His smile broke slow and sweet as a spring sunrise. “Partners in crime.”

“Partners in crime.” She leaned across his bandaged hand to kiss him, his rough lips and gentle tongue. Not a passionate kiss, not meant to lead to the bedroom. Just truer than words.

THE BOURBON WAS A FUZZY GLOW THROUGH HIM, sanding the edges off the pain and loosening his body. Tom lay on top of the bed, his left hand up on a pillow, his right enfolding Anna. Out the window, the Ferris wheel turned and turned and turned.

Tomorrow would be bad. But right now, this second, it seemed a million miles away. Maybe he was in shock. Maybe it was the liquor. But for now, mercifully, he felt warm and sheltered, a boat that had made it to safe harbor.

On the desk, his cell phone rang.

“Let it go,” Anna whispered into his armpit.

“Can’t,” he said. Sat up slowly, untwining his arm from around her shoulder. Looked at the display, didn’t recognize the number. “It’s probably Halden. If we’re going to turn ourselves in tomorrow, I should talk to him now.”

“Are you going to tell him?”

“Not if I can help it.” He stood, cracked his neck. “I’d rather do it in person. Besides, I want tonight. Things won’t be calm again for a long time.”

She smiled at him. “I love you.”

“Back at you.” He opened the phone and said, “Tom Reed.”

“Hi, Tom. How’s the W?” Jack Witkowski’s voice was clear and cold. “They have those little bottles of booze in the room?”

HE NEARLY DROPPED THE PHONE. “How did you-”

“How did I find you?” Jack snorted. “This is what I do. You really think I wouldn’t find you, douchebag?”

Tom’s knees felt weak, and he sat on the edge of the table. Locked eyes with Anna, who had registered the tone of his voice and sat up alarmed.

“So, you haven’t answered my question. The W. Nice place?”

“Yeah.” He struggled for his cool. “Great view.”

“I bet. What’s it run, three hunny a night?”

Maybe it was the distance. Maybe it was shock or booze or exhaustion, but Tom just didn’t feel like being cowed. “So what? On your money, we can stay here three years.”

There was a pause, and then a short laugh. “I keep writing you off as a pussy, and you keep proving me wrong. That move with the knife was pretty good. Didn’t work, but it was gutsy. And your wife too. Setting off the panic code anybody could do, but stalling, talking about the money in the heating vent? Pretty clever.”

“Guess so.”

“And now you’re feeling safe in a luxury hotel room. Big windows, that romantic view you mentioned. Maybe got a couple of drinks under your belt. Am I right? You have a few?”

“Yeah.”

“What’s a guy like you drink?”

“Bourbon.”

“Soda, rocks?”

“Neat.”

“Huh. If I’d’ve known that, I’d’ve handled things differently at your house. Wouldn’t have left you alone.”

“I guess that wasn’t in our mail. That’s how you got my cell number too, right?”

“Sure.” Jack paused. “By the way, what’s the matter with your dick? There was a letter from a fertility clinic. You and Anna need a little help? I’d be happy to spot you some baby juice.”

“Fuck you, you fucking psycho.” The words came hard and fast, accompanied by a rush of blood to his face. After all they’d been through, he was surprised that Jack still had the power to violate them, to spread poison on something precious.

“Fuck me?” Jack laughed. “Maybe that’s the problem. Not going to be any babies, you run around trying to cornhole middle-aged Polacks. That it, Tom? You queer?”

He stood, went to the window. Looked out at the Drive, headlights running in one direction, taillights in the other. The past here, the future there, and just a moment, a flickering blur, really, that marked the present. “We told the police everything.”

“Now, I give you credit for balls. But it’s your wife with the brains. I know you didn’t tell the cops.”

Tom had a sinking feeling, said nothing.

“That’s right, tough guy. I was watching. I got balls too. I sat on your block and watched those two uniforms stroll in, then stroll back out maybe five minutes later. You didn’t tell them shit. You’re not going to, either. Because they’ll make you give up the score. And if you do, I’ll kill you and Anna both.”

“Even if we haven’t got the money.”

“Quite a predicament, huh?” Jack’s voice was merry. “You figured it was pennies from heaven, turns out you got bad men on your tail. Life’s a bitch.”

Tom opened his mouth, closed it. In the dark window he could see the reflection of the room, Anna ghostly behind him. Finally he said, “Why did you call? Just to say that?”

“I called to tell you it’s your lucky day. I’ve got a way out for you.”

“How?”

“Just give me my money, Tom. That’s all.”

“How do I know you-”

“Won’t kill you? We’ll do it in public, like on TV. See, I figure, you can’t go to the cops without getting yourself in trouble, and besides, you don’t really know anything that could hurt me. So just bring what’s mine and get on with your lives.”

Tom stood silent.

“I’m not going away. You won’t go to sleep and find me gone in the morning. That money cost me a lot. So we can do this civilized, or I can show up again when you don’t expect it. But if I do… well, I won’t stop with your hand. Or hers.”

Tom’s fingers throbbed, hot against the tight tape.

“Which’ll it be? Gonna bring me my money?”

“Yes,” Tom said.

“Good boy. You know where Century Mall is?”

“Clark and Diversey.”

“Be there tomorrow morning. Ten o’clock. Okay?”

“Okay.”

“And, Tom?” Jack’s voice hardened. “Don’t fuck around. I’m smarter than you, I’m meaner than you, and this is what I do. You get me?”

“Yeah,” Tom said. “I do.”

THE STEAKHOUSE WAS HUMID, packed with men who wore cuff links and spoke in acronyms. Halden ordered a Bud, thought better of it, asked for a shot of Beam as well.

“Long day, hon?” The bartendress wore a shirt designed to push her breasts up and out in a pale spill.

“Long enough.” After meeting Tom Reed at the coffee shop, Halden had hustled back to the station, feeling that tingle of excitement. If the drug dealer was everything Reed said, he could be the key to the whole case. He’d gone straight to the lieutenant’s office, found Johnson with his feet on the desk, paging through a file folder. “Boss.”

The guy raised one finger, but didn’t look up from his pages. Just kept reading, his lips moving. Finally he closed the file. “Chris.”

They’d made detective the same year, but Johnson cared more about politics than policing, and had put his effort into sucking up to the Irish Mafia, the system of favoritism that ran from Mayor Daley on down. He’d even learned to play the bagpipes so he could join the honor guard. It had worked, obviously, but it always made Halden a little sick, the thought that if it would earn him rank, Johnson would probably put on a kilt and Riverdance.

Before Halden could get a word out, the man said, “We’ve got a body in a Dumpster at Sheridan and Buena. I need you to go out there.”

“I can’t. I’m on something else.”

“What?”

“Will Tuttle.”

“I thought he was an overdose.”

“Yeah, triggered a heart condition. But there’s more. His land-lord, guy named Tom Reed-”

“You still calling it accidental death?”

“Yeah.”

“Then that’s all I need to know. Don’t be digging in closed cases. Grab your gear and head for Sheridan. Victor’s primary, you back him up.” Johnson turned back to the folder in dismissal.

Frustration made Halden speak without thinking. “It’s about the Shooting Star.”

Johnson’s eyes snapped back up. He straightened, then leaned forward. “What? Have you got something?”

And in that instant, the whole scenario played out in Halden’s mind. A chance to close the Shooting Star? Forget it. The brass would get involved. The politicos would start angling for their close-up. They’d cut him out of it with a handshake and a pat on the head. He’d be a line item in the report. Meanwhile Johnson, or someone like him, would climb the ranks.