“We need a word with you,” Rivers said to Jardine. “Come on out.” His cop sense went into overdrive. “Come on out.” Rivers was already reaching for his pistol, but this closed space was no place to fire a gun, and Jennifer Korpi was still directly in the line of fire.

“I don’t want to talk to you.” Jardine’s gaze shifted to his stepsister for an instant. “Didn’t I tell you not to let them in?”

“It’s okay, Gus,” she said, but she was nervous now as well. Frozen to the spot. She swallowed hard and quickly sketched the sign of the cross over her chest.

“Get back!” Rivers ordered.

“It’s not okay!” Gus stepped out from behind the wall, and damn it, he had a gun in his left hand.

“Don’t shoot!” Rivers ordered.

Jennifer let out a mewling cry and scrambled past Rivers and Mendoza, whose weapon was already trained on Jardine.

“Drop the gun!” Mendoza ordered. “Now!”

“No way!” Jardine was backing toward the rear door.

“Drop it!” Rivers too had his pistol pointed at Jardine, who awkwardly swung it, aiming first at Rivers, then Mendoza, and back again.

“Put the gun down, Gus,” Rivers said. “It’s over. We know you were in San Francisco the night Charity Spritz was killed.”

“No!” Korpi cried from the vestibule. “Oh, Gus! You couldn’t. You didn’t.”

Jardine snapped, “Shut up, Jen. Just shut the fuck up.”

“Oh. Dear. God. You told me you didn’t do it!”

“I said, ‘Shut the fuck up’!”

Sobbing, Jennifer opened the front door, letting in a rush of cold air carrying with it the sound of ever-approaching sirens.

Jardine was rattled. “You’re bluffing,” he said to Rivers. “I was here that night.”

“No, you weren’t. Your alibi doesn’t hold up, and Charity Spritz scratched you, Jardine. Got some skin under her nails. DNA came back, and once we get a sample of yours . . .”

“Not happening!” Gus shook his head. “Nuh-uh!”

“We’ll get a court order. Until then, we’ve got pictures of your hand before surgery, and guess what? Teeth marks match her bite.”

“What? No!” He was wild-eyed now, moving slowly and steadily to the door, but with one hand in a bandage and the other holding the gun, he couldn’t open it.

“Careful,” Mendoza said, still aiming.

“This is all a lie!” Gus charged, but he was sweating. “I’m not goin’ down for this. You set me up! You fuckin’ cops set me up!”

“Drop the weapon,” Mendoza ordered again.

“It’s over, Gus,” Rivers said and saw the reaction in Jardine’s face.

“Shit!” Mendoza said, and three guns fired as Rivers threw himself behind the recliner, a bullet whizzing within inches of his head.

Jardine spun, dropped the gun, and went down hard, his head cracking against the back door as he fell, his gun flying out of his hand.