He would mourn again. He would cry again. All his life, he supposed. But now someone else needed him more than he needed himself. Practicing his smile, he unlocked the bedroom door and went downstairs.

Cruz was in the kitchen, talking on the phone. He tapped his wrist, and she nodded. Behind him, footsteps echoed down the stairs. His nephew looked fragile in an Izod shirt and slacks. Tendrils of purple and yellow marked his forehead. His concussion had messed with his short-term memory, as they often did, and Billy couldn't remember anything later than sitting under the table at the party, smashing cities of hors d'oeuvres with the toy that had been his father's, and then his uncle's, and now his.

Strange to think it, but in an odd way, DiRisio had done Billy a favor.

Billy stared up at him with wide eyes. Michael's brown eyes.

"Hey, kiddo. How you doing?"

"Okay." Billy said, shuffling his feet awkwardly.

"It's okay to feel sad." He knelt in front of his nephew. "I do."

Billy bit one lip. "Me too." The boy looked at him like it were a headache, like Jason had a pill that could make it go away. He felt that old panic, the instinct that had sent him running most of his life. The one that saw responsibility the way other people saw an onrushing train. He had an urge to ruffle the boy's hair and then go fetch the car.

Instead he took his hand. "You know what your dad would say when I was sad, though?"

"What?"

Jason leaned forward, motioned Billy closer, then closer still. When the boy's face was only inches from his, Jason dodged in, his face moving fast, planted his lips against Billy's neck, and blew a raspberry against the soft skin. Billy shrieked and squirmed, wriggling away, smiling, his hands furiously wiping his neck. "Gross!"

Jason smiled back. "I always thought so."

"I got your package." There was anger in Division Chief James Donlan's voice. "I know you're pissed at me, but this is a lousy way to play."

"My package?" Cruz switched the phone from one ear to the other.

"Real estate contracts, shipping manifests, payroll logs, bank account info for Tom Galway, Alderman Owens, some guy named Anthony DiRisio. It'll take the lawyers weeks to backtrack it all. And with Adam Kent involved, what was already a major news item just got escalated to the story of the damn century. Bitchy of you, Elena."

"What are you talking about?"

"Christ and all his spotted saints. I'm talking about you sending this to every news outfit in the city."

"I didn't send any packages." She felt like she was half a step behind. "I know what you're talking about, but the copy I had ended up in the river. Is there a mailing label?"

He paused, and she heard the rustle of papers. "Huh. No. No postmark. It must have been hand-delivered last night."

She closed her eyes, rubbed her temples. Score another point for their mysterious informant. Stories of the gun battle and fire at Adam Kent's house had been all over the news. The media had been having a field day broadcasting theories as to how a CPD sergeant, two known mercenaries with extensive criminal records, and one of Chicago's wealthiest men all ended up dead in what they dubbed "The Millionaire Massacre."

Someone must have decided they wanted the truth out there. She could understand Donlan's ire. It was a PR nightmare. Dirty politicians, dirty cops, and a forced acknowledgement of the seriousness of the gang problems ripping apart the South Side. All heightened by a lurid whiff of conspiracy. The story would dominate dinner tables and bar rooms for a long while to come.

She tried to feel bad about it, but the feeling just wouldn't come. "Sounds like you've got your work cut out for you."

"You don't have any idea," he said. "I'm slated to be fed to the media this afternoon. But first I have to explain to the superintendent how such a colossal fuck-up happened on my watch."

"Yeah, well, cue the violins," she said. Jason walked into the kitchen, straightening his tie. He smiled at her, tapped his wrist where a watch would be if he wore one. She nodded. "I have to get going."

"Wait." She heard a creak like Donlan's chair leaning back, and could picture him in his office, broadcloth armor and a bleached smile, the smell of Dunhills. "You were there, weren't you? At the Massacre."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"I could always have you arrested and questioned."

"I could always bring a libel suit against the department for labeling me an assassin in the press."

He paused, then heaved a sigh. "Look, I'm sorry. For everything, I mean. What happened between us, and afterwards. And for dropping your name on TV. I didn't have a choice."

"I think you did."

"Okay. I deserve that. I know things got messed up. But I still consider you a friend. And one hell of a cop."

She twisted the phone cord around her fingers. "That would mean more if I didn't think you wanted something from me."

"Don't be like that."

Cruz said nothing, content to wait him out.

"Okay, fine, you win. I'm a prick, all right? Yes, I want something." His breath heavy. "This whole thing, it's a mess, and there's no upside to it. But if you were involved, we could position you as a hero. The undercover cop who busted an arms ring and helped stop a gang war. That turns it around, makes this into a great story."

She laughed. "You're asking me to bail you out?"

"The department, not just me. There's no reason to get personal or political here."

It finally snapped, the last strand of affection or respect for him. She smiled to see it go. "Remember our breakfast the other morning?"

"Of course."

"Like you said then, this is Chicago. Everything is political."

"Wait-"

"Listen very closely, James. I have something I want you to hear."

She hung up.

The ceremony was hard, but it was nice, too. The minister had known Michael and Washington both, and described them with humor and warmth, telling stories of projects they had worked together, of their unflagging devotion to the community. Jason had tipped him a hundred to play "Hallelujah," the Jeff Buckley cover of the Leonard Cohen song, one of Michael's favorites. As the notes rang over the speakers, Jason closed his eyes and saw his brother smiling behind the bar, saw Washington smoking a cigar, a book on his lap.

Afterwards, they went to what had been Washington's house. With the money from Kent, he and Ronald planned to convert it into a full-time gang recovery center. Jason didn't think he'd stay on to run the thing, but he owed it to his brother and father to finish what they had started.

Ronald moved through the room slowly, his arm in a gigantic cast. "That's the fourth time I been shot," he'd told Jason earlier. "Wish these dudes would get it through their heads I ain't going nowhere." He clapped his good arm around the shoulders of friends and former gangbangers. The tension that usually filled the house was gone. Today all were united in loss.

Boys and men ate chicken casserole off paper plates and drank Kool-Aid and beer. They traded sad nods and somber stories. The Oscar kid took Jason aside and told him how Michael had helped him get his driver's license, taught him on his own car, so that Oscar could take a job out in Melrose Park. Billy moved amidst shopowners and former killers, school teachers and cops. Someone put on music, and Ronald set out a box of Washington's cigars. The air turned blue.

Jason shook hands and listened to stories, nodded and smiled. Realizing again how little of his brother he had known, how he'd seen only a certain side. But realizing also that the side he'd seen was one that others hadn't.

To them, Michael was near sainthood, a guy who fought for his neighborhood at his own expense, larger than life. Jason was the only one who knew that his brother could also be a hot-tempered, arrogant prick. There was something sweet in the knowledge. He loved his brother all the more for knowing him to be human.