"Mr. Thomas," she said. "How are you?"

"Fine, Ms. Cruz." The man nodded as they walked past. "You have a good day now."

A hallway led off the lobby to the elevator bays, four shining doors. Cruz thumbed the call button while he rocked on his heels. His shoulder itched and his neck was sore from tackling the guy last night. Behind him, he heard the buzzer sound again, but couldn't see the lobby door from this angle.

An elevator arrived with a soft ding, the doors opening as it settled. They stepped in and she hit the button for fourteen. The floor was soft carpet, and a polished brass rail ran along the back wall. Not showy, but definitely nice.

"This isn't where I'd have pictured you living." Talking to fill the silence.

"Whiter than you expected?"

"No, just more, I don't know, poodle-owning."

Cruz laughed. "It's not what my mother pictures either." The doors opened on a decorated waiting area, a side table with fake flowers and a mirror above it, like people were often choosing to hang out by the elevators instead of in their apartments. "Police have to live in the city. There's a joke, neighborhoods like Beverly and Garfield Ridge are called 'My Blue Heaven' because of the number of cops that live there. Nice enough, but it never appealed."

"Why does this?"

She shrugged. "Maybe because my mother can't picture it." They reached her apartment, a door at the end of the hallway beside the stairwell. She dug in her pocket for the keys. From down the hall came a chime, another elevator arriving at her floor. Cruz slid a key into the top deadbolt. "It's not that I'm not close to my mom, it's just that it's better when she's far away."

Jason started to reply, then it hit. Another elevator.

He spun, looked down the hall. The space was narrow and constrained, a long row of staggered doors with the elevator lounge halfway down and around a corner. Nowhere to hide.

A male voice drifted down the hallway, the sound muffled. "Which way's her place?"

"Over here."

Cruz froze, her key in the deadbolt, her eyes mirroring his panic.

He tried the door opposite hers. Locked. Glanced around.

The stairwell.

Jason pulled her after him, key ripping out of the lock. He fought the urge to throw open the door, stepped through quickly, then spun as she passed and caught the handle to ease the door closed so the spring-hinges didn't slam it.

Bright sterile light, cigarette butts and gum stains. There was a small window in the door, and Jason flattened himself along the wall, Cruz close enough he could smell her perfume. Maybe he was wrong. Could be a neighbor. Hell, could be a pizza delivery guy.

"-can't believe this shit." The gruff voice grew closer through the door.

"Don't surprise me at all. You got the key from the doorman?"

"Here." Metal tickled metal, and then the clean snapping sound of a deadbolt opening. "Ready?"

"Go."

Jason tensed, then heard a door slam open, the one to her apartment. He heard the men rush in, shouting Freeze!, their voices growing muffled by the walls of her apartment. Only cops yelled like that.

He pointed down the stairs. She nodded, moved on the ball of her feet, lithe, one step at a time but quick as an aerobics routine. He followed, wanting to glance back up at the door but not daring, knowing if the police stepped into the hallway, the gesture could give them away.

More dirty cops. Cold fingers closed on his heart.

His fingers traced the chipped metal railing. Taking three steps at a stride, more jumping than running. The sounds of their footfalls echoed up the shafts. He watched the numbers drop on the fire doors, eleven, ten, nine. His breath came harder, not the effort but the suddenness of it, dead stop to mad hustle. Six, five, four. Cruz spun around a landing, and he focused on her, watched her body move, spare and economical. On the third floor, he stopped, said her name. "Finish up slow. Can't burst out panting."

She nodded, started down again at a walk. One flight, a landing, another flight, and then the exit came into sight. He felt an urge to call Billy, promised himself he'd do it if they made it out.

"Ready?" she asked.

He nodded, and she stepped into a carpeted hall. Easy, confident, the kind of fine-looking woman who belonged in this building. He fell in beside, willing his pulse steady. Just stroll thirty feet of hallway, clear the lobby, and they'd be out. He concentrated on the little details instead of thinking, tracing the patterns in the carpet, counting the sconces in the hallway. His reflection distorted as they passed the bronze elevator doors. Almost there. He could see the sunlight spilling in the lobby windows.

"Motherfucker, I look like I'm playin'?" The unseen voice from the lobby was familiar and filled with menace. Jason grabbed Cruz's arm, stopped her just before she stepped into view. Shook his head, listened.

"You see this?" A whimper came from the front. "That's right. You right to be scared, old man, 'cause you don't tell me where the Cruz bitch lives, I'm going to work on you with this thing."

Her eyes narrowed. She whispered, "Who?"

"Playboy. The one who tried to hijack me." Fighting the urge to run, his fingers flexing. "Goddamn I wish we had a gun."

She grimaced. "Back door."

He nodded, followed her down the same nice hallway in reverse, carpet patterns and sconces. Around a corner, down another length of hall. "We can get out to LaSalle through here." She pushed open a door, and they stepped into a sweltering loading dock. High ceilings, hard rubber floor, the smell of trash. Roll doors on one wall. He spotted an exit twenty feet away just in time to see it open in an explosion of light, white sun stabbing into the murky dimness. Saw a figure coming through, barrel-chested man in blue, heavy belt – shit, another cop – hands to his eyes, looking back at someone and saying, "Man, it's dark after that sun," and then Cruz pulled him out of the loading dock and back into the hallway.

They stared at each other. Trapped. From one direction gangbangers, from the other cops, and nowhere in between for them to hide, no alternate routes. The stairs and elevator were too risky – the geriatric doorman wouldn't hold off Playboy for long. But if they stayed here, the police would get them.

Jason grit his teeth and looked wildly around. Tried a door that looked like it led to a service closet, found it locked. Looked at a small decorative trash can, wondered if he could throw it. A trash can against a submachine gun. He shook his head. The door to the loading dock was in the center of the wall, and there was just enough space beside it that he could probably pack himself into the corner, hope the guy coming through didn't notice right away. Get the jump on him. Though he wasn't eager to swing at a cop, especially with gangbangers coming the other direction.

Footsteps echoed from the loading dock. They had seconds.

He looked at Cruz, saw the way she was assessing the situation, not frozen up but working it, and he felt a strange comfort in that, and then the idea hit and he yanked her into the corner by the door, putting her back against the wall and standing squarely in front of her, his shoulders spread as broad as possible, and then he said, "Trust me," and he kissed her.

At first her lips were stiff, resistant. Then they opened, her tongue fluttering soft against his, her arms wrapping around him as she realized what he was doing, how right it had to look, how passionate. And maybe it was the energy of the moment, but as the door swung open and he heard the heavy footfall of a cop behind him, he found that he wasn't having to fake the passion, that he was genuinely hungry for her, the spice of tea faint on her lips, the earthy smell of the sweat on her neck, the strength in the fingers gripping his back. She fit against him, and his nerves strained forward, quivering.