He would tithe more than usual to the synagogue next Friday. Maybe he would build another child-care center somewhere, start another scholarship, give to the retirement center and the community school for troubled kids, or an orphanage. Damn it all. Cahoon was sick and tired of unhappiness and people suffering, and he hated crime as if all of it were directed at him.

“What do you want me to do?” he said, leaning forward and ready to mobilize.

“Do?” Hammer was puzzled. “About what?”

“I’ve had it,” he said.

Now she was very confused. Was it possible he already knew what she had come here to tell him? He got up and began to pace in his Gucci leather slippers.

“Enough is enough,” he went on with feeling. “I agree with you, see it your way. People being killed, robbed, and raped out there. Houses burglarized, cars stolen, children molested. In this city. Same is true all over the world, except in this country, everybody’s got a gun. A gun in every pot. People hurting others and themselves, sometimes not even meaning to. Impulse.” He turned around, pacing the other way. “Impaired by drugs and alcohol. Suicides that might not have happened were there not a gun right there. Acci . . .” He caught himself, remembering what had happened to Hammer’s husband. “What do you want me—want us at the bank—to do?” He stopped and fixed impassioned eyes on her.

This wasn’t what she’d had in mind when she’d rung his doorbell, but Hammer knew when to seize the day. “You certainly could be a crusader, Sol,” she thoughtfully replied.

Crusader. Cahoon liked that and thought it time she see he had some substance, too. He sat back down and remembered his bourbon.

“You want to help?” she went on. “Then no more shellacking what really goes on around here. No more bullshit like this one hundred and five percent clearance rate. People need to know the truth. They need someone like you to inspire them to come out swinging.”

He nodded, deeply moved. “Well, you know that clearance rate crap wasn’t my idea. It was the mayor’s.”

“Of course.” She didn’t care.

“By the way,” he said, curious now, “what is it really?”

“Not bad.” The drink was working. “Around seventy-five percent, which is nowhere near what it ought to be, but substantially higher than in a lot of cities. Now, if you want to count ten-year-old cases that are finally cleared or jot down names from the cemetery or decide that a drug dealer shot dead was the guy responsible for three uncleared cases . . .”

He held up his hand to stop her. “I get it, Judy,” he said. “This won’t happen again. Honestly, I didn’t know the details. Mayor Search is an idiot. Maybe we should get someone else.” He started drumming his fingers on the armrest, plotting.

“Sol.” She waited until his eyes focused on her again. “I’m afraid I do have unpleasant news, and I wanted you to know in person from me before the media gets on it.”