He had practiced the maneuver he reflexively chose a dozen times, and accelerated into it without hesitation. Engine roaring, he barreled directly toward the man, who stood as if transfixed, staring wide-eyed at the fast-approaching grille. At the last possible moment, Griswold slammed on the brake and spun the steering wheel hard to the right. If he handled the maneuver correctly, the rear end of the Jeep would spin around and the thief would be virtually pinned to the garage door. If he missed, even a little, the man's lower body and the heavy wooden door would become one.

The spin was perfect. Tires screeching and smoking, the Cherokee spun just over 180 degrees, tapping gently to a stop against the garage and cutting off the derelict from any escape except to his left. That route vanished before the man could react as Griswold, pistol in hand, leapt from the Jeep, raced around to where the grimy intruder still stood, grabbed him by the front of the jacket, and slammed him against the garage door. The pry bar clattered to the pavement.

The look in the man's eyes was unmistakable panic. He smelled densely and unpleasantly of alcohol and hard times.

"P-please don't hurt me."

"What in the fuck are you doing?"

"Everything all right?" a woman's voice called from somewhere down the street. "Do you want me to call the police? I saw everything."

"No!" Griswold snapped over his shoulder. "I can handle this. . . . Well?"

"I . . . I was just lookin' for somethin' I could sell," the man managed, his speech thick and clumsy. "These are hard times, you know."

Griswold jammed the barrel of his pistol up under the intruder's ribs.

"You lying to me? You lie to me and I swear I'll blow you away. Why'd you pick this place?"

"I . . . I couldn't get into the one over there. I was just workin' the street. Honest, mister. I was just workin' the street."

At that instant, Griswold's cell phone began ringing. With his gun still pressed firmly against the man's gut, Griswold released the wind-breaker, checked the caller ID, and set the phone against his ear.

"Griswold here."

"Griz, it's Harper at the lab. I think we've found a match for those prints on the nail-polish bottle."

"Can you hold on for a minute?"

"Sure, but hurry up. I think you're going to want to hear this."

"Just hang on."

Griswold turned his attention back to the thief, who now was beginning to cry.

"P-please. I'm living on the fucking street. I'm sorry. I'm really sorry. It won't happen a—"

"If I see you around here again, you're dead. Got that? Dead!"

Griswold stepped back, opening a way out for the man. Tentatively, the derelict moved forward a few steps. Then, in an awkward, stumbling gait, he headed down the street, waiting until he was around the corner before cracking a smile.

"Okay," Griswold said, again pressing the phone to his ear. "What gives?"