Longoria scrolled through several screens. "Here. These journals on how to make your very own sweet little suppressor from common items in your home shop. 'For information purposes only,' of course, or 'academic study.' I'm sure no one has ever bought one of these books and actually made a silencer."
"No," Glitsky said. "That would be wrong." But he'd already decided that he was going to do some old-fashioned footwork, outmoded though it was. He told Longoria good-bye, then at the door turned around. "You think of anything I can do about Elizabeth Cary, I'd love to hear."
"I'll keep it in mind."
On any given weekend, gun shows are common in Northern California. Glitsky had checked the internet, then made a couple of calls, and discovered that this weekend would feature Gun & Doll shows in several communities- Santa Rosa, San Jose, Fremont, Sacramento and the San Francisco Cow Palace, which was actually in Brisbane, in San Mateo County. The more he thought about the idea- given that they weren't going to waste time looking for a professional hit person- the more he liked it. The suppressor angle might actually give him a lead. And at least, as he'd told Longoria, he was away from his desk and the endless meetings on one of the first truly lovely days of the year.
In his hiking boots, Dockers and a camouflage blouse, he was far more comfortable than he would have been in uniform. Beyond that, he didn't think he much resembled a cop- the camo actually worked to his advantage that way. On his way down to the Cow Palace, he finalized arrangements for his event number detail to hit their snitches and cover all the shows over the weekend, then report back to him on Monday. If everybody struck out, Glitsky might have them begin culling the internet suppliers for their mailing lists and customers. Even if he could get the not-automatic cooperation of Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms, it would be an enormous and tedious job, pretty much comparable to assembling the list of Boscacci's convictions over the past twenty-odd years. Still, it was early afternoon and he was on the road. An added bonus was that he still had the services of his driver. Paganucci pulled the black Taurus up to the Cow Palace parking lot and Glitsky gave him two hours off.
The right half of the huge, hangarlike structure boasted well over three hundred booths, with ordnance of nearly every conceivable type, as well as all the ancillary clothing, equipment, ammunition and literature. From the smallest imaginable single-shot pistols to shotguns to assault and sniper rifles, to every type of hand-held six-shooter and semiautomatic gun, the sense Glitsky had of the place was that if it fired bullets, you could buy it here. And, of course, the weapons displays weren't limited to firearms- dealers were showcasing a spectacularly wide assortment of personal-use and paramilitary gear, including crossbows, slingshots, hunting and/or combat knives, leather accessories.
The NRA had a booth at each end of every aisle. Business seemed to be brisk. Glitsky couldn't help but make the observation that in spite of an apparently continuous assault from the antigun lobby, the Second Amendment seemed to be holding its own, even in the liberal mecca that was San Francisco.
He was glad to see it.
As a cop, although concerned with the idea of loaded guns getting into the hands of children and/or burglars, he was comfortable enough with the idea of home protection and private weapon ownership; somewhat less thrilled with the assault rifle booths, the really vicious-looking knives, the weapons whose only function was essentially military, their only potential targets human beings.
But no suppressors.
Silencers were illegal in California, but then again, so was marijuana. Glitsky didn't believe that the former were nearly as commonly available as the latter, but the street snitch he'd called on his cellphone, a two-time loser named Walter Phleger, had set him straight. At the Cow Palace, you had to ask for Mort. You had to have a hundred-dollar bill, then about another grand in cash.
In the first hour, he wandered, stopped, handled many weapons up and down the aisles. He stopped and chatted with salespeople at five booths, smaller manufacturers. Getting comfortable. He hadn't done any street work in a very long time.
After the shoot-out last year, Moses McGuire had disposed of all the guns they had used in the firefight, including both of Glitsky's Colt.357 revolvers. In the interim, he hadn't really missed them- he wore his Glock.40 automatic with his uniform every day- but now he had a hunch and on impulse he stopped in front of the Colt booth. There were two other customers, but the man behind the counter stepped to Glitsky as soon as he approached.
"How are you doin', sir?" Jerry, by his name tag, was in his mid-thirties. He was buffed under his shirt and tie, and wore a clipped red mustache and jarhead haircut. "Are you interested in buying a gun today?"
Glitsky slowly looked to one side, all the way around to the other. Guns for sale everywhere he looked. He came back to Jerry and nodded. "It appears so, doesn't it?"
"Are you familiar with Colts?"
"Moderately. I used to own a couple. Somebody took them." Technically, this was not a lie. "I thought I'd see if one of these spoke to me." He pointed down under the counter. "This Python looks like the brother to the ones I lost. Three fifty seven."
"Yes, sir." The man was lifting it out, placing it on the counter.
"May I?" Glitsky asked, reaching for it.
He hefted it in one hand, passed it to the other, flipped open the cylinder, removed it entirely, then held the gun up to his eye and squinted down the barrel.
"What line of work are you in?"
Glitsky checked the sight, replaced the cylinder, handed the weapon back to Jerry. "Security." His smile did not reach his eyes, and lowering his voice, he cut to the chase. "I've always loved that gun, but I'm looking for something that can accommodate a suppressor, and I'm afraid that leaves revolvers out of it."
"Yes, it does." Jerry turned, rummaged in a drawer at the desk behind him, and a few seconds later placed a professionally designed, full-color brochure on the counter. "If you're going to go with a suppressor, Colt recommends its M1911 handgun, which takes your forty-five-caliber ACP cartridge. The M1911, of course, is semiautomatic and takes the S0S-45 suppressor once its been threaded for-"
Glitsky interrupted. "The guns that got taken from me, they were these three fifty seven revolvers, and I had suppressors to go with them. They also got taken."
"Well, yes, sir. But-"
"It sounded like you were telling me if I didn't shoot a semi, you couldn't help me."
"No. Not at all. Although we can't authorize any sales of suppressors out of the show today. We can't even carry them, as I'm sure you realize. But if you're interested…"
"Maybe you haven't been listening to me, Jerry. I'm interested in this gun, right here, right now, and I happen to have the thousand dollars to buy it. I don't like to use a semiautomatic. They jam, you notice that? Now, are you telling me you can't help me locate a silencer in this brochure of yours here for this exact weapon that I'm interested in putting down some money for? 'Cause if that's the case, I think maybe I can find another dealer nearby who might be willing to."
He put the revolver down on the top of the glass counter. "On the other hand, you put me in line with a top-quality suppressor for this gun, I give you my credit card, come back later on after the ridiculous ten-day cooling off period has expired, and you've got at least one sale, maybe a few more after I talk to some of my friends. Are you hearing me?" He leaned in and lowered his voice. "Someone told me if I had any trouble I should ask for Mort."
It was, indeed, the magic word. Jerry glanced at his other customers- nobody paying any real attention. "Give me a couple of minutes," he said.