"Ain't that the Po-Po." The girl snorted, shook her head. "Lock him up, then offer to set him free."

Cruz smiled. "Like I said before, Keanna. A bar. On Damen."

"Lawrence!" The girl twisted all the way around. "Why'n't you leave that dog alone?" She turned back to Cruz. "I told you, I don't know nothing about no bars catching fire."

Galway interrupted. "How about Playboy?"

"What about him?"

"He know anything about it?"

"Ask him."

"Where's he crashing these days?"

"Don't know."

"You don't know?" Cruz added a little edge to her voice. "Disciples number two, and you don't know where he sleeps?"

"I ain't close to it no more. Not since Spider got hisself locked up."

"What about the bar?"

The girl sighed. "Man, y'all is tiresome, asking the same question over and over like this time the answer's gonna be different. I don't know nothing about no bars burning up."

"Think hard." Cruz took her sunglasses off, blinking in the scorching light of late afternoon, hit the girl with her earnest look. "This is important. We've got the juice. We could help you, help Spider."

"I don't know nothing. And besides slinging dope, only thing Spider's good for is making me a baby-mama." The girl looked up at Galway, back to Cruz. "You wanna help?" She shook her head. "Buy groceries."

Cruz snorted. "All right. Thanks for the time." She stood up, put her shades back on. Adjusted her handcuffs. Galway started out of the park, and she fell in beside him.

Behind her, they heard the girl's voice. "Shit's burning down in Crenwood all the time, anyhow. How come y'all so interested in this one?" Keanna raised her voice. "Belong to a white guy or something?"

Galway laughed. Cruz flipped her a wave, walked to the unmarked they'd left at the edge of the park. As Galway opened the passenger door, he said, "So I saw my son last night."

"The Bitch let you visit off schedule?" Cruz had heard so much about Galway's divorce, she sometimes felt like she was the one who'd been left.

"Miracles never cease, right? Anyway, I pull up to her house. Schaumburg. Nice house, nice neighborhood. Aidan mopes out, mumbles hello, starts messing with the radio. His hair is gelled up in different directions, and he's wearing jeans that have holes at the pockets and ragged bottoms. Bleach stains. So I ask him, I say, 'Aidan, what's with the jeans? Won't your mom buy you new jeans?' " Galway paused, stared at two men exchanging an elaborate handshake on the opposite corner. They wore bright sneakers and long white shirts.

Cruz turned up the air conditioning. "What did he say?"

Galway spoke without looking at her. "He said I didn't understand fashion. That it was the style, jeans being all torn up and shitty looking."

"He's right," she said.

"Yeah, well, I never claimed to be Mr. GQ. But doesn't that seem weird?"

"What's that?"

"His new dad is a lawyer, six figures. Aidan dresses like he's about to paint the house, but he's got a car, an iPod, mutual funds earning interest toward college." Galway gestured out the window. "Those guys, they don't even have a bank account. Probably don't have anything in the fridge. But their shoes are spotless, they got gold chains around their necks, and I couldn't get my shirt that white if I tried."

"So?"

"So it's weird, is all. The ones with nothing are flaunting all they have; the ones with everything are trying to look like bums."

Cruz laughed. "You should quit this cop gig, get a job teaching philosophy."

"I could never let go of the glamorous lifestyle." Galway leaned back. "Drop me off at the station, would you? I got a stack of paperwork."

She smiled and spun north.

Afterwards, she went back to the 'Wood. She didn't have a goal in mind, just wanted to feel the street. Anything was better than working her goddamn database. Cruz drove past sagging row-houses and crumbling bungalows, dead grass, signs tagged with graffiti. Many of the houses had been boarded up, dark V-patterns from old fires marking the exterior walls. The plywood windows were covered in posters: The new 50 Cent album, ads for Hustle & Flow, election flyers for Alderman Owens. Each block, one or two buildings had been knocked down as if in preparation to build a new house, but few had any progress. Mostly the bare lots were just fenced off and left to rot. Blank holes in the block. Missing teeth.

Her phone rang, the caller ID showing a number from the Area One police switchboard. "Cruz."

"This is Peter Bradley. You asked me to-"

"Yeah, I remember. Did you find anything?"

"We rolled by Playboy's last known address. An apartment off Racine."

"And?"

"It's a real shithole."

"Surprise. Was he there?"

"No. Talked to the landlady, she said he left months ago. Skipped on two months rent."

It wasn't a surprise, really. It would have been too easy to expect him to be sitting around waiting for them. Though it would have been nice for something to go right for a change. She sighed, then thanked the beat cop and hung up.

How to find Playboy without sending him running? The Gangster Disciples would know, but they were his crew, and if they told him she was looking, he might bolt. Which would leave her in a tough spot. Galway was right – Playboy would look good in handcuffs. Whatever the truth might be about Michael Palmer, picking up Playboy was a smart first step.

Best to continue looking for him quietly, working her informants. Cruz was the only reason a lot of them stayed out of jail; hopefully that would keep them from warning him. She swung onto Sixty-third, the paint on the buildings fresher, fewer windows busted as she neared the El stop. In Chicago, prosperity followed the trains, even in Crenwood. There was a cluster of small businesses: a party store on the corner, a Popeye's beside it. Even a coffeehouse, not a Starbucks, but the kind with purple couches in the window and a chalkboard listing sandwich specials named after movies. Somebody's dream, something they'd scrimped to own, had probably hoped to put in Wicker Park or Lakeview, but couldn't afford the rent.

She wondered where Jason Palmer was now. He'd been pretty steamed when he stormed out yesterday, had that vigilante eye. There was something about him that she liked, but something damaged, too. She remembered his distant stare in the fish shop, the way he'd talked about the devastation he'd seen in Iraq, all the buildings burned out. How people just got used to it, didn't even see them anymore-

She almost rear-ended the car in front of her.

Holy shit.

Keanna's voice rang in her ears. Shit's burning down in Crenwood all the time.

Cruz spun toward the Dan Ryan. Had to get back home. She needed her computer, the spreadsheet of crime data. Her head felt light, that beautiful rush that came of being onto something. When her phone rang again, she was so lost in thought she answered without glancing at the caller ID. "Cruz."

"Officer. Are you somewhere you can speak?"

The voice wasn't familiar. "Umm…" She took a second to check the number, but didn't recognize it. "Sure."

"You don't know me, but I'm a friend."

"Uh-huh." She leaned back in the seat. A crazy, then. How had he gotten her cell number? "What is this about?"

"Michael Palmer's death."

She pulled the car over, right up onto the curb, tires crunching on sun-scorched grass. Flipped her hazards as she threw it in park, and said, "What do you mean?"

"You're working on his case, aren't you?"

"Yes. But I'm not a detective. You should talk to-"

"And you're also in Gang Intelligence."

"Yes."

"Have you discovered that this was more than a simple gang retaliation?"

Who was this guy? "I can't discuss that."

"Sorry. Let me be more direct. The Gangster Disciples didn't kill Michael Palmer."