He smiled at his nephew. ‘Thanks, kiddo. You’re a genius.’
‘I am?’
Jason nodded solemnly. ‘Oh yeah.’ He ruffled the kid’s hair, then stood and started for the door. He had to talk to Cruz,
let her know. And Washington. They had to start planning. Get the car out –
He froze, one hand on the doorframe. Took a breath, turned around.
Billy sat in the center of the room, right where he had been. His eyes were wide and one lip was trembling.
Idiot.
Jason walked back to his nephew, dropped to an easy squat. ‘I did it again, didn’t I?’
Billy nodded.
‘I’m sorry.’ He kept his head level with the boy’s, trying not to be an authority figure. ‘I’ll learn.’ He paused. ‘Will you
help me?’
Billy sniffed damply, regarded him with sober eyes, and said, ‘Okay.’
‘Okay.’ Jason nodded. He hesitated, wondered how much to say. Then remembered how it had felt to do the right thing with Billy,
how he’d felt the Worm loosen its grip. ‘That briefcase your father took to the basement? That’s what the bad guys were looking
for. That’s why they came. Do you understand?’
Billy nodded. ‘Like in the movies.’
‘Yeah, pretty much. And before, I thought that they had gotten it. But now I bet your dad hid it. You with me?’
‘Uh-huh.’
‘Here’s the thing.’ He took a breath, made himself speak calmly, like there was nothing to be afraid of. ‘The bad guys, they
still want that case. And they want to catch us, because we’ve seen them. They’re very – do you know what determined means?’
Billy sighed.
‘Right. Right. Sorry. They’re very determined. They’ll keep coming back.’
‘Why don’t we go away? Somewhere they can’t find us?’
It wasn’t a bad question. Hell, it was one Jason had asked himself. But where would they go? Moving to a new city wouldn’t
do it. They could never be sure that Galway or DiRisio wouldn’t decide it was too big a risk to let them be. They’d end up
living like criminals – running, dodging, hiding. ‘Well, we could. But they might keep coming after us.’
‘How do we stop them?’
Jason started to answer, stopped himself. ‘Well, what do you think?’
Billy sucked his lower lip into his mouth, his eyes moving down and around like the answer might be on the floor. Then, suddenly,
he looked up. ‘The briefcase.’
A warmth spread through Jason’s chest, a weird feeling he’d never known. Was this what parenting was? Had Michael felt this
way watching Billy tie his shoes or do crossword puzzles? ‘That’s right, buddy. There’s only one problem.’ He paused. ‘I’d
have to leave you to go get it.’
Billy’s hand snatched his own, clung hard.
‘It’s okay. Take it easy. I want to stay with you. But I don’t want more men coming after us, and I think the briefcase could
make sure of that.’ He paused. ‘I think I should go. I think it will keep you safe. But I won’t if you don’t want me to.’
Jason squeezed Billy’s hand, looked him in the eye. ‘It’s up to you, kiddo.’
He stared at the boy, this eight-year-old with his brother’s face. Shoulders thin under the gray Army T-shirt. Skin pale and
sticky with tears. Stared and wished for a magic wand, a bag of fairy dust, whatever it took to reverse time and give this
poor boy his father back, his life back.
And then Billy said, ‘Okay’, and let go of his hand.
Anthony DiRisio stood in front of the windows, arms at his side. Hell of a view. The skyline to the south, Lincoln Park spilling
east, beyond that, the lake, blue-gray water dotted with colorful sails.
Elena Cruz lived pretty good for a policewoman.
The jerkwad cops that had searched the place earlier had closed up behind them, but the lock on the door was junk. He’d jamb-popped
it with his knife and strolled in.
The apartment was a sizable one-bedroom with curved brick ceilings and a Murphy bed that folded back into the wall. He pulled
it out just for kicks and lay down, his shoes up on the covers, fingers behind his head. A faint girl smell lingered in her
pillows. After a moment, he sat up, opened the night table drawer. An Ondaatje novel,
The English Patient.
He’d seen the movie, liked it all right. A tube of lip balm. A snapshot of a Hispanic woman with a moustache. A silver vibrator.
He turned it on. The batteries were low, the thing barely humming. He smiled, turned it off, put it back.
The cops had been after evidence, bundles of hundreds or sacks of weapons. They’d have checked the toilet tank and tapped
for loose floorboards, felt the pockets of coats and the seams of the sofa. DiRisio
was hoping for something more abstract, something that hinted where she might be.
