“Are you doing OK, Lynch? Having urban withdrawal?”

Lynch smiled. “This is nice. You keep doing that with your foot, and I’m not going to be able to stand up, though.”

“So, when was the last time you were out of the city?”

“Berwyn count?”

“No.”

“Cicero?”

“No place where Al Capone used to hang out.”

Lynch laughed. “I guess Christmas. I drove my mom up to my sister’s. Right before she got real bad.”

“Where’s that?”

“Milwaukee. She’s some big-shot VP with Northwestern Mutual. Her husband is a surgeon. Got a couple kids, getting up to junior high now.”

“Are you guys close?”

“Not like we should be,” Lynch said. “Guess I’m supposed to lie about that, right? Used to be, when she was little.”

“What happened?”

“Hard to say. Everything changed after my father was killed. I tried to be dad, she resented it. Nothing horrible, but we just… People say drifted right? That sounds so stupid. I mean, I call sometimes, she calls sometimes, and it’s, you know, how are the kids? They’re fine. How’s work? Work’s good.” Lynch took a sip of his beer, looked out the window. Wind shifting around, starting to pick up. “I miss her. Funny, huh? She’s not dead or anything, but I miss her.”

“That’s got to be hard now, with your mom.”

Lynch shrugged.

The waiter came by, asked if they wanted dessert.

“I think we’re going to have that somewhere else,” Johnson said, looking at Lynch, her foot sliding up his leg again. “I’ve got a taste for something I don’t see on the menu.”

It was colder walking out to the car. The wind was out of the northwest now, Lynch smelled rain in the air. Johnson drove south on 355 toward the 290 extension that ran east toward the city. She drove fast, weaving through the moderate traffic.

“You’re quiet, Lynch,” she said.

“Thinking about the Marslovak case.”

“And you’re afraid to say anything to me?”

“Yeah, well, you’re still the press, Johnson. I mean, this is your beat.”

Johnson cut right around a slow-moving SUV, ran up behind a semi in the right lane with a panel truck next to it, cut two lanes left around them and then back across all three lanes and onto the 290 ramp.

“Jesus,” Lynch said. “Good thing I’m not working traffic.”

Silence again, and not comfortable.

“This could be a problem for us,” said Johnson. “If we can’t talk to each other.”

“Yeah.”

Quiet again for a while.

“How about this, Lynch. Unless I say otherwise, everything you tell me is off the record. Not just not-for-attribution, not just background, it’s strictly between us. Can you trust me that far?”

Lynch thought for a second. He’d only known Johnson at all for a few months, only known her personally for three days. But you either trust somebody or you don’t. He could think of guys he’d known all his life he’d trust about as far as he could dropkick a floor safe.

“Yeah. I think I can.”

“OK, then.”

They drove in silence for a while, Lynch knowing it was a kind of test now. He’d have to say something. She wanted him to say something.

“It’s the confession thing,” Lynch said. “I can’t get past thinking that Marslovak said something in that confessional, and whatever she said, that got her killed.”

“And the priest won’t say?”

“Can’t say,” said Lynch. “You’re not Catholic, are you?”

“Lutheran, I guess. You hear people say they’re cultural Jews? I guess I’m a cultural Lutheran. My family didn’t go to services much. Christmas, Easter, stuff like that. Gives you a place to have weddings and funerals, though, almost like being in some kind of club.”

“I’m pretty much in the same boat now. We went growing up. Every Sunday, every holy day. Catholic schools, altar boy, the whole thing. I just... I don’t know. I don’t believe a lot of things I used to believe. I don’t do a lot of things I used to do. I guess church is one of them.”

“Lose your faith, Lynch?”

“Makes it sound like a quarter under a couch cushion somewhere. I believe there’s a God,” Lynch said. “Hard to know what to believe beyond that. I can’t help feeling sometimes that if I ever meet him, I’m not going to like him much.”

“So what’s with the confession thing? Priest really can’t say?”

“Rules are the priest can’t reveal anything said within the seal of confession.”

“Even though she’s dead?”

“Doesn’t matter.”

“Then how could anyone know? I mean if he didn’t say anything–”

“Oh, shit.” Lynch grabbed his cell phone off his belt and dug a small notepad out of his jacket pocket. He found the number for Sacred Heart and dialed it. Father Hughes answered.

“Father, Detective Lynch. I know it’s a little late. I hope I didn’t wake you.”

“Actually, I just got in from the hospital, detective, visiting a parishioner. What can I do for you?”

“The crime scene guys, did they look inside the church at all?”

“Not much.”

“You going to be up in, say, half an hour?”

“I could be, why?”

“I’d like to take a look inside the church.”

“All right, detective. I’ll see you around 10.30 then.”

Lynch flipped the phone shut, dropped it on the seat.

“Get over to 294 north, we’re going to church. And stop driving like an old lady, will you? Let’s make some time.”

Jose Villanueva cruised past the church. Lights were out. Weather had turned some, a misty rain just starting, wind picking up a little. He saw one dog walker a block past the church. Guy had his collar up, head down, pretty much dragging some poodle-type rat dog along. Villanueva looped back to the east and parked his Explorer in the lot of a convenience store near Belmont.

Villanueva jogged the six blocks back toward the church. Tracksuit on, use the die-hard exercise addict disguise. He had his picks, a Swiss Army knife, and a mini-Maglight in his left-hand jacket pocket. The short-barreled .38 bounced, zipped in the right-hand pocket. Also had several different lengths of coated wires with alligator clips on the ends. The rain was picking up and coming sideways, but the black Adidas warm-ups were Gore-Tex, so it wasn’t too bad. As he came to the church, he was tempted to cut right up the narrow walk on the north side, get in out of the rain, but he ran past, circled the block. Nobody was out. Visibility was getting bad, too.

He checked his watch as he came up on the narrow walk the second time. 10.14. Good a time as any. He didn’t vary his pace, just turned up the walk like it was a short cut he used all the time, then trotted down the cement stairs to the basement door of the church.

He turned on a penlight and held it in his mouth. Then he took the pocket knife, opened the blade, and carefully sliced back the coating on a couple of wires attached to the alarm on the door. He pulled the wires out of his jacket, picked two that were the right length, and clipped them to the exposed spots on the wires. He looked at his watch. 10.19.

He put the extra wires and the pocket knife back in his jacket and pulled out the narrow black case that held his picks. It took him less than thirty seconds to rake the tumblers and turn the lock. He was in.

Johnson pulled up in front of the rectory at 10.41. Father Hughes pulled the door open just as they walked up. He was wearing black pants and a heavy turtleneck. Johnson and Lynch stepped into the foyer.

“Guess spring is over already,” the priest said.

“You Chicagoans are such wimps,” said Johnson.

“Father, this is Liz Johnson,” said Lynch. “Liz, Father Hughes.” Johnson and Hughes shook hands.

“Your partner?” the priest asked.

“Friend,” said Lynch. “We were out when I had a thought I should have had a couple days ago. I’m still thinking all this goes back to whatever Mrs Marslovak said in confession. But that only makes sense if someone knows what she said.”

The priest put up his hands. “I didn’t say anything, and I’m not going to.”