"Not quite. We know what's happening now."

"But it doesn't do us any good. Without evidence, telling the media won't make a difference. They'll just see us as crazies."

"What about the alderman?" Jason rubbed at the stubble on his chin. "You said he's a good guy."

She shrugged. "What are we going to do, just march into the alderman's office and tell him what we saw?"

He stared at her like she'd said the secret password, a strange light in his eyes.

"No," he said. "Not his office."

CHAPTER 39

"Make yourself at home," Jason said, pushing open the door. His studio was as he'd left it, the blinds open and bedding tangled. The cereal bowls still sat on the table where he and Billy had left them after breakfast. He saw a flash of his nephew grinning about being allowed to leave the plates on the table, instead of having to wash them and put them in the dishwasher like he did at home.

"You sure it's safe?"

"I doubt they know where I live. It's month-to-month, cash. Like I said, dodging responsibility."

She nodded, looked around. "It's nice."

"It's a hole," he said. "I rented it when I came back. I wasn't sure I was staying in Chicago."

"Where would you go?"

"There's the rub." He dropped the keys on the table, plugged his cell phone in to charge. "Bathroom's that way. I'll see if I can find a clean towel for you. And we need to get you some clothes if we're going to pull this off. Something swank."

"They'll be watching my apartment."

"You have a girlfriend, someone who can lend you some things?"

Cruz cocked her head. "My friend Ruby lives over in Wicker Park. She made me wear a fuchsia bridesmaid's dress with dyed-to-match shoes for her wedding. I figure she still owes me."

"Can we borrow her car?"

"So long as I don't tell her what happened to the last one."

It ambushed him when he opened the closet.

Cruz had let him shower first, saying she wanted to take a bath while they waited for her friend. He'd felt kind of awkward, not sure if he should close the door or what. Whatever had happened in the river, and on the bus, it had changed things between them. Bound them together. Door closed, he'd decided. But not all the way.

In the shower he'd scrubbed hard, the soap stripping off what felt like half an inch of grime and sweat. Stepped out reborn, knotted a towel around his waist, and opened the door. Elena had smiled as she breezed past him, and run a hand along his bare stomach. She'd drawn a bath, humming something, a high, sweet song, and he'd thought how he might not mind hearing it for a long time.

Then he'd opened his closet and the garment bag had ambushed him.

His clothing was orderly, T-shirts and jeans neatly folded on the shelves, socks and underwear in bins below, dirty laundry in a basket in the corner. The rod held two pairs of slacks, a windbreaker, his suit, three stray hangers, and the garment bag. He hadn't touched it, or even looked it, since he'd hung it there months ago. It was like he'd developed a localized blindness that screened it out.

The plastic felt cool. Jason carried it to the bed. Set it down like a priest laying out his vestments.

The creases were still razor sharp. Ribbons hung on the left breast, above his marksmanship pin – sharpshooter, not expert, which had bothered him as an NCO – and below the combat infantry badge. His sergeant's chevrons were stitched on the sleeves. Behind the jacket were two pale green oxfords, the trousers, and a black tie.

He hadn't worn his Class A Dress Uniform since he'd walked out of the Administrative Discharge Board, the words "other than honorable" ringing in his ears, his mouth dry and craving bourbon. He'd finished his truncated deployment in BDUs, packed his ruck, and hopped a plane to Kuwait, then Germany, then Atlanta, and finally Chicago. Only to arrive home and find the same kind of war raging in his old neighborhood. The same murky alliances and lust for power, the same lies and obfuscations, the regular people caught in the crossfire.

He ran his fingers along the fabric. It felt right. He'd gone in the closet intending to wear his suit. But what was a suit to him?

After all, he didn't have to be in the Army to be a soldier.

Jason knocked on the bathroom door and told Cruz he was going for food, then took the fire stairs to the street. His uniform drew nods from the guys hanging out on the corner. He nodded back, walked past the payday loan place to the Italian beef restaurant.

"Two combos, wet and spicy."

"Fries?"

"With cheese." The smell of grease set his stomach rumbling.

He took the bag of carryout, two cans of Coke, and an inch-thick stack of napkins back to his apartment. Moved the cereal bowls to the sink, wiped the kitchen table, and set out the food. He thought about fixing a drink, decided he didn't want one. Couldn't afford it, anyway – exhaustion had drained his limbs, and whiskey wouldn't help. He heard the bathroom door open, and then Cruz stepped out.

"Holy shit," he said, his mouth hanging open.

"Ruby came by while you were gone. You like?" She wore a dress of thin fabric, black with scarlet roses. The material clung to her, tracing the soft curve of her breasts, the swell of her pubic bone. Makeup concealed the bruise on her forehead, and she wore her hair twirled up and held in place with something that looked like chopsticks, revealing a graceful neck and collarbone.

"You look amazing."

"Thank you. You look pretty good yourself, soldier. Want to see the best part?"

"That isn't the best part?"

She held up a black clutch purse, smiled coquettishly, and withdrew the Glock 27.

He burst out laughing. "Come on. Let's eat." He held a chair for her, and she sat demurely. The whole situation felt surreal, a tiny time-out against a mad world, and he decided to enjoy the minutes they had. Sat beside her at his crummy kitchen table, poured her a Coke as if it were wine. "We have several specials tonight. First, Freedom Fries Velveeta: select portions of potato lovingly boiled in two-day-old grease and smothered with yellow. I also recommend the combo, a Chicago classic: spicy sausage nestled in a Kaiser roll, topped with two inches of Italian beef, dipped in au jus, and crowned with pickled hot peppers. The use of fingers is advised."

"Mmmm," she said, reaching for her sandwich. "I love a man who knows how to treat a lady." She took a bite and chewed languorously, her eyes fluttering closed. "I don't think I've ever tasted anything this good in my life."

"It's like camping. Everything tastes better if you have to work for it," he leaned forward to keep the hot grease off his uniform.

"I'll keep that in mind next time I'm escaping a sinking Honda."

They attacked the food, the two of them in formal dress eating junk food under fluorescent lights. He finished first, and leaned back to watch her, her fingers shiny with grease, a smear of cheese on her lips. When she finished, she crumpled up the wax paper, then set to sucking her fingers one at a time. "You know, this plan…" She paused, took a sip of Coke, holding the cup with her palms. "Well, it's not a plan."

"More like a prayer," he agreed. "Got any better options?"

"No. But even all cleaned up and looking fine, I'm not sure he won't think we're crazy."

He shrugged, took a napkin and scrubbed his fingers. "Maybe. But we can tell the alderman exactly where to look. You said he's a good guy, tough on crime, big on his district. This should matter to him."

"If he believes us."

"If he believes us." He tossed the napkin in the garbage, leaned back in his chair. Had the flashing urge to suggest they call the whole thing off, spend the night in bed instead. Not even sex, he realized, feeling the aches in his body. Just sleeping. "Speaking of crazy, some day, we get through this, I might do something else crazy."