The elevator doors slid open. Jason counted three, two, one, and stepped out.

The buzz of conversation hit first, a hundred voices talking and laughing. A short hallway opened to a banquet room dotted with circular tables. White linen, half-empty wine glasses, bright floral centerpieces. Beyond burned the lights of Navy Pier, the Ferris wheel turning in slow circles.

Ronald stood out in the crowd, towering above millionaires that looked at him with the frosted smiles of zoo-goers dubious about the security of the cages. Jason caught his eye, and the big man moved to meet them. His tux pants were two inches too short, and the fabric strained over his biceps. "Thought y'all were going over to that bar."

"We did."

"Get what you need?"

"Yes and no." He grimaced. "Mostly no. How's Billy?"

"Good. Last I saw, little man had discovered the buffet."

Jason's head snapped fast. "He's here?"

Ronald shrugged. "You axed me to keep an eye on him. Where's he gonna be safer – in a roomful of rich white folks, or alone back at the house?"

For Jason's money, Billy would be safest locked in a small room with armed guards outside it, but he saw the point. "Yeah, all right. How 'bout Washington? You know where he is?"

"Holdin' court, I expect."

"Thanks," Jason said. "When this is all over, I hope you'll let me buy you a beer."

The big man shrugged. "You can buy me two, you want to."

The crowd was in that state of upscale levity born of single malt before dinner and pinot noir during, and as Jason wound his way through, people smiled at him, nodded. A woman raised a champagne flute in salute. He had chosen the uniform because it felt more natural than a suit, but he was starting to wonder if the trade-off in visibility was worth it.

"You're a celebrity in that thing."

"Sure," Jason said. "Everybody loves a soldier. These folks just don't like their sons to become one. You see him?"

"No."

Beside the swinging service doors was a dead zone. Jason stepped into it, scanned the room, an eye out for Billy. The crowd was mostly white, with a handful of Hispanics and African Americans. Everyone was dressed the same, and for a moment it seemed vaguely funny, all the world-makers in uniforms of their own. Then, through a break in the crowd, he spotted Washington, arms up in preacher pose, talking to a good-looking black man with a broad smile. "Got him." He squinted. "And I think that's the alderman he's with."

As he started over, he felt his heart quicken, a lifting in his chest. His mouth was dry, his words gone. Everything he cared about depended on the alderman believing them. Jason had an image of Billy splashing down in Lake Michigan, the way the kid would always rocket to the surface in an explosion of bubbles, saying, "Again, again!" He thrust that aside, too.

Washington saw him coming, and a shadow rippled over his face. He stopped in the middle of a sentence, one arm out like he were holding a metaphor. "Jason." Not sounding happy to see him. His eyes flicked up and down Jason's uniform. "I didn't expect you tonight."

"I didn't either." Jason turned to face the alderman, suddenly unsure how to begin.

"Ahh, Alderman Owens, this is Jason Palmer. He's…," Washington paused, "… an old friend of mine."

The alderman hit him with a friendly grin. "What's a respectable soldier doing hanging around with a reprobate like Washington?" They shook, the man's grip firm. "This is Daryl Thomas," he said, gesturing to the man beside him. "He's my right hand and my second in command."

"This is Officer Elena Cruz, with the Chicago Police Department." Saying her name felt like a risk, but he needed her to lend credibility to what he had to say.

"Officer Cruz," the alderman took her hand in that horizontal handshake. "It's a pleasure." But something stirred in his eyes, like he were trying to remember details he'd recently heard. "What brings you out tonight?"

A dozen approaches flashed through Jason's mind, then vanished just as quickly. There was no strategy to follow here. He had to just tell the truth, to tell it as fully as he knew how, and to pray that it was enough. "You do, sir."

"Oh?"

"I need five minutes of your time."

"I'm always available to constituents, especially friends of Washington's. Call the office tomorrow, ask for Daryl. He'll make sure you get set up with an appointment next week."

"I'm sorry, sir. I wasn't clear." Jason straightened his shoulders and put his hands behind his back to stand at something like attention. "I meant I need your time right now. This second."

Washington put a hand on his shoulder. "Maybe this isn't the best-"

"Sir, this is a matter of life and death." Jason didn't risk looking away from Owens, but his thoughts were on Washington. Stick with me, old man. Trust me.

The alderman had the amiable hesitancy of a man expecting a punch line. "Life and death?"

"Yes."

Owens and his assistant shared a look. "I have to admit, I'm curious, Mr. Palmer. What's this about?"

There it was. The simple question, and there was a simple answer to match, a simple, dirty answer. The one they'd discovered in the basement of Michael's ruined bar, in the darkness beneath the city. An explanation for everything: His brother's murder, the hunt for Billy, the gang war, all of it. An answer written in blood and shadow.

"Money, sir. It's about money." He paused. "It's about men who are willing to do anything for money. And they're doing it in your district."

"Jason, what are you-" Washington's voice was thin and nervous.

"I'm sorry." Jason turned to face his mentor. "I'm sorry to do this here, tonight. And I know we've had our disagreements lately, and I understand your side of things. But I'm looking you in the eye and I'm telling you, this is the truth. This is why Michael was murdered."

Washington stared at him appraisingly. The moment stretched, and Jason found himself aware of tiny details, the mismatched angles of hairs in Washington's mustache, the smell of cooling steak permeating the room, the chamber music barely audible under the crush of conversation. The older man hesitated, then nodded slowly.

"Murdered?" Owens spoke softly. "Sergeant Palmer, if this is some sort of joke, I'm going to be very disappointed."

"Sir, believe me when I tell you that I've never been more serious in my life."

The alderman nodded, the motion businesslike and sure. "Then you best go ahead."

Jason took a breath. Words were all he had, but they such a small thing when set against blood. And the debt of blood here ran higher than he could say.

"A few days ago, my brother was murdered in your ward." He raised a hand to forestall sympathy. "Two men came to the bar he owned. They were looking for something, and when he wouldn't give it to them, they killed him."

"What were they looking for?"

"Do you live in Crenwood, sir?"

The alderman looked cagey at the change of subject. "Yes. Halsted and Sixty-first. Aldermen have to live in their districts."

"There's an El station near there."

"About two blocks south. What does this have to do with-"

"I grew up on the south side, but I had a few friends who lived on the north. I'd ride the El up to see them, and it was like going to Oz." He remembered staring at all the clean, bright buildings. No graffiti, no gangs. "My friends' parents liked living in the city because they were close to work, restaurants, shops, you know. All the usual reasons. After I left, I'd always wonder why Crenwood looked so different."

"The north side tends to be college-educated, with white-collar jobs and higher household income. That means better schools, more business, more community resources." The alderman shook his head sadly. "It makes sense, but can you imagine a world where the lower income neighborhoods got more support and better schools?"