“Danny Carter?”

“Yes.”

“Is he there?”

“No. He’s been busy lately, so I thought I’d see if I could help.”

“I’d really like to speak to him. Do you have another number?”

“Not really. He’s in construction, you know, and he’s away from his desk a lot.” He had a mobile, of course, but she didn’t say that. She’d indulge her curiosity, but not to the extent of putting Danny in an awkward position.

“I see. What about when he gets home?”

“I’m not sure when that will be.”

There was a pause. “Ms. Moss, does Danny know you’re calling?”

Her heart hammered louder. “No.”

Another pause, then a sigh. “You don’t happen to know a guy named Patrick Connelly?”

Of course. This must be all about Patrick. Relief flooded through her, and she almost laughed at herself, at her foolish worries. Some part of her had actually started to imagine that Danny was the one in trouble, that Danny had done something irreparable.

“Sure, I know Patrick. Is something wrong?”

“Well…” He paused, one beat that stretched to two, and then three, and she felt spiders of dread crawling back up her arms. “I’m sorry to have to tell you. He’s dead.”

Her fingers went cold, and she felt like she was going to drop the phone. “That can’t be. He was just here for dinner.”

“He was?” Nolan sounded surprised. “When?”

“I don’t know. A week and a half?” What had happened? Some accident on his bike, maybe? She knew he didn’t wear a helmet half the time. Unbidden, an image rose in her mind, Patrick splayed and broken across the hood of a car.

“So he was a friend of yours?” Nolan asked.

“Of ours, yes. Will you tell me what happened?”

There was another pause. “He was killed last week. Maybe Monday or Tuesday.”

“Killed?” She tried to think of another way Nolan might have meant the word. “Do you mean – what do you mean?”

“He was shot.” He paused. “I know that’s hard to hear. But I think it might be good for us to talk in person.”

Her mind felt numb, woolly. Patrick murdered.

“Ms. Moss?”

“Sorry. Now?”

“You live up near Wrigley, right? I can be there in an hour or so.”

“No.” The word came out fast, unplanned. She didn’t want the detective in their home. “I’ll meet you somewhere.”

“Where?”

She gave him directions to a restaurant on Belmont, and promised to meet him in an hour. When she hung up the phone, the quiet stung her ears. Thoughts came quick and chaotic. Who would shoot Patrick? He was just a boy, more mischief in him than evil. She knew he stole cars, that he robbed people, but still, she more easily pictured him in a tree house than in a coffin.

Then the next thought. Danny. This would tear his heart out.

She wandered into the bathroom, took off her clothes and started the shower, thinking it would give her a place to cry. While it heated, she sat on the bed, staring out the window at the brick wall three feet away, thinking about the detective and feeling dread tighten her stomach. Detective Sean Nolan. She tried to put a face to the name, imagined a young Pacino, eager, a cop on the make. Why had she agreed to meet him? It felt like meeting a plague bearer. He lived in a world she and Danny had left behind; what if the traces that lingered on him infected the life they had built for themselves?

And she had called him. There was cruel irony there. Some part of her had been afraid that maybe, just possibly, Danny had involved himself in that old life again. But it turned out she was the one who had opened the door to let it in.

Get a grip, Karen. Patrick would be dead either way.

In the end, she spent forty minutes going from the bed to the couch, the couch to the kitchen, pacing and anxious, before finally turning off the water in the shower, putting her clothes back on, and walking out to meet the detective.

Ann Sather was a Chicago institution, a cavernous Swedish restaurant filled with the smell of coffee and echoing with noisy conversation. She would have known Nolan even if he hadn’t described himself. It wasn’t the buzz-cut hair, the silver tiepin, or the brown leather golfer’s cap. It was an air of confidence, like he’d been tested in ways most people would never face, and felt good about the way he’d scored. She recognized it easily. Danny had the same thing.

“I’m Karen Moss.”

“Sean Nolan.” His eyes were a watery blue, at once kind and hard. “Thanks for coming.”

She let the hostess guide them to a table, wondering what she was doing here. They sat in awkward silence as the waitress weaved between the tables to take their drink order. Karen asked for an orange juice she didn’t want. He ordered decaf and a cinnamon roll. She laughed, the pitch nervous.

“What?” he asked.

“Not exactly what Serpico would’ve ordered.”

“Pacino never had to fill out offense reports or try to remember the abbreviation codes for the vehicle database, either.” He smiled. “But I see why you and Danny get along.”

“What do you mean?”

“Just that he’s a smart-ass, too.”

He said it lightly, smiling, and it disarmed her enough that it took a minute to catch the obvious. “Wait. You know Danny?”

He nodded. “A little. We grew up in the same neighborhood.”

She groaned. “Of course. I should have guessed.”

“What?”

“‘Sean Nolan.’ It’s as Irish as ‘Danny Carter.’”

He laughed. “Guilty. I still think of the South Side more in terms of parishes than neighborhoods.”

He gave and took shit casually, in a bantering way that made her comfortable. It must be crucial in his business, the ability to win people’s trust. She realized that she was starting to like him, and the thought brought her up short. She didn’t want to like him. She didn’t want to know him. Detectives had no place in their life.

“So.” She leaned back and crossed her arms. “What can I help you with?”

He sensed the change in her tone and met it, his voice becoming more official. “Well, first, again, I want to say that I’m sorry about Patrick.”

“What happened?”

“We’re not sure yet. There’s not much I can tell you at this point, except that we’re working hard on it.”

“Not much you can tell me or much you will tell me?”

“Both.” He said it matter-of-factly, without malice.

The waitress arrived and plunked their drinks in front of them. His coffee slopped over the rim and spread a thin brown stain on the paper placemat.

“Where did you find him?” Karen asked, a catch in her voice.

He hesitated. “His body was in the river.”

She looked away, the world going smeary in front of her eyes. Shot and dumped in the river. “Did you know him, too?”

“Yeah.” He looked away. “A little.”

“I’m sorry.”

Nolan nodded brusquely. “When was the last time you saw him?”

“At dinner. I think it was the Saturday before last.”

“He came to your house?”

“Yes.”

“So you were close.”

“Yes. Well, really, Danny was. Patrick was practically a brother to him.”

A look flickered across the detective’s face, like she’d said something important, and it put her on her guard. Why would Danny’s relationship with Patrick matter?

“Did Patrick ever talk about his business?”

She opened her mouth, then closed it, not sure how to answer. It was a complicated sort of simple question. Did they know that their friend was a car thief, a bar fighter, a hijacker of trucks? If so, well then, what kind of people were they? It was part of the reason that no matter how much she liked him, even loved him, she always felt uncomfortable around Patrick. Danny assumed it was because she was afraid of him backsliding, but it was more than that. She was afraid being close to Patrick meant that nothing fundamental had changed.

The detective seemed to read her mind. “Karen, I know that Patrick wasn’t an altar boy, and I’m sure you do, too. I’m not trying to bust him – or you – for anything. I’m just trying to find out who might have killed him.”