Tom Pasquale said. He had secured the weapon from the Fusion’s center console and held it up, a large black revolver made to look like a Smith & Wesson. He deftly pulled open the piston lever that projected from the bottom of the grips. “No gas cylinder. It wasn’t going to do him much good this way.” From a distance, the gun looked remarkably realistic, and Pasquale looked at the sheriff with surprise. “Good call, sir. I wonder what he was planning to do with it? Use it as a hammer?” Torrez shrugged. “Maybe he’s gettin’ tired of livin’.” “He thought about it, you know. I mean, doing something stupid with it. I was watching his face.” “Yep.” Torrez snagged the keys off the roof of the car, walked around and unlocked the trunk, easing the lid up. He held onto it as he surveyed the contents, then tugged aside the corner of a homey-looking quilt, revealing three neat cardboard boxes, the lidded sort that originally had held ten reams of printer paper.
