“Yeah, he’s been really fucking helpful for a while now.”

“Grady is a friend of mine.”

“He’s more than that, and you know it.”

I thought of what had just gone on between Grady and me. “We’re friends.”

“Some friend. You waved me off, Iz. Me. When I wanted to help you. You let him rescue you.”

My mouth fell open. Wordless for a moment, I looked down at the street, fifteen floors below, the cars zipping by. “He did not rescue me.”

“Yeah, he did. And if it’s not him, it’ll be someone else. You’ll always be one of those people who’s got someone.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about the fact that when everything happened six months ago, I wasn’t even gone for more than a week before you moved on to Grady.”

“You disappeared. You were gone. And I didn’t move on!”

“You did. You let him save you.”

Sam’s harsh words somehow disintegrated the confusion in my head. “You know what, Sam? No one is going to save me. No one except myself.”

This time I hung up on him.

I yanked open the balcony door. Grady stood in his kitchen, leaning against a counter, his arms crossed over his chest.

“Grady, I’m sorry. I’ve got to go.”

“To Sam’s?”

“No. To find Dr. Hamilton-Wood.”

58

I drove south on Lake Shore Drive in Grady’s car, heading toward Hyde Park. Rush hour was over now, and I zipped past the Loop, the Shedd Aquarium and the Field Museum. I got off at 42nd Street. I pulled over to the side of the road and glanced at the MapQuest directions. A minute later, I was in an older, stately neighborhood, some houses brick, others stone, all majestic. A few were in need of repair, but generally the street was impressive. According to the newspapers, this South Side neighborhood had undergone a resurgence lately, and it wasn’t hard to see why-it was close to the lake, near the University of Chicago and the Museum of Science & Industry, and it retained an architectural flavor that spoke of Chicago in days gone by.

I glanced at the directions again, searching for Dr. Hamilton-Wood’s place. The fact that Grady had lent me his car and looked up these directions made me love him. But that love was, I saw now, springing from the earth of our friendship. It wasn’t a bloom of romance.

Sam, of course, was a different story. Sam and I had the friendship and definitely the romance, but something was off and now wasn’t the time to figure it out. Now was the time for action.

I put both Sam and Grady from my mind and turned down Blackstone Avenue. I drove around the block a few times until I found Dr. Hamilton-Wood’s house. Kids played in the front yard as dusk settled over the city. A woman sat on the front steps. I drove past, parked a few houses down and watched her. She was African-American, her hair straightened and curled up gently at the ends. She wore a white blouse and jeans. Her legs were crossed, her expression blank as she watched the kids kicking two balls-one huge and yellow, one pink.

I got out of the car and walked toward the house. It was older, like the rest of the block, but Dr. Hamilton-Wood’s house was lovely, made of white stone with a turret at the upper left and stained glass in the front door. That stained glass sparkled as the streetlights replaced the last remnants of daylight.

The kids stopped as I walked up the front sidewalk. I must have looked harmless because they picked up their game just as quickly.

The woman uncrossed her legs, sat up straighter and put a pleasant smile on her face.

“Hi, I’m Izzy McNeil.” I extended my hand.

She stood and shook it. “Angela Hamilton. Are you new in the neighborhood?”

“No. I’m here because of Jane Augustine.”

The smile swept away. “It’s so sad what happened to her. I admired Jane immensely.”

“How did you know her?”

She walked down the few stairs to ground level. She could have been anywhere in age from twenty-five to forty-five, although her medical degree probably put her toward the latter.

“My brother was shot seven years ago,” she said. “They didn’t catch who did it for the longest time, and only then because of Jane. She was the only one who kept asking questions and digging around. The cops had long stopped caring.”

“Yeah, that sounds like Jane. She liked the tough stories.”

“Are you collecting for some kind of charity in her name?” The doctor gestured toward the house. “I can get my checkbook.”

“No, I’m here to ask some questions. I’m trying to figure out how Jane died.”

“I heard she was beaten.”

“And strangled.” I saw Jane’s eyes, permanently open, the pinpricks of blood dotting the whites of those eyes. “I’m trying to find out who did that to her. I understand you spoke to Jane recently about a story she was working on?”

A flicker of something-caution, perhaps?-registered on her face, then disappeared. “Yes. She was working on a story about class actions. I gave her some information.”

“What kind of information?”

Something closed in the doctor’s face. “It’s fairly technical.”

“Did it have anything to do with Jackson Prince?”

She blinked a few times. “Possibly. We talked about a lot of things. But look, I should go. I have to get the kids to bed.” She glanced at her children, still tearing around the lawn. “Brady! Thomas! In the house and get ready for a bath.”

The children grumbled but pattered up the front stone steps.

“Good night.” She gave me a polite smile, similar to the one she’d had when I first walked up. She started to turn away.

“Dr. Hamilton-Wood,” I said. “I just have a few questions.”

She grimaced. “It’s Dr. Hamilton now. My husband and I split. I’m using my maiden name.” She shook her head. “Anyway…”

“Dr. Hamilton-”

“Look, I spoke to Jane only because I knew her from my brother’s shooting, and to be honest, I felt like I owed her, but really I don’t have any interest in discussing this any further. Okay?” Her face was determined. She started to turn again.

“Dr. Hamilton, what if Jane died because of that story?”

She froze, cocked her head. “How is that possible?”

“I need to know if the story had to do with Jackson Prince in particular. He was angry with Jane. I saw that myself at Trial TV on the day she died, and he-”

“Wait, what did you say your name was?”

I swallowed hard. Never had I felt so hesitant to say my own name. Finally, I did.

“Izzy,” she said. “Isabel. You’re the person the police were talking about.”

“I’m a person of interest, yes,” I said through a clenched jaw. “I’m not a suspect. I’m the one who found Jane, and now I need to find out who hurt her.”

“Shouldn’t the cops be doing that?”

“They should. I think they’re looking in the wrong places.”

She held up a hand. “Look, I really need to go.”

“Dr. Hamilton, please.”

“No, really.” She started to walk away.

I followed. “Dr. Hamilton, I saw Jackson Prince on the day she died.” I was talking fast now, afraid to lose her. “He was a guest at the network, and she interviewed him and asked some very pointed questions about class actions and how members of the class were located. He was angry at her. Obviously very angry. She told me that she was about to break a story that could rock him. That night she was dead.”

Dr. Hamilton stopped, her body half turned back toward mine. She closed her eyes for a moment, then opened them again.

I kept talking. “Was the story big enough that Prince might have harmed Jane to prevent it from coming out? Or maybe he hired someone to do it?”

She opened her mouth but said nothing.

“Mom!” one of her kids yelled from the house.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I’ve really got to go. I can’t talk to you. Good luck.”

I fished an old business card from my purse and ran after her. “If you’d like, you can call me later. Anytime, really.” She stopped, and I found a pen. Scribbled down my cell phone. As I handed the card to her, I looked into her eyes. “Jane was a friend of mine. She didn’t deserve to die the way she did. If there’s any chance Jackson Prince had anything to do with it, you need to say so. Please.”