"I wish," he said, and brought the gun up to shoulder height, the barrel at her torso. "But I saved your life once already."

She stiffened, the backs of her arms cold, goosebumps breaking out on her shoulders. Overhead, a wisp of gray clouds parted to reveal a tarnished silver moon.

"You want to know what it was? You really want to know?" His eyes flashed, and he flexed the fingers of his gun hand, tapping them against the grip. "I got tired. Tired of hauling in fourteen-year-old kids for murder counts. Tired of trying to track down their parents, finding Mommy three sheets at eleven A.M. and Daddy ten-years gone. Tired of standing over different teenaged corpses on the same corners. I mean, that corner at Fifty-fourth and Damen, you know how many bodies we had there last year? Five. On one worthless corner. Kids dying over ten feet of cement in front of a gas station." He paused. "I used to believe that we could change things on the street. I used to think the work meant something. But it doesn't. We're not cops. We're zookeepers. And I got tired."

"So you figured you may as well make a buck?" She didn't even try to keep the acid from her voice.

He shook his head. "That's not why."

"But there was money."

"Of course there was money. But it wasn't why. I did it because…" He blew a long breath, looked around, as if the words he needed were over her shoulder. "One night I stared at the mirror and asked myself if the world wouldn't maybe be a little bit better if somebody burned Crenwood to the ground and rebuilt it with a Starbucks on every corner and a nice private school. If we forgot 'political correctness' and 'giving everyone a fair shot' and just got rid of the assholes. And if we had to hurt a few people to do that, well, they were already so busy hurting each other I couldn't see the difference."

In the silence that fell she could hear the faint patter of water dripping between the oak boughs. She supposed she ought to be horrified at what he'd said, but she'd been a cop for too long. He hadn't said anything they hadn't all thought at one time or another. No way around it, prowling war-zone streets day after day. She couldn't refute him without lying, couldn't agree and remain true to herself. So finally, she just said, "Don't do this."

Galway stared with sad Irish eyes. He looked like an upscale drunk, one of those dissipated men that spent their afternoons in hotel bars. "It's too late. I'm in too deep." He shook his head. "Besides, I tried to keep you clear. I told you how to fix it. I practically begged you to stay out. You ignored me. There's nothing I can do now."

"Tom-"

"Let's go," he said, and something in his expression told her he'd made up his mind. She grit her teeth, turned around, started for the house. The gravel was rough and wet against her bare feet.

"You know," she said, "somebody sent that evidence. Whoever it was, they're going to try again. You may not be able to stop him next time. And if that happens, you think the alderman is going to go down alone?"

"The alderman?" He sounded amused. "Look around you. This house ran four, five mill. You think he can pony that? And all the property in Crenwood, even cheap, it adds up. Owens doesn't have that kind of cash. And he doesn't have the brains to come up with a plan like this. Hell, without that assistant of his, I doubt Alderman Owens would know how to lace his Stacy Adams."

She paused, turned. Perplexed.

"Elena, we don't work for the alderman." Galway spoke slowly, like he was explaining to a child. "He works for us."

CHAPTER 44

Jason froze midlunge, forward motion checked by surprise. He'd only seen the man behind the desk once before, but it hadn't been five hours ago. Seen him from Washington's living room, standing beside Ronald, the two of them staring out the front window at a man who could give away a half million dollars and not miss it. "You're Adam Kent."

The man behind the desk narrowed his eyes, looked past Jason to DiRisio. "Did you-"

"Of course not." DiRisio's voice was calm. "He's a smart kid. I told you that."

Kent nodded, sighed. "Ah well." He unbuttoned his tuxedo jacket, soft and expensive looking, not the shiny fabric of a rental.

Jesus. He was at the party, too. And on the heels of that, Of course he was. He threw the party.

Jason's mind whirled. It didn't make any sense. This guy had given Washington all that money to save former gangbangers. And at the same time he was arming them, setting them against each other? Burning out houses and buying up property?

Kent gestured to a chair. "Mr. Palmer. Have a seat."

Jason hesitated, then started forward, eyes scanning. Studying the battlefield. A large office. Padded chairs fronting an open fireplace big enough to park a car. August, the rest of the city gasping and sweating, and Kent had a fire battling his air-conditioning. In the center of the room lay an elegant desk of pale wood fronted by three angular chairs, the lines modern and uncomfortable. Jason spotted his cell phone and wallet along with Cruz's purse, sitting on the center of the desk. Behind it stood French doors leading to the backyard, the darkness outside dotted with landscape lighting.

He sat on the edge of his chair, watching DiRisio and Scarface take up guard positions. After a moment, Kent came around the desk to lean against the edge, his posture casual and friendly. He looked like a bank manager. Medium jaw, plain features, salt-and-pepper hair. Ronald had nailed it: You'd walk right past him on the street, never think a thing.

Then Kent crossed his arms, blew a breath and said the last thing Jason expected. "Mr. Palmer, I owe you an apology."

If the man had screamed and raged, Jason would have been prepared. If he'd made threats of torture, promised pain beyond bearing, he would have been ready. But this, this left him speechless.

"First, I'm sorry for the way you were brought here. The circumstances demanded it, but it's a bit crude. Which leads to my second apology." He laced his fingers in a gesture of contrition. "I am so very sorry for what happened to your brother."

Jason's mouth fell open.

Kent continued. "Anthony is overzealous. All I asked him to do was talk to your brother. The last thing I want to do is hurt people like Michael. It's bad for business."

Jason looked back and forth, feeling like he was racing to keep up. Scarface looked at him impassively. DiRisio picked at something in his ear. If what his boss said bothered him, he didn't show it.

"Business?" Jason could feel the heat rising in his cheek. "You mean inciting a gang war for profit? Burning a neighborhood?"

"Yes." Kent's voice was matter-of-fact. "Look, when a house is infested with termites, you don't put up new drywall. You tear it down and start over."

This man gave Washington a half million to help gangbangers? Then the last piece clicked into place. It made sense, in a twisted sort of way. "I get it."

"What's that?"

"Why you helped Washington. You borrowed a play from the CIA. Because you're a white guy from the suburbs, and all of Crenwood looks the same to you. You need on-the-ground intelligence. Right?"

Kent nodded. "Washington is a good man, and I'm happy to help him help those boys. Especially since that also means I can learn everything I need to know."

"Help him?" Jason sputtered. "You used him to commit murder."

He shook his head, sucked air through his teeth. "No. 'Murder' is an emotional word. It's petty, and small. You may not like my methods, but I'm building something. When I'm done, Crenwood will be a safe neighborhood, the kind of place people want to raise kids. And yes, before you bring it up, of course I'll make a lot of money in the process. But the world will be better. I'm a businessman and a pragmatist, but I'm not a monster. I don't even have a moustache."