"No way." He shook his head. "Not my brother."

She switched tacks. "Jackie says hi."

"Who?"

"Jackie." Click-click. "Your girlfriend from the other night? She confirms you were with her all night and yesterday morning. But when I mentioned to her that you'd left the Army, she seemed surprised to hear it."

He leaned back, crossed his arms over his chest. "Yeah."

"Mind if I ask the circumstances of your departure?"

"Actually, yeah, I do."

She cocked her head. "Was that some sort of a sore point between you and your brother? Did he disapprove?" Following it out of habit, digging.

"Why are you going after me, lady?" He stared at her. "You know I didn't do it. Are you trying to prove something to yourself?"

She started to snap at him. Then wondered if he was right. "I'm just being thorough."

"What you're doing is hassling me, when you should be out arresting Soul Patch. I mean Playboy. Whatever his fucking name is."

Cruz leaned back. "I'm looking into every angle."

"Including him?"

"Yes." She gave him a steady gaze, waited for him to ease up. When he did, she reminded herself to do the same. Yes, something strange was going on, and no, she didn't have any idea what it was. But she didn't believe he was involved. "I've spoken to some of my informants already. And I'll visit the bangers this afternoon, both Gangster Disciples and some of the other sets."

"You can do that?" He seemed surprised.

"Talk to bangers? Of course. I'm police."

"But, I mean – they tell you things?"

"They rarely give up their crew. But it's a small world. And they're cagey, but not rocket scientists." She leaned forward. "Now, what did these white guys look like?"

He took a deep breath, then rubbed the back of his neck with one hand while he told her. She scribbled notes. Not much to go on – one thin and plain-looking with dark hair going gray, the other a scary-looking Italian, muscular and balding.

"Should Billy talk to a sketch artist or something?

Cruz smiled. "That's cop show stuff. People don't really see each other – how big was the nose, how high was the forehead. Sketches end up looking like a composite of everybody in the room. And that's when it's an adult doing it. With a kid…"

He pursed his lips. "So how are you going to track these guys down?"

"From a description? No names, no license plate, no fingerprints?" She laughed. "I'm not."

"But-"

"The point of this is that if we can get suspects, Billy will be able to identify them. He can put them at the scene where your brother died. But finding them? Nine million people in the Chicago area, a lot of them white."

"That the best you can do?"

She hit him with the stare again.

"I'm sorry. I'm just-" He slumped back, brushed bangs from his eyes. "I don't understand this." There was a weird, appealing combination of strength and vulnerability in his pose, part soldier, part schoolboy, and she found herself wondering what it would be like to have a drink with him. Maybe one of those sexy River North lounges, both of them on a second martini. It was an odd thought, out of left field, and it annoyed her, so she pushed it aside and spun it into concern. "I'm sorry about your brother. He seemed like a good man."

He nodded, then a darker expression came across his face. "Do I have to…" He stopped. "Do you need me to-"

"No." She spoke softly. "We've identified him from dental records. You can see him if you want to. But I wouldn't recommend it."

"Should I be planning something? You know, for his… body?"

"He's with the medical examiner now," she said, choosing her words carefully. "They're trying to see what we can learn about how he died. In a couple of days, they'll release him to the funeral home of your choosing. You should start thinking about what kind of service to have."

"How can I?"

"I know it's a lot to deal with, but the funeral director will help-"

"No, I mean, how can I have a service? How do I know a group of gangbangers won't show up for Billy?"

Cruz opened her mouth, closed it. After a moment, she said, "I'll be there."

He nodded, eyes panning the room, falling across the cramped desk she shared with another officer, the good-enough-for-government fluorescent lighting, the ancient computer. He said, "I need your help. We need some sort of police protection."

"Police protection?"

"For Billy."

She winced. One of those moments when the realities of the job were disappointing. On television, they'd have a safe house guarded by snipers, a fifty-inch television on the wall and ice cream in the fridge. "I can ask patrol cars to spin down the block more often. The Crenwood rotation is pretty heavy, so you'd see a lot of them. Once or twice an hour, maybe more."

"Once an hour?"

She raised her shoulders, held her hands in front of her. "There's not much else I can do. You're welcome to stay here until this is settled."

"Here."

"Yes."

"In the police station."

She shrugged.

"Unbelievable." He shook his head. "He's eight. You know that? Eight."

"I'm sorry."

He stood up. "If you're not going to protect Billy, then I will."

"Mr. Palmer." She stood, too, put steel in her voice. "Don't do anything stupid. Leave the criminals to us."

"You think I'm out to solve a crime, lady?" He looked ragged and tired, but his eyes blazed. "I'm trying to protect my family. That's all I care about."

"Jason." She said it softly, hoping to defuse this, to keep him compliant. She could stuff him in a holding cell, but didn't want to. "I care about that, too."

His hands squeezed into fists, and his lips went white. He stared at her for a long moment. "Terrific," he said.

Then he turned on his heel and stormed away, back straight and shoulders clenched. She thought about calling after him, telling him to stay. Ordering it. Instead, she flopped down in her chair. The star on her belt felt heavy.

"You know what I blame?" Tom Galway rocked his chair back on two legs. Between the neat suit and the salt-and-pepper hair, her partner looked more like an orthodontist than a Gang Intel Sergeant. "CSI."

"Huh?" Cruz looked up from her laptop.

"All these cop shows with elaborate plots. You know, the vic is killed with a potato masher, fashion models with badges talk to twelve people, shine that mysterious blue light all over, it turns out it was the guy's scoutmaster he hadn't seen in ten years."

She laughed. "So you don't buy it?" Cruz had filled him in on all the weird vibes from the case. "You were there, you heard what Michael Palmer had to say."

He snorted. "Yeah, and I liked him, too. More polite than most crazies."

"All that stuff about the gangs being part of a larger problem, his claim there was evidence. You think he was making that up?"

"No, he was one hundred percent correct. The gangs are part of a larger problem. It's called being dead-ass broke. Evidence of that ain't hard to see." Galway shrugged. "Look, your victim spoke against the gangs. He lived in a gang neighborhood, and died in a bar in gang territory. A Gangster Disciple went after his brother and his son. And not just any Disciple, but Playboy, a shithead we know has dropped bodies. Why make this complicated?"

He had a point. But still. "What about the kid's description?"

"A day late and a dollar short. What is he, eight? He's scared out of his mind, probably remembering something from TV. And you can't put an eight-year-old on the stand. Public defender would tear you a new orifice. Besides," Galway looked around, then leaned forward. "I was talking to the lieutenant earlier."

She set down her pen, prepared herself.

"Palmer was an activist," Galway continued. "The press hasn't picked up the story yet, but they will. The chief, the superintendent, they're getting crazy pressure. Hell, Alderman Owens called to say he wants a gang-banger in cuffs on the evening news."