CONKLIN AND I leaned against the side of my car, facing the Campion house, staring at the lights glowing softly through a million little windowpanes. Campion and his wife didn’t know what kind of death Hawk and Pidge had planned for them tonight, but we knew - and thinking about that near miss was giving me the horrors.

  If Connor Campion hadn’t fired his gun, Hawk and Pidge would have roasted him and his wife alive.

  Rich pulled out a pack of cigarettes and offered me one - and this time I took him up on it.

  “Might be some prints on that foil around the bottle of booze,” he said.

  I nodded, thinking we’d be lucky if those kids had records, if their prints were in AFIS, but I wasn’t counting on it.

  “Hawk. Pidge. Crazy names,” Conklin said.

  “I got a pretty good look at Hawk,” I said. “He matches Molly Chu’s description of the so-called angel who carried her out of the fire.”

  Conklin exhaled a long stream of smoke into the night. He said, “And the governor’s description of Pidge sounds like the kid who pawned Patty Malone’s necklace.”