He worked steadily but swiftly. Skipped the bathroom, skipped the kitchen. There was a mound of dirty clothes on her closet
floor. Her dresser contained folded shirts and jeans, a tangle of underwear. He held up soft thong-cut pan ties, Vickie’s
Secret, size small. A potpourri sachet made them smell like cinnamon. Nice. If Palmer was tapping her, he was in for a treat.
No diary, no appointment book, no day planner.
He moved to the living room where she kept her desk. Sifted through paper clips and pens. A silver half dollar. A small chunk
of amber. A rabbit’s foot. An abandoned network cable ran from the wall to the desk. Shit. The cops had her computer. He’d
like to have gone through it.
‘Where are you, honey?’ Looked around the room. Opened a cabinet. DVDs, a board game. ‘Come to daddy.’ Checked the fridge.
A couple beers, some mismatched takeout containers, a bottle of Sriracha, a lime that had seen better days, a quarter-inch
of milk in a gallon jug. Not a homebody, then.
Something moved behind him.
DiRisio spun fast, dropping as he went, right arm swinging out in an arc, pistol leading the way.
An orange and white cat with green eyes stared at him over the SIG’s dot-and-bars. The cat blinked. The cat yawned.
Anthony DiRisio smiled.
‘Hi, kitty,’ he said. ‘Come here.’
The way the light from the window fell on him, Ronald could have been a statue, an ebony sculpture of an old-time railroad
worker. The sun carved his muscles in sharp relief, hard swells that strained his shirt sleeves. A five-pound sledge dangled
from one hand, the heavy head stained a soft ocher with rust. He stared out the front window with quiet concentration.
‘Hey, Ronald, you seen Cruz?’
The big man tore his eyes away from the window, glanced at Jason. ‘That the girl you came with?’
‘Yeah.’
Ronald turned back to the window. ‘Upstairs. Said she wanted to freshen up.’
‘Thanks.’ Curiosity pulled him over to stand beside Ronald. Out the window, on the sidewalk past the Lantern Bearers sign,
Washington stood talking to a middle-aged white guy with salt-and-pepper hair and sweat marks on his crisp oxford. Beyond
them afternoon sun glared off parked cars, and on the other side of the street lay the abandoned lot, tall grass swaying gently
around the carousel he remembered from years ago.
‘Okay,’ he said. ‘I’ll bite. What’s so interesting?’
Ronald gestured with his chin. ‘See that dude talking to Dr. Matthews? That’s Adam Kent.’
The name sounded familiar. He squinted. Medium build, neat hair, nice clothes. But nothing notable about him. He didn’t think
he’d ever seen him before, but the name sounded familiar. Where had he heard… right. ‘The guy giving Washington half a million
dollars at the party to night.’
Ronald nodded slow, his eyes locked outside.
‘You curious what he looks like?’
‘Nah. Seen him before. He’s here all the time.’
‘So what?’
‘Look at him, man.’ Ronald spoke without turning. ‘Dude can write a check for five hundred thousand dollars, just give it
away. Got enough money that half a million don’t hurt none.’
‘Nice of him.’
‘Yeah. It’s just…’ Ronald hesitated.
‘What?’
‘I mean, I walk by him on the street, I wouldn’t even notice. Looks like any other white guy. I always thought having that
much money, you’d look
different,
you know? Like a glow or something.’ Ronald shook his head. ‘Hell, a brother with that kind of money, he’s wearin’ a platinum
dollar sign covered with diamonds.’
Jason laughed. ‘Listen, can you do me a favor?’
Ronald glanced over, face impassive.
‘Cruz and I are going to leave. Those guys that killed my brother, I think we know how to get them.’
‘’Aight.’
‘Thing is, I can’t bring Billy along, but I’m worried about leaving him alone. I was hoping you could kind of, I don’t know.
Look in on him. Hang out with him a little. Let him know he’s safe.’
‘I feel that.’ Ronald nodded. ‘Sure.’
‘He’s scared.’
‘He don’t need to be. Ain’t nothing going to happen to Bills while I’m around.’
Jason nodded, thanked him. Then he headed out of the front room toward the staircase. He stole a glance over his shoulder
before he left; Ronald had turned back to the window and was staring out, shaking his head. Jason smiled.
He found Cruz in one of the upstairs bedrooms, the television on, the remote clutched in white knuckled fingers.
‘… the ongoing corruption trial of former governor George Ryan…’
He stepped beside her, but she didn’t react. ‘Hey,’ Jason said. ‘Listen –’
‘Shh.’ She held up a hand.
