“Hello?”

“Who is this?” A male voice, whispering.

“Lieutenant Daniels, of the Chicago Police Department. Who am I speaking with?”

A pause. I could hear him breathing. Slow and even, like a metronome.

“You know who this is, Lieutenant. Did they assign you a new partner yet?”

Anger overrode anxiety. “Why are you doing this?”

“You’re the cop. You figure it out.”

I clenched the phone so tight, my knuckles turned white.

“You’re killing innocent people.”

“No one is fully innocent,” he rasped. “Especially not the police.”

“How about these people in this apartment? What did they do to you?”

“Unfortunate, but I needed the car. I believe the government would call them casualties of war, or collateral damage.”

“We’re not at war.”

“I am.”

I waited. An old police trick. Give a suspect silence, and he’ll fill the silence with talk.

“Are you wondering if I’m a terrorist?” the Chemist finally said. “I’m not. I’m not out to cause terror. I’m out to cause pain. An eye for an eye. And I might as well make a little money along the way. Have you decided to pay me?”

“Yes. The ad will run tomorrow. If we pay you, you’ll stop this?”

He chuckled.

“You’re very attractive. Not like that younger woman, the blonde. She had a better body, but she didn’t have that look that you have. The haunted look. You’ve seen things, I bet. Done things. Any sins to confess, Lieutenant?”

I knew I could get the phone records, trace this number, but he probably knew that as well. Why did he call? To ask about the money? To see if there were survivors?

“If you come in voluntarily, we can work out a deal. I know the assistant state’s attorney. We could waive the death penalty.”

“Lieutenant Daniels.” He was speaking normally now, no longer whispering. “I am the death penalty.”

I had talked to my share of psychos, but this one was really freaking me out.

“Why did you call here?”

“For two reasons. First, to get your phone number. You’re the person I want to deal with from now on. What’s your cell?”

I didn’t like that much, but I gave it to him.

“What’s the other reason?”

Another chuckle. “It’s awfully dry in there, don’t you think?”

I glanced at the tabletop humidifier, noticed that the green light was blinking.

“Perhaps you should leave, Lieutenant. A dry environment isn’t very healthy.”

I dropped the phone and backed away, stumbling over the corpse, almost losing my footing, forcing my throat closed in mid-gasp. Back in the living room, I heard the faint humming of the floor-model humidifier next to the sofa. It had been off before, but those things had sensors and timers and started automatically. Now it was running full tilt, billowing lethal steam throughout the room.

I clamped a hand over my mouth and sprinted, still not breathing, and ran out into the hallway into a band of Cicero cops storming up the stairs.

Four men trained their weapons on me. I exhaled, raising up my hands, saying, “I’m police.”

And then my stomach twisted, and my vision got wiggly, and I grabbed on to the railing and thought Oh my God no just as the vomit escaped my lips.

AN OVERLY HAIRY MEDIC named Holmes stuck an electronic thermometer in my ear as I sat in the rear of his ambulance, breathing into a plastic bag.

“Ninety-nine point one,” he declared.

The plethora of unpronounceable poisons, toxins, and diseases I’d been exposed to in the last few days raced like a stampede through my mind.

“So I’m sick?” I asked, my voice small.

“BP is normal. Reflexes are normal. Headache or stomachache?”

“Both.”

“Open wide.”

I opened, self-conscious about my breath after throwing up.

“Throat looks fine.” He shined a penlight in my eyes. “Pupil response normal.”

“So what have I got?”

“Nothing, as far as I can tell.”

The CPD Mobile Command Post drove up, and six SRT cops got out, all wearing full space suits.

“I threw up,” I told the medic. “Should we go get a sample?”

“Why?”

“I don’t know. To test.”

Holmes gave me a patronizing look.

“You aren’t the first cop to throw up at a crime scene. It’s nothing to be ashamed of.”

“That’s not why I threw up. I’ve seen corpses before.”

“Have you been under a lot of stress lately?”

“Maybe.”

“That’s probably what did it.”

“But you said I have a fever.”

“A slight fever. Could be due to stress, or overheating.”

“And my headache?”

“Stress.”

He packed up his kit.

“If I drop dead, you’re going to feel really stupid,” I said.

He winked at me. “I’ll risk it.”

A Cicero cop came over, Cooper on his name badge. The sergeant I’d spoken with on the phone. Short, dark, and brooding.

“What a giant clusterfuck. Those were good guys.”

He didn’t seem to know what else to say. I didn’t have much either.

“You want my statement?” I eventually asked.

“Yeah.”

We spent half an hour going over it, backward and forward and backward again. Cooper got on the horn with the phone company and a few minutes later found out that the Chemist had called from the Hothams’ own cell phone, which he’d apparently taken with him after their murder. Cooper tried pinging the number-a system that the 911 Emergency Center uses to triangulate cell phone locations to within twenty-five meters-but the Chemist had probably destroyed the phone after calling the apartment.

With my statement in the can, I asked if I could poke around the apartment. When Cooper said no, the relief I felt was a physical thing.

“We’ll keep you in the loop, get you the reports, but you going up there now isn’t going to happen.”

From the hard looks of the Cicero cops who walked past, I understood Cooper’s reasoning. If I hadn’t called earlier, two men would still be alive.

I drove home. Even though Cicero was closer to Bensenville, it still took an hour.

A call to the nurse’s station told me Latham had awoken briefly, but was now sleeping again. I asked them to call me if there was any change. Then I fished my notebook out of my purse, and found the number of Wilbur Martin Streng that Dispatch had given to me earlier. He lived in Elmwood Park. No priors, other than some minor traffic violations.

My dad.

I stared at the number, wondering how I should feel. I didn’t remember much about my father. All I had were impressions of him. The old leather slippers he always wore around the house. The dark-framed Clark Kent glasses. The smell of Old Spice and cigars.

One memory stood out, so clear that I had no idea if it was a real memory or a fabrication. We were in Grant Park for some kind of summer festival, and I was on his shoulders, and there was an ice cream vendor on the street. Dad bought me an ice cream, and I dropped it. So we went back to the vendor, and he bought me another one. I accidentally dropped that one too. He didn’t get mad. No lecture. No yelling. Not a single word. We just went back to the ice cream man, and Dad bought me a third.

This was the man who left me and Mom. The man who destroyed our family.

I wanted to drum up some hate, but couldn’t seem to find it. All I had was curiosity. I wanted to hear, in his words, why he left. Why he never tried to get in touch. How he could completely absolve responsibility for the lives of two people he was supposed to have loved.

I put the number away. Now wasn’t the time.

I came home to a package outside my door. Shoes I’d ordered from some TV shopping club. Normally that would perk me up. This time, it was a chore to even pick them up.

Upon opening my door, I was greeted by the pleasant surprise of a living room coated in kitty litter. This was impressive, considering the cat box was in the kitchen. Mr. Friskers had also asserted his dominance over the sofa, having shredded one of the armrests.