"No." He slid his feet under the seat in front of him, tensed his muscles. He could do this much, at least.

"I sound like I was asking?"

"I'm not leaving her with this psycho." He kept his voice calm. "You want to waste me, waste me. But I'm not leaving her alone with him."

Galway sighed. "Jesus Christ."

"Relax, tough guy." DiRisio smiled. "I'll take Palmer in, you see to her."

Galway looked at Jason, who nodded reluctantly. He didn't think Galway would mess with Cruz. Besides, he didn't have much choice. DiRisio opened his door and got out, the car rising on its shocks as his weight left. He opened the rear door, jerked his SIG, and gestured with it.

Jason climbed out of the car, his muscles stiff and screaming. Took a moment to stretch his arms upward. Putting his thoughts in rigid order. Strength and discipline. Whatever lay inside the house for himself, he could take it. Maybe he'd even earned it, mistakes he'd made: Martinez, the Worm, Michael. But Cruz hadn't, and neither had Billy. If the last thing Jason did was save their lives, well, he could die with that.

That was what soldiers did.

"Move."

Jason started up the path. Scarface leered at him, then fell in with DiRisio. The front door to the house was open, framing an inviting foyer painted in creams and tans. Silver-framed mirrors and colorful rugs, a staircase winding up. As he stepped in, Jason risked a glance over his shoulder. The men stood four steps back; out of reach, but too close to miss a shot. Professionals. Jason glared, then continued, the foyer giving way to a high-ceilinged living room. Supple leather chairs, low-slung coffee table, abstract art reflected in pale hardwood floors. A faded red door decorated with Asian characters was set in the far wall, and DiRisio told him to knock.

"Yes." The voice was muffled.

Jason reached for the door handle, willing his body ready, welcoming the old familiar tingle in his fingers. This was as good a spot as any. He visualized the move: open the door, hurl himself through, use the momentum to slam it behind him. It would only hold off DiRisio for a fraction of a second, but that should be enough for Jason to make a play.

Maybe the last of his life.

CHAPTER 43

She swam in some deep fuzzy place, the surface of consciousness rippling above. There were sounds, and someone touching her, but she didn't want to open her eyes. Wanted only to sleep, to plunge back into the abyss.

"Wake up, Elena." A man's voice, close. Jason? The voice was correct, she realized. She should wake up. There were important reasons.

"Come on, wake up."

Things to do. They were in trouble. They had to tell-

She gasped, and her eyes flew open. She was in a car, the backseat, side door open, humid air thick as soup, a shape leaning in the door, a man, one hand propped on the seat, the other reaching. Her purse. The gun was in her purse. She tried to check the seat next to her, found that her hands were bound. The man touched her arm, and she moved without thinking, caught his wrist and twisted, bent it back, spinning her body for leverage.

The man yelped, dropped to his knees. Fumbled at his belt.

Came up with a gun.

"Goddamn it, Cruz!"

She recognized the voice now. "Galway." She stared down the barrel of his gun, let go of his hand. Looked around. She was in the back of the Towncar. Last thing she remembered was hearing footsteps coming fast, turning, seeing a shape colliding with her skull. They'd walked into a trap. "Motherfucker."

Galway snorted. "Sure." He held the gun steady, his finger outside the trigger guard. Good form, prevented accidents but wouldn't slow him down.

"Where's Jason?"

"Inside. Let's go."

"Inside?" Her head was clearing enough for her to know what that meant. The alderman. "He wants to talk to us? Why?"

"You'll need to ask him. Come on, now." His voice was firm but not harsh. "Slide out of the car. Slow."

She didn't want to, but didn't see a choice. She moved gently, taking the opportunity to scan for her purse on the floor. Praying they'd just tossed it after her, not checked it out. But there was no sign of it.

Cruz spun her legs out of the car, awkward and overdressed in the formal attire. Her heels spiked the gravel. Galway backed up a step or two, the pistol out, watching her carefully. She stood up, then suddenly went swimmy, black spots dancing in front of her eyes. Scrabbled at the car roof, found it wet, her bound hands sliding, thighs trembly, the spots multiplying, the world dark, then shit, she was falling.

Strong arms caught her. Her head screamed to attack now, that he couldn't at once prop her up and have the gun trained on her, but her body was shaking, blood thumping hot and heavy. Two serious blows to the head in one day. What were the odds. She closed her eyes, concentrated on deep breaths. This close, she could smell Galway, his familiar cologne like woodsmoke. How many times had she smelled it, rolling with him through Crenwood, bullshitting and philosophizing, listening to him talk about his life, his divorce?

Galway guided her hands to the car door, helped her get a grip, then stepped away as her vision cleared. "Christ, Elena." He shook his head. "Why did you have to get involved?"

"It was my case."

"And I told you how to close it. Would it have been so bad to put everything on a waste like Playboy? Just let one job go? So what if he didn't kill Palmer? You know Playboy has more than one body on his resume." He shook his head. "I never wanted you to get caught up in this."

"It was my case," she repeated.

Galway snorted. "Yeah."

Her vision had steadied, and she looked around. A house, shit, a mansion more like. Boxy Bauhaus-knockoff nestled under ancient oak trees. The air was fetid with the smell of growing things.

"You feeling better?"

She looked at him, the stern face now wearing thin, in need of a shave, with pits under his eyes and a faint twitch to his lip. The pistol at his side, like he just happened to be holding it. "Why are you doing this, Tom?" He didn't reply, and she took a careful step, then another. Her strength seemed to be returning, though pain was coming with it, a deep ache sloshing between her temples. "Was it money?" The high heels were the wrong choice, near impossible in the wet gravel. She stepped to the lawn, turned to face him, bent a knee to hike a leg up and undo the strap of one shoe. "I know you've got bills, your son. But I never would have figured you to go bad."

He shook his head. "Quit stalling."

She dropped the shoe to the ground, put her bare foot in the wet grass, bent her knee to work on the other. "There were always rumors. That guy shakes down pimps, this one freelances for a dealer, the other steals cash from crime scenes. But it was always lousy cops waiting out their pension. You, you're a great cop. What happened?"

"Elena, look." The lights from the porch framed his shrug in silhouette. "I'm sorry you're mixed up in this. I really am. But cut the true confessions crap, okay?"

She tossed the other heel. "Are you really going to shoot me? Your partner?" She took a step toward him, bound hands low, not threatening. "I know you've done some bad things, but are you willing to go that far?"

"I haven't shot anybody." He spoke quickly.

"What about down by the river?" Maybe guilt would shake him. "You shot at me then."

"No." His voice firm. "That was DiRisio. I saved your life. He would have hit if I hadn't stopped him."

Hope flared in her chest. Maybe they could work this out yet. "You see? I knew you were still police." She took another step. "Let's figure this out together, cop to cop. There's got to be a way out."