Jackson stood with arms crossed, watching an evidence technician as she knelt beside the body. Nolan could smell it from here. Floaters were notorious. The scent lingered in your nostrils for hours, even after a shower.

“You guys bring me one of them burgers?” Jackson turned to them, nodded to Matthews, shook hands with Nolan.

“Shit, no,” Matthews said. “You mess with a man’s lunch, you’re on your own.”

Nolan ignored them, moving over to get a better look at the body. He didn’t know the evidence tech, a woman maybe thirty-five, neat brown hair, but she clearly took her work seriously. She had the dead man’s arm laid out on the cold concrete as she painted his fingertips with black ink. The victim had washerwoman wrinkles on his hands, and she held each finger firmly to soak it with ink. It felt intimate.

When it came to bodies, Nolan had a method. He didn’t like to start with the face. Better to begin with the impersonal parts, the limbs, the clothing. That way you could look without emotion. There was a trick to being able to screen your vision, see only a part of the whole.

The arms showed no tracks, no sign of junk abuse. A tattoo marked the inner forearm, the ace of spades. The skin had started to get the green-brown tinge of a body that had been in the water a couple of days, and was marked by typical postmortem trauma, the result of scraping against God knew what on the river bottom.

His gaze circled inward. Black jeans, boots. A T-shirt that might once have been white, now dingy with river water and blood. Gases had swollen the belly – that was what made it float. A ragged wound gaped in his chest. At least the rats hadn’t been at it yet. Sometimes with a body out of the river, the only way to find a wound was to look where they’d eaten.

Finally, the facts straight in his mind, cataloged and filed, he looked at the man’s face.

Matthews joined him, wrinkling his nose. “I hate floaters.”

“He’s pretty, huh?” Jackson said. “Any takers that it’s homicide?”

Matthews knelt down. “He was shot somewhere else.”

“The lividity, yeah.” Jackson directed his voice toward the evidence tech. “You able to pull clean prints?”

She laid the arm down gently before breaking her quiet communion with the dead. “I won’t know for sure until we try to find a match. It’s tricky when a body’s been in water.”

“How long you figure he floated?”

She shrugged. “The skin hasn’t started sloughing. A couple days? The medical examiner can say for sure.”

Jackson nodded, clapping his hands together and rubbing them for warmth. “Man, I hate this weather. Not even Halloween and it’s cold enough to snow.” His voice echoed and rebounded under the concrete of the overpass. “Nolan, you’re pretty quiet. What do you think?”

“Run the prints.” Nolan kept his voice low as he stared at the man’s face. “But that’s Patrick Connelly.”

25

Evan had played him.

Knuckles white on the steering wheel, Danny remembered the previous afternoon in the construction trailer, the scorched smell of old coffee, Evan’s feet propped up on the counter. Saying that he would make the call. Saying it too quickly. It had rung an alarm in Danny’s head, but he’d let it go.

Dammit.

The guy had known then what he was going to do. Been planning it. Things had never been under control.

You got it, kid. Welcome back to the dance.

After the disastrous phone call, he’d found himself at loose ends. He wanted a place to think, and had set out for a bar in his neighborhood, but when he got there the idea of being so close to home felt sleazy, like bringing a mistress to the marriage bed. He’d gotten back in the truck, planning to head for another neighborhood, but ending up just driving, restlessly circling the city. He’d been doing it an hour now. Driving and talking to himself, punctuating his sentences with slaps to the wheel, going faster as the anger simmered in his belly.

No matter how careful he was, how much thought he put into it, Evan was a tidal wave, an earthquake, a tornado. A force of nature. Danny pressed down harder on the accelerator, feeling the buzz of pavement beneath his tires. You could rage at a whirlwind. You could pull your hair and scream logic and good sense. But in the end, if you stood in its path, you took your chances. Cars blurred as he hurtled toward the skyline, weaving between lanes. There was no reasoning with a force of nature, no relying on its judgment. He swung left around a Mercedes. He’d hitched himself to the cyclone, and there was no way back.

A horn screamed beside him, the Mercedes squealing in panic as he merged into its lane, his quarter panel nearly against the rounded hood. He yanked the steering wheel back, too hard, the tires screeching, and for a moment he thought he might lose it, end up on two wheels and then in a slow, stuttering roll, this whole drama brought to a sudden close, but his nerves cut in, and he eased the wheel back, turning gently, cars all around him honking. Back in his lane, he took deep breaths, ignoring the angry look and middle finger from the driver of the Mercedes. Tapped the brakes to test them, and when they felt solid, started to slow.

Too much, too fast.

He flipped his hazards and worked his way over. He didn’t stop in the grandma lane, but edged all the way off the road, the tires humming and buzzing across the divots cut in the pavement as he stopped. He killed the engine and squeezed the steering wheel, the silence punctuated only by the rhythmic whir of cars blowing by.

His father sat in the passenger seat.

He looked the same, just the way he had when he’d visited Cook County Prison, the last time Danny saw him alive. His face weather-beaten and lined, but proud. Hard. The hands rough, the circular-saw scar white across the bridge of his thumb. A cigarette clenched in the corner of his mouth, firm and straight as the axle of the world. He stared at Danny, and that look came into his eyes, the measuring one. Appraising.

Judging.

Dad…

In his mind, he heard the squeal of tires. Imagined Dad pumping at the brakes, trying to regain control, a cigarette still between his lips.

Imagined the decision. The choice, and its consequences.

The slow motion squeal of tires. The shatter of glass and banshee wail as steel kissed concrete. The way the truck had jerked up on its front wheels, fast at first but then slowing, pausing, maybe holding for a terrible instant before toppling over. The strange silence – so quiet, so embarrassingly quiet – after the truck came to rest upside down.

Dad. I…

In his mind, he could see the disapproval in his father’s eyes. Nine years dead, and still disapproving.

Danny shook his head. The skyline twinkled under velvet indigo skies. A semi passed in a rush of air that rocked the Explorer from side to side. Without the heater, the air grew swiftly colder.

Danny turned off the hazards, started the truck, and got back on the road.

The low thrum of blues bass rolled up his spine as he slotted a coin into the phone and punched the numbers.

“You’ve reached Danny and Karen, we’re not in right now…”

Before, he’d thought he’d go home after the job. He’d imagined he might ease the pain of waiting by reminding himself of the life, and the woman, that his efforts were meant to protect. Instead he stood in a rib joint on Halsted, listening to the accusatory beep of his own answering machine.

“Hey, Karen. Just wanted to let you know that I’m going to be late tonight. You know, work-” There was a fumbling noise.

“Danny.” She sounded out of breath. He thought of her wrapped in a towel and running for the phone, and the ease with which he could picture it stung him. He adopted a haggard tone as he told her how work was keeping him late. How he was sorry about it. She was silent on the other end of the phone, and he could imagine her biting her lip.