“We found her again,” La Duca announced.

“Great.” Dez said, as if it were par for the course, as if he wasn’t completely relieved. “Where is she?”

“Roma, but that’s all we know. Our contact who was following them seems to have dropped off, hasn’t checked in.”

The duke kept talking. He said it didn’t appear that the McNeil girl had any plans to leave Italy anytime soon. And then he dropped a bomb. “We have information,” La Duca said, “that her father is alive.”

“You’re kidding-” Dez started to say, but he halted, then corrected himself so that his words were one of an associate of the duke’s, not an employee. “When were you apprised of this?” he asked calmly.

“A few days ago. And from what we can tell, he has been trying to sideline the System the whole time. He has been working for the antimafia office against us for all these years.”

Dez felt remorse for a second, then embarrassment. They hadn’t even told him. “Why didn’t you mention this to me?”

“We didn’t need to involve you.”

Dez sat down at his desk. We didn’t need to involve you. That wasn’t good. Even though he was in Chicago, an ocean away from them, he needed to be an integral part of the business. He was the United States boss after all. He needed to be updated on all this, so he could properly wield his power. But he couldn’t tell the duke that.

He was just starting to formulate his response when the duke spoke. And his words changed everything.

“But we need your help now, my friend,” La Duca said, although the word friend didn’t sound particularly friendly. “But you will only be able to help us if you can do so fast.”

Immediately, we smelled the blood. A gagging sound came from Maggie’s throat. She put her hand over her mouth and stepped into the room.

I followed her inside, unable to look at the right side of the room. Instead, I just raised my arm and pointed at the couch. “There.”

But as I said the word, my body turned against my will, needing to see. Then I turned more fully, my eyes opening wide, blinking, because…because…

There was no one there.

“He was…” I said. “He was right…”

A moment passed-a moment that seemed so long, contained the power of so much sensory information. That smell, a soft ticking of a clock on the desk, the low rumble of something-subways?-somewhere in the city, the sound of my breath coursing, jagged, in and out of my lungs, the sight of the red couch still pushed aside, of the pool of red liquid next to it.

“Are you sure?” Maggie asked.

“Look.” I pointed to the blood. “Obviously, something happened. He was lying right there.”

Maggie shook her head. “But where is he now?”

I paced the room, my eyes wildly scanning the place, my brain scanning every memory I had, every sight I’d seen, looking for something that made sense.

“There are drag marks over here. Elena must have had the body removed. After we saw him, when we got upstairs, she took off running.”

“Where would she take the body?”

“I have no idea.”

“We have to figure out where she could be.”

I was about to make the same response-I have no idea-but then I stopped. “I think I know.” I grabbed Maggie’s hand. “Let’s go.”

“Charlie!” the producer yelled. “That author is at the front desk. Get her and take her to the green room.”

Charlie removed his headset and shot off his chair. He left the booth where the producers ran the radio show and made his way through the studio. Two walls of glass overlooked Michigan Avenue, right where the street met the river. The desk in the studio, in front of those windows, was massive and triangular, each side having two or three headphones and mikes, except for the host’s side, which had only one headset and a soundboard in front of it.

The host glanced up at him, gave a half smile and kept reading a newspaper. A commercial was playing, but you couldn’t hear it in the studio, and although the guy would have to be back on air, live, going out to millions of listeners in twenty seconds, he was unfazed.

Which never failed to amaze Charlie. The skill this guy had-hell, the skill that nearly everyone at the station had-was impressive and inspiring. Charlie had been sitting on his ass for so long in his apartment that he hadn’t seen this kind of expertise up close and personal for a long while. Sure, his mom and stepdad and Izzy were successful, but Izzy had been flaking lately, which made Charlie feel rather simpatico with her. Yet it was Izzy’s meandering in and out of jobs that made him realize he needed to get one. A real one, which he’d never had before.

Charlie had worked during high school and college, and he’d had the dump truck gig, but since he was an adult he’d never had a truly professional job. Of course, this thing with WGN was just an internship, something a college student could probably do, but it was perfect for Charlie. He got to watch the way people worked, the way they thought, the way they prepared. He knew the host was always up early in the morning-Charlie sometimes got e-mails from the guy sent at 6 a.m.-watching the news, boiling it down into witty, passing quips that sounded like off-the-cuff opinions. Charlie observed the head producer, too, who was a master of scheduling and glad-handing. The guy had to stack the book every day with interesting people-authors, comedians, politicians, celebs, sports guys-and then make the show feel as if it had exactly the right balance. When one guest called to cancel, or when the publicist for a better guest jumped in, the producer had to juggle the whole thing, moving this guest here, rescheduling another there.

The host dropped the corner of his newspaper. “Who do we have next?”

“The author.” Charlie gestured in the direction of the front desk. “The one who traveled with that band, The Decker Brothers, for a year.”

“It’s a kid’s band,” the host said, “right? They’re like six and eight years old?”

“Eight and ten.” Charlie had been up last night reading all the press releases.

“And this grown woman traveled with these…” The host shook his head, his voice trailing off, ending with a short sigh. Then something seemed to catch his eye, and he stared out the window onto the street.

Charlie followed his gaze. Outside was the usual collection of tourists, some trying to take pictures of the studio through the glass, others cupping their faces around it to see inside. Sometimes people stood and waved until the hosts would wave back, even though they were live. Sometimes the people outside brought signs and jumped around with them until the host read them out loud, and hearing their signs read through the speakers on the street, the people would jump higher and cheer.

But today, there was something else going on. Two guys dressed in Cubs jerseys and baseball caps were staggering around outside, sort of tussling with each other.

“Drunk,” the host said fondly. Charlie heard he was a recovering alcoholic.

One of them, a big guy with tattoos up and down both sides of his neck, threw the little one against the glass, and it made a huge bam sound. It looked like a fight, but then both of the guys just laughed. They turned to the glass and pressed themselves against it, pounding with their fists as if someone could open the glass and let them in.

The producer stuck his head out of the booth. “Charlie! Go control those idiots!”

Charlie hustled to the door. He was about to leave the studio when the host spoke up again. “Get the guest first. Make sure she knows we’re a little delayed.”

“But what about those guys…” Charlie pointed out the window where the two men were now doing some kind of cheer. The one with the tattoos on his neck threw his head back and looked as if he was howling. The other one cupped his hand and peered inside the glass then started banging on it again.