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ng evening； still a nip in the air； but almost no wind。 The foliage was budding。 Summer was ing and the earth was ready。
As he walked down the street Camacho glanced at the crack house。 Someone was peering though a curtain on the second floor； he saw it move。 No one on the sidewalk。 Mrs。 Jackson's gate was ajar； but not a light showed through the curtains。
He mounted the stoop and rapped on the door。 As he waited he glanced around。 Street still empty。 Such a beautiful evening。 He knocked some more。 Perhaps she had gone to the store； or to a neighbor's？
Suddenly he knew。 He tried the knob。 It turned。 He pushed the door open several inches and called into the darkness； 〃Mrs。 Jackson？ Mrs。 Jackson； are you here？〃 He gingerly pushed the door open wider and reached under his jacket for the butt of the 。357 magnum on his right hip。
All the lights were off。 Camacho closed the door behind him and stood in the darkness listening with the revolver in his hand。
Nothing。 Not a sound。 Not a squeak； not a creak； nothing。
He waited； flexing his fingers on the butt of the gun。 All he could hear was the thud of his own heart…
Slowly； carefully； he groped for the light switch on the wall。
She was lying near the kitchen door with her right leg twisted under her； staring fixedly at the ceiling。 In the center of her forehead was a small red circle。 No blood。 She had died instantly。
With the revolver ready he went from room to room； turning on lights and glancing into closets。 Everything was neat； clean； tidy。 Satisfied that the killer was gone； he came back to the living room and stood looking at Mrs。 Jackson。 He stooped and touched her cheek。 She had been dead for hours。 Around the bullet hole in her forehead was a black substance。 A powder burn。
The phone was in the kitchen。 Her purse sat beside it； the catch still latched。 Camacho wrapped his handkerchief loosely around the telephone receiver before he picked it up。 He dialed with a pen from his shirt pocket。 As he waited for the duty officer to answer； he idly noticed that the fire under the coffeepot had been turned off。 A professional hit。 With any luck the body would not have been discovered for days and the time of death would have been problematic。
〃This is Special Agent Camacho。〃 He gave them the address。 〃I've discovered a corpse。 Better send the forensic team and the D。C。 police liaison officer。 And call Dreyfus at home and ask him to e over。〃
Back in the living room he tried to avoid looking at Mrs。 Jackson。 Something shiny in a candy dish on the sideboard caught his eye。 He stepped carefully over the body and bent to look。 A spent 。22 caliber Long Rifle cartridge。 The killer hadn't bothered to retrieve the spent casing！ And why should he？ Twenty…two caliber fire ammunition was sold everywhere and was virtually untraceable。 But how had this shell got here？
He went back to the corpse and stood near it。 Then he stooped down and felt her head carefully。 Another bullet hole in the back of her head。 Okay； where is the second shell？
The FBI agent got down on his hands and knees and looked under everything。 He found it in a corner； half hidden by the edge of the carpet； bearing the Remington 〃U〃。 Camacho didn't touch it。
So Mrs。 Jackson had opened the door and admitted her killer。 Locks not forced or scratched up。 She had started back toward the kitchen； the killer behind； and he had shot her in the back of the head。 She had died on her feet and collapsed where she stood。 He had walked over to her and fired a second shot into her brain with the pistol held inches from her face。 That shell casing was ejected by the pistol into the candy dish。 The killer had then proceeded on through the house； checking for other people； turning off lights； turning off the stove； making sure nothing would cause a fire or call attention to the house。 Then he had left and closed the door carefully behind him。 He hadn't bothered to lock it。 Even that was smart。 No doubt the assassin had worn gloves； so he left no fingerprints。 If the local punks tried the knob and came in to see what they could steal； they would probably not be so sophisticated； and they would automatically bee the prime suspects in Mrs。 Jackson's murder。 All very slick。
The bastard！
Camacho was standing by the front window looking at the crack house when the lab van pulled up； followed immediately by a sedan with city plates and two sedans with U。S。 government tags。 Two hours later the forensic team and the other people departed with the body。 Dreyfus and a lieutenant from the D。C。 force remained with Luis Camacho。
〃When are you going to raid that crack house； shut it down？〃 Camacho asked the question of the plainclothes lieutenant as he jerked his head at the building across the street。
〃Who says it's a crack house？〃
〃What're you afraid of？ Think the mayor might be in there？〃
〃Listen； asshole！ If you've got any evidence that dwelling is being used for illegal purposes； I'd like to see it。 We'll do some affidavits； find a judge and get a warrant。 Then we'll raid the place。 Now are you all hot air or do you have some evidence？〃
〃We have a statement from a woman now dead。 We sent a copy over to you guys three days ago。〃
〃I saw that statement； then routed it to the narcs。 All it said was that there was suspicious activity over there。 A little old woman thought something nasty was going on in her neighborhood。 Big fucking deal！ No judge in this country would have called that probable cause and issued a warrant； even if that statement had been sworn； which it wasn't。 Now where's the goddamn evidence？〃
〃Whatever happened to 'usually reliable sources'？〃
The lieutenant didn't reply。
〃All you guys roust belong to the ACLU。〃 Camacho stood looking at the house； the peeling paint； the mortar missing from the brick joints； the trash in front of the place； the light leaking around drawn blinds。 Just then a large old Cadillac hardtop came around the corner and drifted slowly to a stop at the curb。 Four young black men got out。 One went up the steps toward the door of the house； which opened before he reached it and closed behind him。
〃Just follow me；〃 Camacho said。 〃I'll get you some evidence。〃 Even before he finished speaking he was out the door and going down the stairs to the sidewalk two at a time。
He went across the street toward the Cad at a brisk walk。 The three men were staring。
〃Hi。〃 He reached into his jacket pocket with his left hand and pulled out his credentials。 〃FBI…〃
One of the men was moving； going sideways and reaching under his shirt。 Camacho rammed his left shoulder into the nearest man and fell on top of him as he drew his revolver。 He heard a shot； then two more in quick succession。 The man who had gone for his gun fell backward against the car； then slid to the sidewalk as Camacho jammed his revolver against the teeth of the struggling man under him。
〃Don't！〃 The man opened his mouth and Camacho jammed the gun in up to the trigger guard。 〃Freeze； shithead！〃
On the other side of the car someone was pleading； 〃Don't shoot； don't shoot。〃
〃You even hiccup； I'm gonna blow your brains out。〃 Camacho felt the man for a weapon as he stared into his wide