He pivoted and reluctantly glanced again at the mess on the toolshed floor. “Our poor victim must’ve pulled some sort of heist.”

“Looks that way. I’ll start checking the wire reports. See if I can figure out what he did.”

“I don’t know what to think. But it’s very strange. Get some serial numbers off that money and run it past the FBI. They might be able to help you figure out where it came from.” Mike took another long look at the toolshed. He wouldn’t mind having a place like this of his own one day. Except not splattered with blood and brain matter. “Anything else?”

“Yeah-this.” Baxter produced what appeared to be a photocopy of a newspaper article placed inside a clear plastic evidence bag. “Found this in the end table by the bed.”

Mike scanned the headline. FBI PROBES PARTY DRUG RING. He couldn’t tell what paper it had come from.

“Why was this of such interest that he made a copy?” she asked.

“Darn good question. Wish I knew the answer. But photocopies can yield information beyond the mere text.”

“You think there’s a connection between the murder and illegal drugs?”

“I don’t know. God, I hope not.” He looked one more time around the shed, then passed through the door. “ ‘And our little life is rounded by a sleep.’ ”

Baxter followed him. “Robert Frost?”

Mike shook his head. “Shakespeare. Again.”

“He was a cheery soul. Aren’t there any poets who are pleasant to read?”

Mike considered a moment. “You might go for Theodore Geisel.”

“Really?”

“Possible.”

“If I learned to spout poetry like you do, you think we’d get along better?”

“Possible.”

“And you’d stop treating me like your ignorant secretary?”

“Possible.”

“And you’d let me drive the Trans Am?”

“Not a chance.”

South Side of Chicago

near Jackson Park

Charlie the Chicken was running scared.

That was why he blew town. That was why he was now back, albeit functioning under a different professional name. That was why he had buzzed his hair off, ditched his glasses, changed his look. He wasn’t working the same neighborhoods and he hadn’t haunted the old haunts. Hadn’t gone anywhere near Remote Control. In short, he had burned all his bridges and forsaken all traces of his former existence.

And none of it would be enough.

Charlie recounted the change in his pocket. This was getting ridiculous. He couldn’t make the pathetic fifty-dollar-a-week rent for this hellhole of a room in a part of Kenwood that urban renewal never touched. He couldn’t even feed himself. He was a prisoner, just as much as if he were behind bars, except that behind bars he’d be a lot safer and better fed than he was out here. Safe or not, he had no choice. He was going to have to get out. Go to work. Earn some scratch.

But he had to be careful, too. Because his old friend, the one he had seen on that dark and rainy night, would be looking for him. He was sure of it.

He’d followed the case in the newspapers, of course. Who hadn’t? Every dramatic development. So far, no one had a clue what had really happened. His friend had to be feeling fairly secure right about now. Impervious. About the only thing that could possibly go wrong would be if Charlie the Chicken opened his big mouth.

He wondered if that was what had happened to Manny. That hick had never had the sense God gave a carrot. Probably swapping testosterone with their mutual friend-until it went too far. And then-Charlie winced just to think about what had happened to the stupid slob. And to realize how easily it could happen to him. The smartest thing he could do was stay out of the way. Way far out of the way. Even if that meant there would be no transfer. He couldn’t give their friend a chance at him.

If there was to be no transfer, then tomorrow he would have to start the job hunt. He had no choice. Back to the wonderful world of sex, oral and anal, licking and spitting, fancy French terms for things kids whispered about on playgrounds. Bathroom stalls. Adult parlors. Society cotillions. It’s a wonderful life.

He wondered if he would ever be safe. When the trial restarted, that would help. A little. But would it be enough? Wouldn’t his friend still be concerned about the havoc that could be wrought by skinny, hair-gelled, dimple-chinned Charlie the Chicken?

Would he ever be safe?

Somehow, he didn’t think this was the life his parents had mapped out for him, back when they gave him birth and raised him in the Windy City’s Cabrini-Green housing project. Good Catholic upbringing, decent schools. They’d thought he was going to grow up to be a doctor. Well, they’d missed that mark by a hell of a distance, hadn’t they?

What had happened to him? He had always been rebellious, true, but this life was something else again. He’d always been fascinated by sex, too-but what teenage boy wasn’t? Most of them didn’t end up like him, doing the things he did. He couldn’t even blame drugs or booze, like most of those in his line. He’d never been attached to either of them. Not an addictive personality. So what explanation did that leave? Just plain stupid?

His life was one big screwup, and he knew it. And it was about to be damned short, if he didn’t do something to straighten himself out. So what was it going to be?

One day at a time, as the AA crowd liked to say. First work. Then money. Then food. Then flight. And keep the fear under lock and key.

Except the fear was already with him. Always with him. Time had not dulled its edge. And, quite possibly, nothing could.

Because a person capable of doing what had happened to Manny was capable of anything. Absolutely anything. At any time. To anyone.

Even Charlie the Chicken.

Cook County Detention Center

County Jail

26th and California Avenue

Christina hated this part of her job. She didn’t know why, exactly. Objectively speaking, it wasn’t that difficult. Didn’t require much preparation. Didn’t depend on quick reflexes, listening skills, or a mnemonic aptitude for arcane case law. Bottom line, all she had to do was show up and take notes.

So why did she hate it so much?

She stared at her reflection in the acrylic panel. Well, for starters, jails smelled. Always. Apparently it was a universal constant; even with its big-city budget, this Chicago joint was no better than the one she was accustomed to back in Tulsa. Possibly worse. The man at the front desk assured her that they scrubbed the place down regularly, but it didn’t kill the stench. And she didn’t like the paint, or the furnishings or, for that matter, most of the inhabitants.

But that wasn’t the worst of it. The worst was seeing all these men restrained, locked up, trapped behind bars. The older she got, the more she thought she might be claustrophobic. Or maybe it wasn’t a phobia. Maybe it was memory. She’d been locked up once, and it just about killed her. She never wanted to go through that again.

And she thought Ben understood that, even though they had never directly discussed it, which was why he always handled these lockup interviews and brought her along only if it was absolutely necessary. Except now, since he inexplicably refused to have anything to do with this case. What was up with that, anyway? It was so unlike Ben. She’d worked with him all these years; she’d never once seen him back away from someone who needed help, much less someone particularly asking for his help.

Jones thought maybe Ben wanted no part of it because the accused was obviously homophobic, violent, and thoroughly twisted. The press had crucified him; they would likely do the same to his lawyer. But that didn’t ring true. Ben had agreed to represent an avowed member of a white racist militia group, for God’s sake, not to mention a host of other undesirables. After all that, he’s going to turn his back on some college kid? It just didn’t make sense. There had to be something more.