"Hmm." Palmer leaned forward with his elbows on his knees. "So someone else knows what's going on."

"There's more." Cruz massaged her temples. "He said…" She sighed. "He said that he had given Michael something that had gotten him killed. Some sort of evidence."

Palmer stared at her, rubbed his chin hard enough the five o'clock shadow grated. He looked like he was considering putting the chair through the window. She waited. Finally, he said, "The briefcase." He leaned forward, buried his head in his hands, groaned.

"What briefcase?"

He spoke through his fingers. "When I saw Michael the other day, he had this briefcase, just a regular leather case, but he kept fidgeting with it. Set it down one place, talked for a minute, moved it somewhere else. I didn't think anything of it at the time. But whatever was in that briefcase is the reason my brother was killed." He looked up. "I was three feet away, and I didn't know a goddamn thing about it."

"Where is it now?" If they could get hold of that, everything could change.

He smiled grimly. "They have it. Galway and DiRisio. Don't you see? That's why they came to the bar, for the briefcase. It must have evidence about what's going on, dirty cops selling weapons to the gangbangers. If Michael had gone public with it, they'd have been ruined."

Cruz nodded, the pieces clicking into place. "And after they got what they came for, killing your brother would have been the best way to cover it. Kill him and burn down his bar, and everybody blames it on the gangs."

It was such a simple thing, once all the facts were in place. Simple and ruthless and terrifying.

"Any idea who the caller was?"

"Not really, no. He knew a lot about the department. Could be a cop." She concentrated, trying to think of anything else that could help them. "By the way he talked, I'd say he's educated. He spoke precisely, like a news anchor. And he used some weird expressions."

"Weird?"

"I pointed out he wasn't giving me much specific information, and he said something like 'the burnt child fears fire.' "

"The burnt child fears fire? What does that mean?"

"Apparently," she said, "it means his way or the highway."

He looked like he was doing long division in his head. "He told you not to tell anyone."

"Yeah," she said. "Actually, more than that. He told me not to tell any of my colleagues." She though back, remembering the play of sunlight through the window, the feel of the phone in her hand. Felt a shiver down her core. Jesus. Oh, Jesus. She looked up at Palmer. "He specifically said not to tell a guy named James Donlan."

"Who's he?"

Her body felt heavy. "He's the head of the Area One Detective Division."

Palmer's mouth fell open. "My god."

"Yeah."

They sat for a moment and listened to the cartoons coming through the wall. Her shoulder holster pinched, and she undid it, set it on the bed beside her. Rubbed at her eyes, remembering Donlan as she used to know him, a friend, then a confidant, then a lover. "It might not mean anything. The guy could just have been making a point."

"Hell of a point."

She nodded.

"What about calling Internal Affairs? Couldn't they help?" Palmer said it like a civilian, somebody who'd watched cop shows but never worn a star.

"IAD?" She winced. Coming out against another officer was betraying the brotherhood. Besides, it wasn't that simple. "We've got no evidence."

"We'd tell the same story, though."

She laughed. "Sure. It'd go like this: 'While neglecting my assigned duties in order to work a case I'd been ordered off, I had an anonymous caller tip me about a secret meet where I saw my former partner, a decorated sergeant and twenty-year veteran, sell submachine guns to gangbangers. No, I don't know where he got them, or where they are now. No, I don't have any pictures or physical evidence of any kind. On the up side, I did manage to lose my service weapon – does that count for something?' "

"We know DiRisio's name."

"You extorted it from a gangbanger. Not too useful. If it's even his real name."

"We'd have Billy. He could identify them."

"Our ace in the hole is the eyewitness testimony of an eight-year-old?"

"So what, you want to just quit?" His voice had that tone men only got when speaking to women.

"No, coach," she said. "Stay in my face and I'll win the big game."

He stared at her, anger in his eyes, and then something broke, and he ducked his head and laughed. "Right. Sorry." He blew a breath. "Been a long couple of days."

"Yeah." She paused. "Look, you're right. Your nephew's testimony is something. But it's not enough. Not nearly."

"So where does that leave us?"

"I believe the technical term," she said, "is 'up shit creek.' "

Their TV had a porn channel.

They'd talked round and round until they were worn out. No evidence, and no way to know who was clean and who was dirty, so they couldn't go to the cops. No lead on DiRisio. Working Galway was their best bet, but he would know that. He'd surely protect himself. And the mere thought that Donlan might be involved was enough to make her consider fleeing the country.

Finally, in frustration, they'd decided to take a break, clear their heads. He was in the shower, and she'd flopped on the bed looking for local news, see if by any chance there was mention of automatic weapon fire in downtown Chicago. A deep exhaustion had begun to settle, a hollowed-out feeling from the spent adrenaline. The dingy mattress felt better than it had a right to, and she was channel-surfing, the volume muted. Click, sports. Click, sitcom. Click, two blondes with fake tans and fake tits doing unlikely things to one another with an enormous pink dildo.

It was like a nature film, bugs filmed in extreme close-up. This turned men on?

She shook her head, clicked again. The water stopped, and she heard the curtain slide and a towel pulled from the rack. It was a strangely intimate sound, and put her back in another hotel bedroom. Cramped and dim, a threadbare robe and the smell of red wine spilled on the sheets. Burning shame as she listened to James Donlan in the shower, whistling as he washed her off his body before going home to his wife.

Stop, she thought automatically. But it never worked.

She remembered their awkward breakfast. The pressure he'd put on her, telling her not to screw this up. Was it a message that he was involved? Or was it exactly as it appeared on the surface, a politician's desire not to see a simple case get complicated?

No idea. She sighed and rubbed her eyes. Her mother had warned her not to be a cop, said that it would only lead to trouble. Lately it seemed like she was right. Cruz had loved the first nine, ten years, being on the street, running down bad guys. Sure, over and over she'd needed to prove herself, but over and over she had managed to. But ever since her mistake with Donlan, things had gone downhill. First the respect she'd fought to earn had disappeared like smoke. Then the order had come to tie her to a desk, and she'd spent month after endless month working the database, entering reports and interviews other cops gathered. Seeing the street from a distance, a collection of stats. Just a secretary of horror, a reporter of gang crimes and murder scenes and arsons-

Cruz was on her feet before she realized she was moving. She rounded the bed, hit the closed bathroom door, didn't even hesitate. Shoved through.

"Whoa!" Palmer was bent just inside the door drying his legs, but as she came in, he jerked upright, yanking the towel in front of him. His body was tan, his chest lean and muscular, spare, with the puckered ridge of a scar trailing down his left pectoral to where metal dog tags dangled. "What the hell?"

She smiled. "I know what we need to do."