Dion stared. "How you know?"

Oh, the fucking humanity. Anthony laughed. Jason Palmer had some sack, no doubt about it. Some serious swinging sack.

Good. Better that way. More fun.

"This Martinez, what did he do to get you to talk?" Savored that sweet tingle. Spoke slow, contempt in his voice. "He get up in your grille? He dis your hoopdy?"

"Man, what you talking about?"

"Nothing, Dion. I'm talking about nothing at all." He did his magic trick with the cop's Smith again.

The first shot hit just above the cheek, ripping the skin up and back, and for a split second, just before it tore off a sizable chunk of his head, the bullet made it look like Dion Wallace really got the joke.

CHAPTER 28

Jason hadn't realized how hungry he was until they'd walked in the diner and the smells hit, bacon and coffee and grease.

"The X-Factor," Cruz said.

"Yes." He spoke around a mouthful of tuna melt.

"I entered a lot of data. I mean, you wouldn't believe how much data I've entered. And every now and then, it started to seem like there was a pattern. You know, something moving behind the scenes. Only I could never put my finger on it."

"Right." He gestured at her untouched fries. "You going to eat those?"

She pushed the plate across the Formica tabletop. "And then yesterday, something you said made me look at it differently."

"Something I said?"

"Yeah. You said something about how in Iraq, people just got used to living in a world that was burning. It made me think, shit, sounds like Crenwood. The arson stats are really high – much higher than they should be. I'd noticed that before, just in the course of entering data. But I didn't realize what it meant, because I hadn't found my X-Factor."

"Galway and DiRisio."

"Exactly." She held a fork in both hands, spun it, staring at the tines. "It's funny."

"What?"

"I hated this assignment. The database. You know, I thought, this is no kind of work for a cop. They put it on me to keep me off the streets. Only it turns out that the cops working the streets are bad, and that the database is the weapon we need."

He nodded. "I think they call that irony."

"Yeah," she said and stiffened.

Jason followed her gaze, saw the blue-and-white out the window. Two men inside. She turned to face him, put a hand up to play with her hair, hiding her profile. Her eyes darted. "Are they watching?"

Jason popped a fry in his mouth, looked out the window, just a guy having breakfast. Ready to move if he had to, thinking a sprint through the kitchen and out the back exit would probably be the best route.

The light changed, and the cruiser pulled away.

"They're gone." He reached for the Tabasco, shook till the fries turned crimson.

She glanced out the window, glanced back. Shook her head. "I still can't believe this is happening."

"I know that feeling." Thinking of Michael, of Billy. This dirty little conspiracy had cost his brother's life, had saddled him with responsibility he wasn't prepared for. That he hadn't even had time to think about. But now wasn't the time either. First he had to make sure his nephew was safe. Then he could figure out the rest of his life. "You're sure it will have what we need?"

She nodded. "My computer at work is basically an abacus. You wouldn't believe the equipment we have to deal with. So I always work on my personal laptop, then just upload the database to the CPD system every day. I've got data on every recent gang incident, from graffiti to homicide to arson. Somewhere in there we'll find what we need. Then when we go in to IAD, it's not just us talking. We've got facts and stats. Maybe not exactly proof, but enough to get a good cop's attention."

"Sounds pretty thin to me."

"That laptop is the closest thing we have to evidence," she said. He started to argue, but Cruz cut him off. "Look, you know how you were talking about trust? Goes both ways."

He sighed. "Yeah."

The waitress came by with the check, telling them to stay as long as they liked, no rush. Jason nodded, took a slug of the coffee, lukewarm now, forked a Tabasco-soggy fry. Chewed slowly, trying to steady his tingling nerves. For the moment they were all right, but he knew it was a temporary respite, like ducking under an awning against a storm. It didn't stop the rain.

Cruz reached for her tea, took a sip, set it down with her lips curling. "I don't know how you do it," she said.

"What?"

"Eat. My stomach is completely off."

"First rule of soldiering. When there's food, eat. Never know how many miles you'll have to run before chow."

"I wouldn't make it. I need food every two hours or my body shuts down." She paused. "Did you like it?"

"Being a soldier?" He thought of the feeling of pride he'd had when he made sergeant, the thrill of walking with his unit, the camaraderie and faith. "Yeah. I liked it a lot."

"So why leave?"

He wiped his lips with the napkin. "What about you, you like being a cop?"

He could tell she noticed the evasion, but she didn't call him on it. "Yes, I like it."

"Good at it?"

Cruz opened her mouth. Closed it. The condensation from her water glass had dripped into rings on the table, and she dipped a finger in one, traced wet lines. "I used to think so."

"Hey," he folded the napkin and laid it atop the remnants of his meal, "don't let this get to you. There was no way you could have guessed what was going on."

"It's not that."

"What then?"

She paused. Said, "No one trusts me."

"Why not?"

"They think that I got assigned to the squad as a PR move." Her cadence slow, like she were picking her words. "Or that it's favoritism. No one believes that I belong there. How can I be a good cop if no one trusts me?"

"Prove them wrong."

"It's not that simple. There are a lot of… issues." She sighed, shook her head. "Can we talk about something else?"

"Sure." He waited a beat. "Cubs or Sox?"

Cruz looked surprised, and then laughed. She had one of those honest laughs, rich and good, and he grinned back at her. Realized he didn't think he'd heard her laugh before, and liked that it was his doing. It felt normal, a man and a woman sitting in a restaurant booth, talking, joking. No guns, no gangbangers.

"I didn't leave the Army," he said, the words just kind of coming out. "I was discharged."

She cocked her head, but didn't say anything.

"They call it an 'other than honorable' discharge. What they give when you don't merit a formal court martial."

"What happened?"

He looked out the window. Everyday people, coming and going. The sun shivering the concrete. Girls on blankets in the park. In all, a perfectly normal morning in Chicago. Even now, months back, he still sometimes had moments when he couldn't believe it existed. Bikinis and billboards, neon and green grass.

"We were on-mission, guarding a house. The brother-in-law of somebody's nephew, one of those things. There was a lot of that stuff there. Still is. Anyway, it was just another mission, nothing special."

The squad bulky with body armor under desert gear. The acrid smell of sweat and the way the clinging dust itched. A silent head count, his hundredth of the day, terrified, always, of leaving a man behind: Jones, Campbell, Kaye, Frieden, Crist, Flumignan, Borcherts, Paoletti, Rosemoor, and Martinez, ten men. His ten men. Martinez clowning, saying that to really guard the house, they ought to be inside, where the owner was watching the Red Wings on his satellite television. Joining in the laughter, feeling good, the air soft with the approach of sunset, already tasting the ice-cold Gatorade that would be waiting in the chow hall.