. Among your guards, however, several are in custody and the chances are that quite a few more will not be showing up for work. Unfortunately, I can't give you a list and the exact roster of those involved may not be complete for several days."

"Also," I recapped, "while the precise scope of Ms Chen's activities will probably not be fully uncovered for weeks or even months, I believe we can fill in - at least in outline - the basic plot behind her activities ..."

What had been happening, I explained to the group, was that Ms Chen had concocted a rather elaborate plan to take over DSS, replacing Ms Zappa as CEO and placing herself in the position of Chief Executive Officer and, probably, Chairman - or Chairwoman - of the Board.

It had been common knowledge that Ms Chen was ambitious and, late the year before, when the CEO position had become vacant, Ms Chen had advanced a number of proposals for how she would like to restructure the company - proposals which included the unstated assumption that she would be the natural choice for the position.

Apparently, however, the Board of Directors had not viewed Ms Chen's qualifications in the same light and, instead, had gone outside the company in search of a more capable CEO, finally settling on Irene Zappa.

In response, Chen had created a scheme whereby she could use her position in DSS to execute a multi-pronged attack on the company. By hiring and assigning picked individuals, she had created teams of security guards who were actively ripping off the very properties they were guarding.

While part of the money raised from the sales of stolen goods was paid to those involved, most of the funds were being funneled - through cutouts and blinds, I'd been informed - back to Ms Chen where the money was channeled - through off-shore bank accounts - to fund the purchase of DSS stocks.

At the same time, rumors - selectively circulated by Ms Chen, often in the form of denials - had helped to persuade stockholders to release their shares at reduced prices ... while Ms Chen's broker was happily placing purchase orders at below market.

Likewise, through another broker, Ms Chen was also selling DSS stocks - selling short - which further helped to drive prices down.

In a quiet understated way calculated not to raise suspicions, DSS stock prices were being churned. Short sales - selling stocks which the seller did not hold for future delivery brought in additional cash which was being funneled to margin accounts where large blocks of stock were bought - for progressively lower prices. In turn, the purchased stocks were turned for deliver to the purchasers of the short sales who, receiving shares now worth less than they had paid for them days or weeks earlier, were usually willing to sell them again - at a further loss - to one of Chen's brokers.

At this point, I cued Ted to play the first audio selection - the phone conversation with Ms Chen's broker. Faces showed recognition both of the voice and of the implications.

All in all, I continued the explanation, nobody had been losing enough to raise suspicions ... the price of DSS's stocks had simply been going through a slow downward turn. But, because Chen and her partner were buying, the slide never actually became a crash ... which Chen and company holding increasingly blocks and fast approaching the point where pressure could be brought to replace Ms Zappa as CEO.

Had they acquired enough shares, they might also have changed the makeup of the Board of Directors.

For the most part, it had been a good plan - carefully crafted. A sophisticated form of industrial sabotage aimed at an insider takeover.

Except that one employee - too honest for his own health - had tried to blow the whistle ... and had been killed in a staged drive-by shooting.

At this point, I signaled Ted to play the second audio recording.

When the recording concluded, I added reassurances: "Just in case any of you have said anything injudicious in the past week, these recordings will not be public. While agency employees have listened to these tapes - obviously, since we were able to locate the two segments you've just heard - the remainder of the conversations will be held confidential."

I didn't mention the fact that there was - always - the possibility of the tapes being subpoenaed as evidence.

"In order to gather sufficient evidence of Mr. Carlton's murder - sufficient for conviction," I changed the subject, "we set up a sting operation, baiting the trap with a blackmail demand. You can see the results on the monitor," I gestured toward the video monitor on the credenza at the opposite end of the room.

The video was black and white - or blacks and greens, if you prefer, courtesy of the nightscope - and the sound was barely poor. As a home video, it would have rated immediate erasure.

The audience sat entranced.

When the gym bag spurted staccato flames, Mrs. Simes grip on her coffee cup abruptly crushed the soft foam, sending a spurt of black coffee arcing into the air.

Ted killed the video and restored the lights with one smooth motion, then snatched a stack of paper napkins to dam the spreading puddle.

"Sorry," I apologized, "I should have warned you." And, really, I should have. That I hadn't thought about it was no excuse - to me, it was just a familiar video and I'd seen shootings before. But not everyone has ... not real ones ... not involving someone they actually knew.

After the mess was cleaned up and the company had taken a moment to collect themselves, Ted restarted the video, allowing it to run to the conclusion.

"The diminutive gentleman you see climbing out from behind the bulwark," I offered a change of distraction, "is Gerald Francisco - no relation to the city - who is a top flight special effects man with credits in hundreds of Hollywood's finest." I didn't mention Gerald's latest production involvement.

At that point, as they say, I'd 'emptied the bag' and had nothing more to show. The rest would be cleanup and recovery ... and not my concern at all.

* * *

I was just about to leave - for a sailboarding date with Helen - when Jane appeared, returning from the police station where she'd been making a statement.

"Hope you aren't in a rush, Mac," she announced. "Someone to see you."

Since something in her manner suggested it was important, I didn't argue. "I've got a few minutes," I agreed. "Who is it?"

"Mrs. Gloria Quency," a new voice announced. "But you can call me Gloria, honey." The speaker was a bag lady - wearing enough skirts for a cotillion ball and enough sweaters to outfit a hoard of yuppies - who pushed her way into the office, appropriating a chair and settling with the finality of a boulder dropping into place on soft ground.

"Jane says you're good," she continued. "And, if Jane says so, then you must be. Now, honey, I want you to find my shopping cart. No ifs ands or buts about it. It's a good one and I want it back. And don't you worry yourself," she extracted a grubby purse from somewhere on her person, "I can pay you proper." She pulled a thick wad of bills from the purse. The outside of the wad was a thousand dollar bill - the kind they'd discontinued a few decades ago.

"Uh, can you describe the cart?" I temporized.

"Course I can, honey. It was a good one - one of those deep Albertson's carts, it was, a real classic, not like these shabby shallow ones they have now, didn't hardly squeak, it didn't ..."