“Uhh… yeah. Sure. I’ll tell you the moment I hear anything.”

“Good. That’s all.” Victor turned away, walked to the edge of the building. He stood with his toes hanging off, hands clasped behind his back. Chicago spread out in front of him, a wave of tall buildings breaking into a dark froth of two-flats and trees that extended all the way to the rising sun. Clean morning wind teased at his suit jacket. He took a deep breath, tasted the air.

From behind, one of his men said, “You really think he had anything to do with it?”

Victor glanced back, surprised. “Thought never entered my mind.”

CHAPTER 18

WHAT WAS IT with women and their showers?

She had ten kinds of shampoo and conditioner, body lotion in tropical flavors, a couple of things of exfoliant, whatever that was, a washcloth, a loofah, two bright pink razors, and a scrub thing. But bar soap? No.

Mitch settled on coconut-lime body gel. You were probably supposed to put it on the scrub thing first, but that seemed like too presumptuous an intimacy. He grinned at that, considering he’d touched and licked every inch of her last night. Still. He squirted the stuff on his hands, rubbed his armpits, his shoulders, his crotch.

He felt better than good, filled with a sense that everything was going to work out OK. He’d always envied that in other people. Happier, better-looking, richer people. They had a basic belief that the world would line up the way they wanted, and it usually did.

Well, now it was his turn.

Don’t get cocky. You’re not out of trouble yet. Standing under the showerhead, hot water plastering his hair, running down his back, he thought through it again. Checking and rechecking, for the hundredth time.

Best he could tell, once they finished what they had to do today, they’d be clear. As long as they stayed cool and everyone did what they were supposed to, nothing should tie them to last night.

Once things had quieted down, they could tell the others about them. Jenn was nervous, he could understand that; hell, so was he. But now that she had finally seen him, he was going to do his damnedest to make sure it worked out.

Starting with them not getting caught. Best get moving. He reluctantly shut off the water, slid open the shower door, and reached for the towel Jenn had left, a big puffy thing. Where was the best place to abandon a car? A parking lot? Or maybe a rough neighborhood would be better. That made sense. He’d do a little Googling, find out where the most cars where stolen. Then run the Caddy through a detail shop to be sure there weren’t any traces, leave it with the windows open and the keys in the ignition. Even if the police found it first, it wouldn’t be a disaster. They’d just trace it back to the drug dealer-

Holy shit.

How had he missed that?

SHE WAS LEANING ON THE COUNTER, drinking a Diet Coke and thinking about that feeling of impending disaster, wondering what it meant. Were they being stupid even now? Should they go straight to the police and tell them everything? A big part of her wanted to, wanted to confess and get absolution, a detective standing in for a priest.

Absolution? You killed someone last night.

The liquid in her mouth went bitter, and she set the soda down, listened to the hum of the hot-water pipes. Mitch had asked if she minded if he showered, and while yeah, she kind of did, she didn’t know how to say that. It wasn’t that she wanted him gone for good or anything. She just wanted a little time to herself. Time to lay on the couch and stare at the ceiling and think about everything, the money and the alley and the dead man and Mitch and Alex. It was a lot for a girl to process.

“Jenn!”

Even muffled by the walls, she could hear his excitement. She started for the bedroom fast and had no sooner opened the door than they almost collided, him naked and dripping, the towel on his shoulders.

“Whoa.” She glanced down, then back up. Smiled at him. “Hello there.”

He actually blushed as he wrapped the towel around his slim waist. For a second, she had a flash memory of Alex. It was hard not to compare their bodies, muscles and tattoos against pale and somewhat awkward flesh. Not that it was awkward last night.

“What’s up?”

“We forgot, we totally forgot about it. How could we miss it?”

“What?”

“The car. We were so caught up in everything-”

“Slow down. What are you talking about?”

“He was there to sell drugs, right? But he wasn’t carrying anything.” He cocked his head. “So where would they be?”

She felt a moment of panic, then a cool revelation. “In his-”

“Car. Exactly.” He ran his hands up through his hair, slicked it back. “I think maybe we better take a look before we get it stolen, eh?”

“ALL RIGHT. Just look normal, like this is our car.”

“It is our car.”

Her morbid joke surprised him, and he laughed through his nose, then opened the door of the Eldorado.

The seats were leather, and the interior spotless. How did people do that? He never meant for his Honda to look like a rolling junk heap, filled with printed directions and crushed soda cans and a tattered map. It just sort of happened.

“Anything in the glove box?”

She opened it, dug around. “Owner’s manual, sunglasses. Registration.”

“Let me see.”

The name on the form was David Crooch. As he stared at it, the letters machine-printed, he had a weird sensation, guilt and fear mixed together. David Crooch. That was the name of the man he had-

Push it down.

He folded the paper, stuck it in his pocket. It was getting easier and easier to ignore the things that tried to claim him. Mitch spun, looked in the backseat. An umbrella on the floor. Other than that, nothing. “Let’s try the trunk.”

A milk crate with emergency supplies: a bottle of tire-repair spray, a coil of rope, and a blanket. A lug wrench. And a black duffel bag, about the size to take to the gym. He’d gone his whole life without giving two thoughts to duffel bags, and now they were popping up everywhere. He started to unzip it.

“Maybe we should do this subtly?” She nodded to a mother pushing a stroller past them.

“Right.” He hoisted it to his shoulder. It was neither heavy nor light, and something plastic clanked inside it. Mitch shut the trunk, and the two of them climbed back into the Cadillac. The silence that fell seemed to radiate from the bag.

“Let’s see what a quarter-million dollars in drugs looks like.” He unzipped the bag and split it open.

Inside were four bottles. He reached in, pulled one out. It was rigid plastic and felt like it might crack if dropped. It was filled with a thick, dark liquid. He passed it to her, took out another. The same. Mitch fumbled around in the bag, but that was it, just the four bottles. “Huh.”

“What is it?” She leaned toward the window, holding it toward the sunlight. “Looks like motor oil.”

“Liquid heroin? Some kind of designer drug?”

“What was that club drug that was really big a couple of years ago? One of the alphabet drugs, not E or K.”

“K is ketamine. Horse tranquilizer. I don’t think it’s a liquid.”

“G, that was it. GHB? Something like that. I remember reading an article that said it was the new roofie.” She rolled the bottle, and the liquid inside moved sluggishly, leaving a trail around the side. “But it doesn’t seem like there’s enough here to be worth that much.”

“Maybe it’s something they use to process drugs?” He unscrewed the top of one bottle. Cautiously, he leaned forward and took an experimental sniff. It had a sharp chemical odor, nothing he recognized. He held it out to her, and she took a tentative whiff. “Any idea-”