Hardin felt something turning in his gut, wondered if it could really be like this. She’d been a kid, he’d barely been more than that, and all of it was most of a lifetime ago. Her picture in his wallet all these years, that had been a talisman, a fantasy. And now here she was, and she was no one that he remembered. He thought of some of the things he’d done, what doing those things had made him. And yet for a moment the years were gone. She got up from her chair, took a step toward him, he took one toward her. He went to put his arms around her, but she reached up, put her right hand flat against his chest, her eyes finally leaving his, looking down.

“I’m not who I was,” her voice cracking just a little.

He pulled her hand from his chest and held it to his mouth, kissed her palm. He felt her shiver. He lifted her chin until their eyes locked again.

“Who is?” he said.

CHAPTER 29

Lynch was at the UC with Reagan, watched the last couple players skate off the ice before the anthem. Lynch’d always been a baseball guy, a Wrigley guy. Besides, the Wirtz family had acted like such dicks for so long, who wanted to put any coin in their pockets?

Lynch hadn’t been to a Hawks game in years. Back when they sucked, you could get in at the old stadium cheap. But old man Wirtz finally died, the Hawks got their organizational heads out of their asses and won the Stanley Cup. Now they were a tough ticket.

Seats were halfway up the mezzanine. Reagan had some fancy-ass camera, some kind of digital SLR rig with a big zoom on it. He was pretty good with it. With newspapers cutting back everywhere, being good with a camera was one more way to keep yourself employed.

Lynch noticed a bit of a commotion up in one of the luxury boxes on the other side of the stadium. Thought somebody looked familiar.

“Hey, can I borrow the camera a second?” he asked.

Reagan handed it to him. He looked up at the booth, cranked the zoom.

Shamus Fenn. Couple other people Lynch knew, too. Davis, one of the old-line aldermen, guy that was always on the edge of every new corruption probe and somehow always ended up not being in the indictment. Couple of union big shots. Some young looker was chatting up Fenn, running her hand up his arm. Another guy was standing next to her, looking pissed – guy she’d come with, probably. Then somebody grabbed Fenn by the arm, pulled him aside. Lynch couldn’t see who it was – the looker and her date were in the way, having words. Whoever had grabbed Fenn had his back to Lynch. Shorter guy, in a suit. Whatever this was about, Fenn didn’t look happy. Finally, the suit guy turned to leave and Lynch caught his profile.

Lynch clicked the shutter, hoping it worked. Damn camera had more buttons and knobs on it than the space shuttle.

“How can I tell if I got anything?” Lynch asked.

Reagan took the camera, brought the shot up on the screen. Fenn and the suit, clear enough.

“Shamus Fenn and Gerry Ringwald,” Reagan said. He lifted the camera, squeezed off some more shots. “Jesus, Davis, some of Corsco’s union buddies. It’s like an asshole convention up there.”

“Yeah,” Lynch said.

“You get an asshole convention, somebody ends up with shit on them.”

Lynch didn’t say anything, but he was thinking about Fenn turning up in that video with this Hardin fuck, about him turning up here now with some mob lawyer, about the dead mob guys down at South Shore.

“You got an interest here?” Reagan asked.

Lynch didn’t have any kind of off-the-record deal with Reagan. “Watch the damn game,” he said.

“I bet if I looked like Johnson, you’d have an interest.”

Lynch just smiled.

CHAPTER 30

Bahram Lafitpour twirled the wine in the glass, took a deep sniff, and then shook his head at the sommelier.

“I’m afraid we’ll need another bottle,” he said. “This is a little corky.”

The sommelier kept a straight face, which impressed Munroe. He wasn’t sure which bottle Lafitpour had ordered exactly, some kind of Bordeaux, but in the quick look he’d had at the wine list, he hadn’t seen anything much under $300 a bottle, and had seen more than a few that went for four figures. Lafitpour was a four-figure kind of guy.

“It is an earthy vintage, sir. Perhaps you’d care to taste it first?”

Lafitpour looked up at the man with a thin smile that shriveled Munroe’s sack just a little. Lafitpour was still a scary bastard.

“The scent was proof enough. I don’t need to taint my palate. But if you doubt my judgment, you are free to taste it.”

The sommelier raised the glass, sniffed, took a small sip, set the glass back on the table and made a disapproving face. “You are correct, sir. Of course. A new bottle, immediately.”

Lafitpour nodded at the glass. “And a new glass.”

The sommelier took the glass and scurried off.

“Never actually seen that done before,” said Munroe. “Anybody sending the wine back.”

“The wine wasn’t spoiled, but it wasn’t the 1982 I ordered, either. Eighty-two was a banner year, which is why they can charge that ridiculous price for it. They saved a label from one of the few bottles of the ’82 they’ve actually sold and swapped it out for a bottle from an inferior year. Your average tech geek looking to impress some girl he could never hope to bed without his money will order it to show off for the lass and never know the difference. He’ll like the poorer year better anyway. Not as aggressive, a little less tannic, more suited to his pedestrian tastes. I suppose I could have just accused them of fraud, but that would have caused a scene and we would likely have been asked to leave. He now knows I know, I’ve saved him the embarrassment of calling him on his little charade, and he will bring the proper bottle.”

Munroe shook his head a little. “You haven’t changed much, Bahram.”

Lafitpour shrugged. “A little older, a little wiser.”

“And considerably richer.”

The thin smile again. “Oh, considerably.”

Munroe had first seen Lafitpour in Tehran in 1978. Lafitpour was a rising star in SAVAK, the Shah’s notorious secret police, and Munroe was an unofficial liaison trying to help the Shah stuff the Islamic revolution toothpaste back in the tube. The demonstrations and strikes had already hit critical mass, though. It was clear the Peacock Throne was circling the drain.

But Lafitpour had built an impressive string of assets throughout the country, so Munroe greased the skids on getting him out. The mullahs would end up running the joint, but Uncle Sam would still want some ears on the ground. Lafitpour had settled in Chicago and made a huge fortune in the hedge fund business, huge even by hedge fund standards. There’d been some noise about his methods, but Lafitpour was careful, and he had friends in the right places. Munroe was one of them. Given the Iranian involvement in Munroe’s current situation, Lafitpour had been one of his first calls when he hit town. Munroe asked him to keep his ears up. Not that Lafitpour had called back.

The sommelier returned with the new bottle. Lafitpour went through the necessary ritual, nodded his approval, the sommelier poured the wine and left. Munroe took a sip. He could see Lafitpour’s point on the aggressive business. Munroe was sure it was great wine, but he expected that he and the tech geek would both have been happier with a cheap Merlot.

“Your friend with the diamonds,” Lafitpour said, “this Hardin? The Russians have been in touch. He’s looking to sell and they’d like me to front the deal. They are offering $20 million, of which I will keep five. So fifteen on your friend’s end.”

“Probably better than Stein offered,” Munroe said.

“Probably.”

“When?”

“I met Hardin this afternoon to check his sample and offer terms. I assumed you would still need some time to make your arrangements, so I scheduled the exchange for the day after tomorrow at my office.”