‘In other news, the troubling story of a police officer suspected of murder.’
He’d been reaching for her shoulder, but froze at the announcer’s words.
‘The body of Dion Wallace, a member of the Gangster Disciples street gang, was discovered last night after neighbors reported
hearing gunfire. Police found Wallace dead in his West Crenwood home, shot
twice in the head.’ The house onscreen was cordoned off with yellow tape, and police cars were parked around it, angled random
directions. A mugshot of C-Note Wallace glared off the side of the screen. ‘Sources within the Chicago Police Department told
NBC 5 that preliminary investigations indicate the murder weapon belonged to an Area One Gang Intelligence officer involved
in an ongoing investigation of Wallace.’
The image cut to a podium with a middle-aged man in a French-cuff shirt and a striped tie. The caption read,
CPD Deputy Chief James Donlan.
Donlan held up his hands to quiet a roar of questions.
‘At this time, the Chicago Police Department is not willing to make any final judgments regarding this case. While she has
been designated a person of interest, Officer Cruz has not been charged with anything. However, I also want to assure the
community that the CPD takes any accusation of police brutality very seriously, and that a thorough investigation is already
underway.’
The image cut to a picture of Cruz in uniform, younger and with different hair. The announcer continued. ‘Officer Elena Cruz,
a ten-year veteran with a distinguished record, was the first woman to serve on the elite Gang Intelligence team. However,
there have been numerous recent complaints against Officer Cruz, who has been largely restricted from working the street.
A coworker, speaking on condition of anonymity, described her recent behavior as “erratic and
prone to violence”. The whereabouts of Officer Cruz are currently unknown. Back to you, Don.’
An anchorman with precise hair and a perfectly symmetrical face said, ‘We’ll have more on this disturbing story as it develops.’
He turned, and the camera angle changed. ‘More than ten people have come forward with allegations of child sexual abuse by
Father –’
Jason stepped forward and turned off the television. He turned to look at her, found her staring, a statue with trembling
hands. ‘I’m sorry, Elena.’ She shook her head, lips pulled into a thin, hard line. She looked like she’d been kicked in the
gut. The silence seemed loud, and again he said, ‘I’m so sorry.’
She turned and walked to the window. Stared out at nothing.
He rubbed at his eyes. ‘Washington told me that Dion Wallace had been killed last night. I just didn’t put it together.’ Jason
remembered the guy by the river, Scarface. He’d made her drop her gun. ‘That’s why there are cops after us. One of them used
your gun last night to shoot Dion.’ He paused. ‘But how would they put it together so
fast
?’
‘Donlan.’ Her voice was barely a whisper.
Right. Her one-time lover, the cop with plenty of juice. So it wasn’t one kick to the gut. It was two. ‘God.’ He sighed. ‘And
that “anonymous source”. That would have been Galway.’ Three.
She didn’t respond, and he moved behind her, put a hand on her shoulder. She flinched. For some reason that cut him.
‘All my life,’ she said, ‘all I’ve wanted was to be a cop. I was good at it, too.’ She shook her head. ‘Damn it, I was a good
cop.’
‘You still are.’
‘Don’t.’ Her tone was pure contempt. ‘Don’t patronize me.’
‘I’m not. You’re still a good cop.’
She laughed through her nose, a hollow and scornful sound. ‘No I’m not. I’m an assassin. I killed Dion Wallace. You know how
I know?’ She flung the remote to bounce off the hardwood floor. ‘I saw it on TV.’
‘Elena –’
‘Stop, okay? Just…’ She sighed. ‘Just stop.’
He stood behind her, wanting desperately to say something that could make it better. Knowing exactly how she felt. He’d felt
the same way walking out of the Administrative Discharge Board. Being a cop was as central to her as being a soldier had been
to him, and now the bastards had taken that, too.
Without thinking, he spun her into a hug. She stood rigid as stone, and he just had time to wonder if he’d made a terrible
mistake.
Then something in her snapped, and she buried her head in his shoulder, her hair in his face. Her hands wrapped around his
back, squeezing at first and then turning to fists, beating against the muscles of his back, left then right then left. Jason
took it without complaint. Just held her, felt her chest heave as she cried without a sound. He didn’t murmur soft nothings,
didn’t try to tell her it would be all right. Just
held her and let her spend her fury and frustration against him, let it break like waves on rock, until slowly the force
diminished, and her fingers closed around his T-shirt, clutching at it as she shook in his arms. Just held her and stroked
her hair and felt the warmth of her.