"It's okay. Take it easy. I want to stay with you. But I don't want more men coming after us, and I think the briefcase could make sure of that." He paused. "I think I should go. I think it will keep you safe. But I won't if you don't want me to." Jason squeezed Billy's hand, looked him in the eye. "It's up to you, kiddo."

He stared at the boy, this eight-year-old with his brother's face. Shoulders thin under the gray Army T-shirt. Skin pale and sticky with tears. Stared and wished for a magic wand, a bag of fairy dust, whatever it took to reverse time and give this poor boy his father back, his life back.

And then Billy said, "Okay," and let go of his hand.

CHAPTER 31

Anthony DiRisio stood in front of the windows, arms at his side. Hell of a view. The skyline to the south, Lincoln Park spilling east, beyond that, the lake, blue-gray water dotted with colorful sails.

Elena Cruz lived pretty good for a policewoman.

The jerkwad cops that had searched the place earlier had closed up behind them, but the lock on the door was junk. He'd jamb-popped it with his knife and strolled in.

The apartment was a sizable one-bedroom with curved brick ceilings and a Murphy bed that folded back into the wall. He pulled it out just for kicks and lay down, his shoes up on the covers, fingers behind his head. A faint girl smell lingered in her pillows. After a moment, he sat up, opened the night table drawer. An Ondaatje novel, The English Patient. He'd seen the movie, liked it all right. A tube of lip balm. A snapshot of a Hispanic woman with a moustache. A silver vibrator. He turned it on. The batteries were low, the thing barely humming. He smiled, turned it off, put it back.

The cops had been after evidence, bundles of hundreds or sacks of weapons. They'd have checked the toilet tank and tapped for loose floorboards, felt the pockets of coats and the seams of the sofa. DiRisio was hoping for something more abstract, something that hinted where she might be.

He worked steadily but swiftly. Skipped the bathroom, skipped the kitchen. There was a mound of dirty clothes on her closet floor. Her dresser contained folded shirts and jeans, a tangle of underwear. He held up soft thong-cut panties, Vickie's Secret, size small. A potpourri sachet made them smell like cinnamon. Nice. If Palmer was tapping her, he was in for a treat.

No diary, no appointment book, no day planner.

He moved to the living room where she kept her desk. Sifted through paper clips and pens. A silver half dollar. A small chunk of amber. A rabbit's foot. An abandoned network cable ran from the wall to the desk. Shit. The cops had her computer. He'd like to have gone through it.

"Where are you, honey?" Looked around the room. Opened a cabinet. DVDs, a board game. "Come to daddy." Checked the fridge. A couple beers, some mismatched takeout containers, a bottle of Sriracha, a lime that had seen better days, a quarter-inch of milk in a gallon jug. Not a homebody, then.

Something moved behind him.

DiRisio spun fast, dropping as he went, right arm swinging out in an arc, pistol leading the way.

An orange and white cat with green eyes stared at him over the SIG's dot-and-bars. The cat blinked. The cat yawned.

Anthony DiRisio smiled.

"Hi, kitty," he said. "Come here."

CHAPTER 32

The way the light from the window fell on him, Ronald could have been a statue, an ebony sculpture of an old-time railroad worker. The sun carved his muscles in sharp relief, hard swells that strained his shirt sleeves. A five-pound sledge dangled from one hand, the heavy head stained a soft ocher with rust. He stared out the front window with quiet concentration.

"Hey Ronald, you seen Cruz?"

The big man tore his eyes away from the window, glanced at Jason. "That the girl you came with?"

"Yeah."

Ronald turned back to the window. "Upstairs. Said she wanted to freshen up."

"Thanks." Curiosity pulled him over to stand beside Ronald. Out the window, on the sidewalk past the Lantern Bearers sign, Washington stood talking to a middle-aged white guy with salt-and-pepper hair and sweat marks on his crisp oxford. Beyond them afternoon sun glared off parked cars, and on the other side of the street lay the abandoned lot, tall grass swaying gently around the carousel he remembered from years ago.

"Okay," he said. "I'll bite. What's so interesting?"

Ronald gestured with his chin. "See that dude talking to Dr. Matthews? That's Adam Kent."

The name sounded familiar. He squinted. Medium build, neat hair, nice clothes. But nothing notable about him. He didn't think he'd ever seen him before, but the name sounded familiar. Where had he heard… right. "The guy giving Washington half a million dollars at the party tonight."

Ronald nodded slow, his eyes locked outside.

"You curious what he looks like?"

"Nah. Seen him before. He's here all the time."

"So what?"

"Look at him, man." Ronald spoke without turning. "Dude can write a check for five hundred thousand dollars, just give it away. Got enough money that half a million don't hurt none."

"Nice of him."

"Yeah. It's just…" Ronald hesitated.

"What?"

"I mean, I walk by him on the street, I wouldn't even notice. Looks like any other white guy. I always thought having that much money, you'd look different, you know? Like a glow or something." Ronald shook his head. "Hell, a brother with that kind of money, he's wearin' a platinum dollar sign covered with diamonds."

Jason laughed. "Listen, can you do me a favor?"

Ronald glanced over, face impassive.

"Cruz and I are going to leave. Those guys that killed my brother, I think we know how to get them."

" 'Aight."

"Thing is, I can't bring Billy along, but I'm worried about leaving him alone. I was hoping you could kind of, I don't know. Look in on him. Hang out with him a little. Let him know he's safe."

"I feel that." Ronald nodded. "Sure."

"He's scared."

"He don't need to be. Ain't nothing going to happen to Bills while I'm around."

Jason nodded, thanked him. Then he headed out of the front room toward the staircase. He stole a glance over his shoulder before he left; Ronald had turned back to the window and was staring out, shaking his head. Jason smiled.

He found Cruz in one of the upstairs bedrooms, the television on, the remote clutched in white knuckled fingers.

"… the ongoing corruption trial of former governor George Ryan…"

He stepped beside her, but she didn't react. "Hey," Jason said. "Listen-"

"Shh." She held up a hand.

"In other news, the troubling story of a police officer suspected of murder."

He'd been reaching for her shoulder, but froze at the announcer's words.

"The body of Dion Wallace, a member of the Gangster Disciples street gang, was discovered last night after neighbors reported hearing gunfire. Police found Wallace dead in his West Crenwood home, shot twice in the head." The house onscreen was cordoned off with yellow tape, and police cars were parked around it, angled random directions. A mugshot of C-Note Wallace glared off the side of the screen. "Sources within the Chicago Police Department told NBC 5 that preliminary investigations indicate the murder weapon belonged to an Area One Gang Intelligence officer involved in an ongoing investigation of Wallace."

The image cut to a podium with a middle-aged man in a French-cuff shirt and a striped tie. The caption read, CPD Deputy Chief James Donlan. Donlan held up his hands to quiet a roar of questions.