“I decided to kill him. Irwin Partridge—I’ve decided to kill him.” As he spoke, Mahler breathed in relief. He’d meant to take his time and gradually come to this admission.

Woodhouse snorted. “Partridge? You’re kidding, right?”

“He goes to the Tap Room on Santa Rosa Avenue every weekday night except Friday. Gets home about ten. Parks in a carport behind the apartment.”

“You actually checked this out?”

“The carport’s lit by two fixtures. I remove the bulbs before he arrives.”

“What if someone sees you?” Woodhouse asked.

“No windows face the carport. Most residents are older. By that time they’re inside.”

“At least that’s what you hope.”

“When Partridge drives up,” Mahler said, “I put two in his head. No one finds him until morning, unless his girlfriend comes looking for him.” Mahler could see it in his mind. Partridge’s car approaching down the alleyway, slowing, and pulling into the same space. The engine shuts off, the headlights go out. Walk out of the shadows, raise the gun, wait to see Partridge’s face turn.

“Is the car window up or down?” Woodhouse asked.

“Doesn’t matter.”

“The hell it doesn’t. Window up, he’s harder to see. Makes more noise, too.”

“I’ll play it by ear,” Mahler said.

“That’s what the dumb ones say.” Woodhouse shook his head. “Where’s your car?”

“A parking spot a block away. I walk in and out.”

“Someone can see you.”

“There’s no one around. I’ve been there a dozen times.”

“A dozen times? Are you serious?” Woodhouse took a deep breath. “What about the sound? That suppressor isn’t like on TV. It’ll still make a sound on a quiet night.”

“It’s a 22. It’s not that loud.”

“You’ll have brass on the ground.”

“I’ll pick it up.”

“What happens with the gun?”

“I take it apart and dump it.” The entire exchange made Mahler feel far from himself, as if he was describing someone like him, but not him.

Down the street, a man stepped out on his porch and lit a cigarette. Mahler imagined being that man. He pictured the family left behind in a living room around a TV, while he came outside to be alone for a few minutes.

“I can’t believe we’re having this conversation,” Woodhouse said. “How’d you get so stupid so fast? It must be some kind of record.”

“He’s going to walk again, Tommy. Maybe he didn’t do this latest girl, but he did the others. And we’ve got nothing.”

“You sure about that? What I hear, your Detective Somers is working on a few things.”

“We don’t have evidence.”

“So this is your answer? You’ll get caught.”

“How? Tell me. It’s dark. No one else there. The gun’s got no forensics.” Mahler rewrapped the gun and put it back in the glove compartment.