They talked for another half hour, Halden having him run through it again and again. Tom had expected that, and kept his story to almost exactly what happened. Where the drug dealer had been smooth and professional, his violence implied, Tom made him rougher, meaner, more explicit. Other than that, he recounted every detail: the cut and color of the man’s suit, the Rolex he wore loose on his left wrist, the manner of his speech, his “associate” Andre, even the story about Genghis Khan. He remembered the names the guy had asked about, Jack Witkowski and Marshall Richards, and thought he saw something quicken behind the cop’s eyes.

Halden took it all down in the same binder he’d used in their kitchen, precise handwriting flowing from a gold pen. Finally he said, “Okay.”

“What will happen?”

“I’ll run this up the flagpole and get back to you as soon as possible.”

“But what-”

“I’m not sure yet, Mr. Reed. If this guy was involved in the Shooting Star, he’s going to be a top priority. My guess is that we’ll set a trap for him, maybe ask you to call him and say that you found his product. You’d be willing to do that?”

Tom had anticipated that, but made sure to hesitate visibly before saying, “Yes. If that would mean you catch him.”

“It may. I’ll be back in touch with you soon, probably later today. Keep your cell phone on.”

“What about us?”

“Why don’t you and your wife check into a hotel? It won’t be more than a night or two.”

“What if he finds us?” No need to fake the concern in his voice.

“He won’t.” Halden set down the cup, adjusted his tie. “He knew your names because he read a paper. He probably staked out your house, followed you to work, then waited for you to go to lunch. Supervillains are comic book stuff. This guy just has a Tribune subscription.”

Tom nodded slowly. “I guess we could use the rest.”

“There you go. Pamper yourself. Pamper that wife of yours.”

They stood up, Detective Halden passing him another business card, telling him to call immediately if anything more occurred, his tone stern. Tom nodded, shook hands, and they walked out together. Halden was dialing his cell phone even before he opened the door to his pale blue Crown Vic. Tom smiled.

The risk had paid off. The promise of closing the Shooting Star case was too tasty an opportunity for Halden to miss. It was a sexy case, the kind of thing that would no doubt earn him a lot of credit. Like anybody else, Halden wanted to move up. He’d be focusing on the drug dealer, working his bosses, trying to set a trap as quickly as possible. It would keep his attention where it belonged.

Feeling ten pounds lighter, Tom dug out his own cell phone.

“Hey, baby,” she answered.

“Hey,” he said. “Where are you?”

“Running errands.”

“Meet me back home. Let’s grab a few things and go check into a hotel.”

“A hotel? What’s up?”

“I’ll tell you when I see you.”

“Everything okay?”

“Yeah,” he said, smiling. “It is now.”

He walked three blocks to the Sedgwick station and waited for the Brown Line. Had the platform almost to himself, just a bag lady and a beefy guy who climbed the stairs after him. From the raised platform, he could see the Sears Tower marking the skyline. Maybe they’d go downtown tonight, a four-star, the Peninsula or the Ritz, someplace with fluffy bathrobes and a fancy pool. Splurge a little.

The train clattered up. It was almost five, and the car was packed with rush-hour commuters. He fought his way to the back and leaned against the door separating two cars. As the El rocked and swayed, he thought again of the detective, how intent he had become once Tom mentioned the Shooting Star. This was going to work. Better still, he could tell Anna now. She’d be scared at first, mad at him for concealing it, but she’d be happy with the resolution. With the cops after the drug dealer, and no one after the money, they were clear.

By the time they made Rockwell, the crowd had thinned. A dozen people got off, everyone in their own world, folding newspapers or glancing at watches, hurrying in different directions. The air was cool after the stuffy embrace of the train. He walked the few blocks to their home, listening to the wind toy with the leaves, smelling food and flowers on the night air.

“Excuse me, buddy.” It was the man from the Sedgwick platform, a biggish guy, not fat but hefty, with eight o’clock shadow and dark hair. “I got a question for you.”

“What?” Tom asked.

As he did, his stomach exploded. His knees went wobbly and he doubled over, retching. Struggled desperately to suck air into his lungs, his mind running a mile behind, trying to process that this total stranger had gut-punched him with a fist like a chunk of concrete.

The man said, “Are you right- or left-handed, asshole?”

JACK TOOK A HANDFUL of the douchebag’s hair and dragged him up the steps of his building. At the moment the street was clear, but it was just after five, an hour when people walked their dogs and fired up their grills. No point hanging around.

He opened the door to the entryway, then yanked the guy in and flung him at the wall. He didn’t have time to get his arms up, and hit hard. Staggered back, dazed, that sheep look, like if he blinked enough the badness would go away.

“Open the door,” Jack said.

The man coughed, straightened slowly. “Who are-”

Jack slapped him openhanded, whack, right across the cheek. Same thing he’d done to the Star, and with the same reaction. Fear and helplessness crept into Tom Reed’s eyes. Fear and helplessness were good. They were loud emotions, static that interfered with thinking. The stupidest thing this guy could do was to open the door and let himself be taken into a private space, away from prying eyes. What he ought to do was run for the street, yelling his lungs out. But fear and helplessness kept him from thinking properly. “Open the door.”

The guy nodded, reached into his bag, and came out with a ring of keys. He turned and inserted one into the door to the stairs.

“Not that one. The other door.”

“What?”

Jack pulled his chrome.45, let it dangle at the end of his arm. Tom Reed’s eyes widened, and he said, “Look, take my wallet.”

“Open the other door, Tom.”

For a moment, the guy just stood there, finally catching on. Then he stepped sideways and unlocked the door to Will Tuttle’s apartment.

“Inside.”

Jack followed, waited until they were in the living room and the door was closed behind them. Then he drove the butt of the pistol into the guy’s right kidney.

Tom Reed collapsed like every muscle had failed at once. He hit the floor fetal, clutching at his side and his belly and wheezing a thin animal sound. His legs spasmed like a frog’s. Jack turned to snap the dead bolt shut. He stood for a moment, watching the man writhe, and then he said, “Let’s have a little chat, shall we?”

HE COULDN’T MOVE, couldn’t think. A dark sun burned in his back, spitting lances of flame, gobs of lava that burned and sizzled. Tom fought to breathe, just to breathe, the world wobbly and wet before his eyes. He could see the pattern of the hardwood floor, smell the earthy dirt of a thousand footprints. From somewhere came a crisp metallic snap. The lock being twisted. It was the scariest sound he had ever heard.

“Let’s have a little chat, shall we?”

Tom grunted, gasped. The voice was above him. The man from the Sedgwick platform. Big, not fat. With a gun. A guy who knew his name. He tried to force his thoughts into order.

The man said, “We haven’t met, but I feel like I know you, Tom. Amazing, the things you can learn about somebody by going through their mail.” Paper fluttered down. White paper, with something printed on it. “You know what that is? It’s a Visa receipt. The kind they send when you make a remote deposit. It says you paid down fifteen grand in debt last week. Fifteen thousand, four hundred twelve dollars and fifty-seven cents, to be exact.”