Jason smiled. Felt himself liking this guy. "That'd be a better world than this one. Because I agree – those are the neighborhoods where people want to live. I'm not an expert, but as I understand it, that's why when it became popular to live in the city again, people chose neighborhoods like Lincoln Park and Old Town. And when they got crowded and prices went up, folks started to push further out, into Wicker Park and Lakeview and Andersonville. Neighborhoods that were still rough around the edges, where they could afford a flat or a carriage house, a place to raise their children. Developers came in, and then retail, and everything got nice and safe. Now the same thing is happening in Bridgeport and Rogers Park."

"Gentrification is a thorny issue." He sounded bored.

"But it's an opportunity, too, right? The trick is being ahead of the game. You need to buy before the neighborhood hits. If you really want to make money, you do it somewhere other people weren't even looking."

"I suppose." Owens glanced at his watch.

"Mr. Alderman," Daryl Thomas nudged his boss. "You should probably work the room before people start to leave."

Cruz looked at Thomas with her eyes narrowed, but Jason didn't have time to wonder what it meant. "Sir, wait-"

"Sergeant Palmer." Owens put a hand on his shoulder. "I assure you, this is a problem I've put a lot of thought into. And I'd love to hear your take on it. But why don't we talk another time, when we can really roll up our sleeves?"

"Because if you don't listen right now we may not live to see you again."

Owens paused, stared over the edge of rimless glasses. "That's a little melodramatic, isn't it?"

"Ask my brother." Jason spoke softly.

The alderman's smile curdled. "Sergeant, I'm sincerely sorry for your loss, but I'm not sure where this is going. Are you saying your brother was killed because of some sort of real estate scheme?"

"Yes. And not just him." He took a breath, then launched into it. "Sir, someone is using every means possible to lower property values in Cren-wood so they can buy it up against its eventual gentrification."

Owens gave him a long look. His eyes searched Jason's.

Then he broke into laughter.

"I'm serious, sir."

"So am I." Owens chuckled. "This is Crenwood you're talking about. Do you know how low property values are already?"

"I do." Cruz spoke firmly. "Sir, I've worked Crenwood for a dozen years. It was always poor, but it used to be a solid neighborhood of working families. Now it's a war zone. And honest people who wouldn't have dreamed of selling a decade ago are taking fifty cents on the dollar."

"Getting worse is in the nature of things." But the alderman stroked at his chin, his eyes narrowed. "Who are these alleged people?"

Jason grimaced. "We know some of them, sir, but not all of them. We've been over legal documents, real estate contracts, shipping manifests, documentation of holding companies. There weren't any personal names, but there was plenty to trace everything back to a source. That's what the men who killed him were looking for." He didn't mention that they didn't have the evidence anymore. One step at a time. Get the guy onboard, then he could tell the whole story. "And they came after us, too."

"What happened?"

"They ran our car into the river." He kept his gaze level.

"Ran your car-"

"Into the river. Off the Thirty-fifth Street bridge. That's how Officer Cruz cut her head." He gestured, and she pulled her bangs aside to show the bruise, still visible under makeup. "We can take you there if you'd like, show you where we went over."

The alderman hesitated. "You said these people are using every means to drive prices down. What does that mean?" Jason felt a thrill of hope. The alderman had said these people, not these alleged people.

"Mr. Alderman, what I'm about to tell you sounds far-fetched," Cruz said, her voice soft but steady. "Sir, the people behind this are fostering a gang war in Crenwood. They're keeping the Gangster Disciples and the Latin Saints at each other's throats. Then they're torching specific properties and laying the blame at the gangs' feet. And to make sure that the war stays hot, they're arming both sides. Last night we watched two of these men sell submachine guns to a group of Latin Saints."

"Submachine guns?" The alderman's eyes widened. A faint sheen of sweat lit his brow. "Who was selling them? Who are you talking about?"

Cruz hesitated. Jason met her eyes, thinking, Moment of truth.

"One of them was an arms dealer named Anthony DiRisio," Cruz said, speaking slowly. "And the other was a police sergeant named Tom Galway."

The alderman stared at her open-mouthed. The noise of the party continued, but it felt far away. Jason's fingers tingled, and spiders climbed his spine. He could see every face in the room. Rich men with sagging bellies, taut-skinned women wearing jewelry that cost more than he'd made in a year of soldiering, all talking and laughing and making deals in slow motion, a twisting dance of flesh and intent.

"This doesn't make any sense." Owens looked back and forth between them.

"It does if you're the right kind of person. If you're rich and want to get richer and don't care about the people in your way."

"But why Crenwood? With the gangs, the violence, the blight, we're hardly the next Lincoln Park."

"Not the next, no. But Chicago is getting full. People keep moving in from the suburbs, and the hot new area to buy keeps pushing outward. It's mostly gone north, but that can't last forever. Besides, there's another reason." Jason saw someone move in his peripheral vision, spun in time to see two men embrace, slapping each other on the back. Jumping at shadows. "It's why I asked where you live."

Owens squinted at him, his hand stroking his chin. "The El."

"Exactly. All the places I've mentioned, the ones that gentrified, they were on the train lines. Like those friends I used to visit. Their parents wanted to live in the city, but it's a pain to drive to work. Traffic is brutal and parking is expensive. So people want property along the mass transit lines. And once all the neighborhoods on the northbound trains are too expensive or too far-"

"The South Side will start to look like prime real estate. And if someone had pushed property values low enough to buy a lot of land, especially around the trains, they'd make a heap of money." The alderman turned to look out the window. The lights of Navy Pier burned parti-colored, the edges shimmering where they met the water. He folded his hands behind his back and stood straight, staring into the night.

"If what you're saying it true, then a lot of innocent people are being hurt." Owens turned back around. "And if it's not, you're asking me to commit political suicide. Accuse a CPD sergeant of arming gangbangers? Start digging into real estate records for the whole ward, hounding investors, maybe even donors?" He shook his head. "I'd be making enemies I couldn't possibly take on."

Jason's pulse beat his forehead as he watched the alderman make up his mind. And why not? Who were they to him? Nothing but strangers with wild theories.

"Sir-" He opened his mouth, willing the words to come. Not sure what they could possibly be, what could make a difference. Realizing that if he didn't say the right thing, right now, he was going to fail Michael one final time.

"Edward." Washington had been so silent through the last few minutes Jason had almost forgotten he was there. Now, seeing the man straighten, he felt a flush of panic. Washington looked at Jason, then at Cruz, and finally over to the alderman. "Sir, you're wasting time."

Oh god. Jason scrabbled for words to stop him.

"How's that, Dr. Matthews?" Owens's face was unreadable.