“Not trying hard enough,” said Bernstein. “Gerry Ringwald’s office is across the street from one of these Starbucks, and he lives in Highland Park.”

“Who’s Ringwald?” asked Jenks.

“Corsco’s lawyer,” said Lynch. “Any way we can tie it to him more directly?”

Jenks shrugged. “He’s working remote – could be a laptop, could be a cell phone, could be an iPad or something. If he still has the device he did the download with, then I might be able to tie the data to the box. Might even find the files on there.”

“OK,” said Lynch. “Who else you got?”

“Customer number two, the first few hits were in Juárez, so you have to figure that’s Hernandez. Then those start bouncing around. Picked up mail here in Aurora a couple of times, a couple spots in Chicago, all around the area. They’re moving around, sticking to public access Wi-Fi, so I can’t track this back to any base of operations.”

“Same deal?” asked Lynch. “We catch them with the right laptop, we can tie them in?”

“Yeah,” said Jenks. “Now, customer number three. This guy’s picking up his mail all over the 19th arrondissement.”

“The what?” asked Lynch.

“Paris,” said Bernstein. “The Arab quarter, actually. Where they had the riots back in 2005.”

“So that’s al Din,” Lynch said.

“Or his handler,” said Bernstein.

“Or his handler’s cutout,” said Jenks.

“Any of these guys do business with Lee before?” asked Bernstein.

Jenks nodded. “He’s sent stuff to the IP address in Juarez before, the Highland Park address, the Paris, so my guess is yeah.” Jenks spun his desk toward his chair, started clicking away on his keyboard. “Something else I wanted to show you,” he said. A slide show of pictures started on the monitor. Stein. Leaving his house, leaving his office, parking at the Stadium. “Part of a file that went to your Paris guy two weeks ago.”

Little snort from Lynch. He opened the file on Jenks’ desk, ran his finger down the list of names that identified the files Jenks had inventoried. Wide out for the Bears that just got his ass handed to him in a divorce, real estate developer everybody thought had the Block 35 deal tied up before he got low-balled by an out-of-town player, and Mike Lewis.

“Can you pull up what you got on Lewis?” Lynch asked.

“Sure,” said Jenks. “Sounds familiar.”

“County board race last year,” said Lynch. “Remember, that Kroger guy, inherited the seat when his old man keeled over after the primary? Got a little carried away on the patronage, even by Cook County standards? Lewis was the good government candidate that looked like he was going to win the primary, right up until he dropped out a week before the election.”

“Now I remember,” said Jenks, scrolling down his screen, clicking on this and that. “Real mysterious. Family issues or something.”

“That’s the guy,” said Lynch.

“OK, here we go,” said Jenks. Lee ran the file. Lewis leaving his townhouse in Printer’s Row, hailing a cab. Couple shots of the cab, tracking it through town, Lewis getting out of the cab at Belmont and Broadway, Lewis walking north and west. Lewis ducking into the Steam Room. Maybe an hour later, Lewis coming back out, another guy with him, the two of them walking a bit west before picking up another cab, the cab dropping them off at the Marriott on Michigan.

“What’s that about?” asked Jenks.

“Steam Room’s a gay bath house,” said Lynch. “Lewis is Mr Family Man, some kind of deacon at one of the black churches. Looks like he was playing on the down low. Hurley, Kroger, or probably one of their guys, they put the eyes on him, knocked him out of the race.”

Silence for a second, that sinking in.

“How many files does he have?” asked Bernstein.

“Haven’t cataloged everything yet,” said Jenks. “So far, better than three hundred.”

Lynch’s cell rang. Starshak.

“Looks like it’s your day for the burbs,” Starshak said. “When you’re done in Aurora, head for Highland Park.”

“Highland Park?” Lynch asked.

“Somebody offed Ringwald. And his family.”

CHAPTER 63

“Scenery was nicer in Wisconsin,” said Wilson. She was in Elgin with Hardin, in her underwear, pulling back the edge of the curtain in the window of their cheap hotel and looking out across the parking lot at the Jiffy Lube across the street.

“Where I’ve been the last couple decades, this place gets four stars,” said Hardin.

“So we just sit tight and wait on Fouche?”

“I was never big on sitting tight. I just don’t know what else to do.”

Wilson pulled on a pair of slacks she’d bought at a Wal-Mart in Kenosha on the way back down from Door County. She hadn’t had time to pack when they left Downer’s Grove.

“This has to be over soon, one way or the other,” she said, looking over her shoulder at the mirror. “These things make my ass look like it’s wrapped in plastic.”

“Think of it as handicapping,” said Hardin. “Gives the other girls a chance.”

“Fuck the other girls.”

Hardin shrugged. “If you insist.”

Wilson smiled at him, laughed, strange look on her face.

“What?” Hardin asked.

She shrugged. “This, you and me. Seems like anybody in the world who’d got a gun is lining up to take a shot at us and I can’t stop smiling.”

Hardin smiled back. “I know.”

“I was going to say how much I missed being with you, but we never even had that, not the first time.”

“I know.”

“Now, odds are, in a couple of days, we’re dead. I know that. And you know what? If you told me right now I could turn back the clock a week, I’d pass.”

“Me too.” Hardin’s smile faded and he held her eyes.

“Odds aren’t good, are they?” Wilson said.

“No.”

“I wait the better part of my life for you to come back, and I get a week if I’m lucky.”

“We,” Hardin said. “We get a week.” Hardin paused a moment. “Want to know the selfish thing? I hope they get me first. I’ve been in my share of shit, seen people shot, seen them bleed out. That’s OK. I can do that. But I don’t think I can watch you die.”

Her face serious now, too. “So how about we don’t?”

Hardin swallowed, nodded. They both finished dressing as he thought about their options, or lack of them.

CHAPTER 64

Lynch and Bernstein stood in Ringwald’s kitchen. The wooden chairs were arranged in a semi-circle, Ringwald on the end to Lynch’s left, Ringwald’s son on the end to the right. The boy, probably four years old, was next to the mother. The girl was between the mother and Ringwald. Lynch was guessing she was seven. Had been seven.

“.22s again?” Lynch asked.

“Yeah,” said McCord. Some Highland Park cops were milling around, but they didn’t get crimes like this on the North Shore. With the .22s and with Ringwald in the mix, it tied into Chicago, so they’d made the call. They were happy for the help.

The blood on the floor was tacky, drying, and the corpses didn’t look fresh.

“How long?” Lynch asked.

“Last night, late,” said McCord. “I’ll know better when I get them in the shop.”

“Everybody’s gagged except Ringwald,” Lynch said.

“Yeah,” said McCord.

“So you figure al Din was talking to him.”

“Yeah,” said McCord.

They both stood for a moment, saying nothing, looking at the bodies. The boy was wearing an Iron Man T-shirt. The girl was wearing a Miley Cyrus T-shirt and a pair of gym shorts. Lynch tried to picture the scene for a moment – everybody getting herded into the room, getting taped to the chairs, getting…

“This guy is starting to piss me off,” said Lynch.

“Yeah,” said McCord.

“I assume we’re going to talk to Corsco?” Bernstein asked.

Lynch just nodded.

“His right to counsel might be a problem, he decides to play it that way.”

“Fuck his rights,” Lynch said.