I called Maggie. “I’m going to the Belmont station tomorrow.”

“Remember, you don’t have to talk to them,” she said. “I told them you would talk if they kept quiet about the ‘person of interest’ thing, but we can always pull the plug.”

“But then they’ll tell everyone I’m a person of interest.”

“Maybe.”

“Probably, right? I mean, if I don’t talk to them.”

A pause. “Yeah, probably.”

I thought about Jane’s affairs and the “scarfing.” I’d promised Jane I wouldn’t mention the scarfing, but I was going to have to talk about her affairs, at least her night with the writer, in order to show Vaughn I wasn’t with her late that night. I told Maggie about Theo then.

“Mmm, he sounds hot.”

“You have no idea.” Then I told her about Jane’s writer, and after reminding her of our own attorney-client privilege, about Jane’s affairs. “I need to tell the cops all this, right?”

“On the one hand, if it could help find who did this to her, yes. But on the other hand, it doesn’t mean they’ll stop looking at you…”

“But it will explain that she wasn’t with me Friday night. She was with the writer.”

“The problem is you don’t even know that writer’s name.”

“Mick.”

“Mick what? Is that short for Michael?”

I started panting again. “I don’t know! But if I can just explain who Jane was with that night and who I was with…”

She exhaled loud. “Iz, just because you tell the cops X and Y doesn’t mean they get to Z.”

Pant, pant, pant. “I…have…to do something.”

“Okay, okay. We’re going to the station tomorrow, and we’re going to figure this out,” she said. “I’ll pick you up and take you there.”

My breathing slowed. A bit of fresh air seeped its way into my lungs. “Thank you. Thank you.”

“No problem.” She was quiet for a minute. “When was the last time you worked out?”

My mind knotted. “Can’t remember.”

“Put on your running shoes and take a walk along the lake. That’s an order from your attorney and your best friend. It’s gorgeous out.”

Maggie knew I wasn’t a runner, like her. She knew I didn’t like to work out at all. Sweating in public reminded me too much of my flop sweat spells. But Mags also knew I always felt better when I did some kind of exercise.

And so I went to Lincoln Park, and now, I walked fast with my iPod loud, playing a song by the Kooks-“She Moves in Her Own Way.” I loved that song. It was Sam who used to blare it while he waited for me to get ready for an evening out. But it seemed too upbeat. I stopped, pulled out the iPod and scrolled backwards, looking for something different. The Killers came up. I almost clicked on it, but then I registered the word-Killers-and it chilled me, made me think of Jane’s battered body.

I started walking again, scrolling through my iPod, and landed on a hard-edged song from Liz Phair. I clicked on it and headed for the North Avenue bridge that would take me to Lake Michigan.

When I reached it, I trotted up the stairs and ran across the bridge, and right then I felt something release inside my body, breath finally flooding into my lungs.

I wanted to harness the feeling, to let it consume me, and so I went to the middle of the bridge, suspended a hundred feet over Lake Shore Drive, and I hung over it, playing my music loud, watching the cars zip by in the south lanes, sucking in breath after breath after breath, letting the heat of the sun sink into me. I don’t know how long I stood there, and I was only aware of time passing when the cars began to slow. Rush hour. I looked up at the stately apartments that hugged the curve on Lake Shore Drive, as if clinging to their views. I raised my face farther and looked at the skyline. I loved that skyline. Always had. Even when I was a kid, it reminded me that the city had been there for so much longer than me. And now it reminded me that people in this city had survived worse than what I was experiencing.

But, unfortunately, Jane hadn’t survived at all. Jane, who loved this city, too.

My eyes filled with the tears I hadn’t let myself cry at the memorial. I thought about the fact that Jane would never again see this skyline; never again sit on a rooftop deck of a Chicago restaurant and drink wine, gazing at the lights glittering around her; never again roast in the sun on the bleachers at Wrigley, slurping a yeasty beer; never again jostle through crowds at Taste of Chicago or Jazz Fest or Old Town Art Fair; never again see the symphony play at Millennium Park on a crisp summer evening; never watch the tulips magically appear in the mid-lane boxes of LaSalle Street; never again witness the massive Christmas tree at Daley Plaza next to a two-story menorah.

I wasn’t even sure Jane had loved all those things. They were things I loved about Chicago. Jane probably had her own list. But that list was gone with her.

So, on behalf of Jane, who couldn’t do it, I raised my hand, and just for one second, I waved goodbye to the city.

46

J ackson Prince walked the underground tunnel that led from his office to Trattoria No. 10.

Technically, this tunnel was called the Pedway. Its official purpose was to link various El trains with various downtown buildings. Not that Prince ever rode the El train. Each morning, a driver picked him up from his East Erie apartment, where he owned the penthouse, and dropped him off at his office building. To Prince, the best thing about that building was not his massive corner office or the fact that it had a view of Daley Plaza. No, the best thing about his building was that he could access the tunnel and take it right to court, where he pitied the other lawyers who arrived flushed from the summer heat or shivering from the arctic winter and who had to juggle trench coats and umbrellas when they stepped up to the bench.

The next best thing about the tunnel was that it led him to Trattoria No. 10, a subterranean Italian restaurant and bar that was a favorite among Chicago’s legal crowd.

But tonight, he wasn’t meeting a lawyer. Tonight was about Jerry Hay and thanking the good doctor. Now that no one was looking over Prince’s shoulder on this matter, he could enjoy it again. He could properly show Dr. Hay his appreciation, which would make them both very happy.

Dr. Hay was already at the bar, a highball in front of him. Hay was an average-looking guy-medium height and a nondescript face that was probably similar to many of the guys Hay grew up with in Bridgeport. Prince had done his research on Hay, and he knew that Hay had done better than many of the guys in his neighborhood, most of whom had gone the cop or fireman route. At thirty-five, Hay operated his own rheumatology practice. Yes, Hay was successful. Or at least he appeared so to the outside observer. But Prince knew that the early, external success of a young doctor like Hay didn’t translate immediately to financial success. There were the astronomical student loans, the ever-soaring malpractice premiums and the ever-dwindling Medicare payments on behalf of older patients, which made up most of Hay’s practice. Which all meant that Hay’s lifestyle with his Northbrook home, his Lake Geneva summer house, three kids, his stay-at-home wife and his three expensive cars became harder and harder to afford.

And that was where Prince stepped in.

He stepped up beside the doctor now and stretched out his hand. “Jerry.” He shook the man’s hand, warmly patting his shoulder.

Prince liked to call doctors like Hay by their first names. He thought it helped to let Hay know he was above him, that his J.D. had brought many more riches than Hay’s M.D. Not that Prince liked to gloat. He just liked people to know their place in his world.

“You ready for your trip next week?” he asked Hay.

The doctor smiled, one of the first lighthearted grins Prince had seen from him. “Very ready. Betsy is already packed. And of course she’s told everyone in the neighborhood that we’re taking a private plane. I can’t thank you enough.”