He winced. "I heard about the IAD thing, but not about the demotion. I'm sorry."

"Me too."

"Anything I can do?"

"No." At this point, nothing could hurt worse than help from him. She sighed. "You know the frustrating thing? I just want to do the job. These guys, it's like they think I'm after their livelihood or something. Which is crazy. It's not like I have political aspirations."

"Elena, this is Chicago." He shrugged. "Everybody has political aspirations."

She started to laugh, then saw he wasn't joking.

"Don't worry." He adjusted his watch. "It'll be forgotten before you know it."

She stared at him. Wondered if he could really be that dense. "You know what somebody asked me the other day? This beat cop trying to impress his buddies?" She leaned forward. "He asked if now that you'd been promoted you ranked a bigger desk, or if I was still banging my head against the bottom of the old one." Coffee slopped over the rim of her cup as she set it down hard. "Don't tell me it'll be forgotten, okay, Chief? You're not the one who has to listen to that and pretend it's a joke. You're not the one who got fucked here."

The waitress arrived with steaming plates, one eyebrow just slightly cocked, like she'd caught the end of the conversation. Cruz ignored her, picked up a fork, and cut off a bite of the quiche. Chewed without tasting, her pulse racing.

"You know," Donlan said, gaze steady, "no one forced you into that hotel room."

"I'm not pissed about the hotel room. I'm pissed about what happened afterward."

"We've been over this. I'm sorry it got out, but I didn't tell anyone."

"Neither did I."

"Elena," he shrugged. "Cops talk. They hypothesize, they bullshit each other, they gossip like old ladies. You know that."

"Is that why we needed to have breakfast this morning?" She felt sweat under her arms, set her fork down to hide the anger shakes. "So you could remind me cops talk?"

Donlan finished chewing, used the corner of his napkin to wipe his lips. "No." He straightened, put on his official face. "I heard one of your CIs bought it yesterday."

Her head jerked up. "What?"

"Somebody Palmer, died in a fire?"

"He wasn't a confidential informant," she said slowly. "Just a citizen I was working with." She paused. "That's a little small to make your radar, isn't it?"

"You like anybody for it?"

"Palmer was being taxed by the Gangster Disciples. And he volunteered with a community anti-gang group, the Lantern Bearers." What was this? Donlan had recently been promoted to Deputy Chief of the Area One Detective Division, the latest step in a meteoric rise. Him taking an interest in this case was like the mayor worrying about a broken stoplight.

"So it was a gang hit," he said.

"I'm not sure."

"Why not?"

"It's too simple." She hesitated, trying to choose her words. "I met Michael Palmer at a CAPs meeting. He came up afterwards, asked to talk with me later. When I came by his bar, he claimed he had some info on the gangs. Said it was something big."

"That sounds like motive."

"I know, it's just…" She shrugged. "He was really hush about it. Wouldn't even tell me what exactly he meant. But he said that it went beyond the gangs. That other people were involved." She paused. "Then his bar burned with him in it."

Donlan sighed, shook his head. "And you think it's a conspiracy."

"I'm just being thorough." Under the table, she laced her fingers and squeezed until the bones ached. "I knew the guy."

"You making this personal, Officer?"

She straightened. "No sir."

"This case is a heater. As long as the bangers are shooting each other, nobody gives a shit. But when they kill citizens, we act."

"I agree. I just want to make sure-"

"Enough," he said. "This was a gang hit. Homicide is going to wrap it fast. You want to be thorough, help us with intel. Don't go playing detective and screw up a slam dunk." He set his fork down precisely beside the plate. "You get me?"

She got him, all right. Donlan had knocked more than one person off the ladder to clear his own path. "I get you, Chief."

He nodded, stood up. "You're a good girl, Elena," he said, peeling a twenty from his money clip. "If you're careful, you'll go far." He dropped the bill and walked out without a backward glance.

Leaving Cruz sitting in the restaurant of a hotel where a room cost a week's pay, wondering what exactly she'd just been told.

July 11, 1975

"Sun Zoo? Who dat?"

"Sun Tzu. He a brother wrote a book called The Art of War." Swoop leans back, elbows flung on the step behind. "Chinese brother, long time ago."

"So?" Washington can't believe Swoop is talking about books at a time like this.

"Man said 'War is deception.' You feel that? War is deception." Swoop gestures out at the sunlit street. "See, that 'Rican dropped Eight Ball, and he your boy, so you wanting to go gunning for them, right, cuz?"

"Straight up."

"But you run up in their hood now, what you think gonna happen? You all alone, they know you coming. Shit, they gonna kill your ass."

"I'm bringing Crazy Dee."

"Dee don't belong to me. He do as he like. But you ain't going nowhere." Swoop stares hard.

"Aww, c'mon man-"

"You ain't going. You gonna let them think you too scared." He pulls at his beer. "Then when they let their guard down, next week, next month, you and I, we roll over there together and do some damage." Pauses. "War is deception, yo." Then Swoop stands, nods at the sun, and vanishes with a squeak of the screen door.

Thirteen years old and hurting, Washington starts to rise. Then sits down again.

That night, Crazy Dee opens fire on a chili dog joint in Latin King territory. He gets off three rounds and breaks a window before soldiers in the neighboring houses blow his chest onto the street.

When he hears, Washington locks himself in his bedroom and sobs his throat raw. Beats the pillow and thinks about how when he'd told Crazy Dee he wasn't going, Dee called him a pussy and a bitch and stormed away. And about how when they were seven he and Crazy Dee, who was really Dennis, and Eight Ball, who wasn't Eight Ball yet but William, how they'd made up a game all their own. Started as handball but got complicated enough they named it, DWW or WDW or WWD, dependin' who was throwing. How they played it all summer long, the three of them laughing and loud.

And he thinks how war is deception, and how strange it is, that the power of a long-ago book by a Chinese brother is the only reason he is still alive to cry for his friends.

Jason woke with the sun in his eyes and the Beretta in his hand. The first thing he did was disengage the pistol's safety. The second was check the room.

Billy lay tangled in the sheets, one pasty leg sticking off the edge of the bed. He was face down, shoulders in and arms tucked under as if trying to fold inside himself. "Peaceful" wouldn't have been Jason's first word for the boy, but at least he looked unharmed. Physically.

Jason clicked the safety back on and set the weapon on the floor between his thighs. He rolled his head to either side, vertebrae creaking and popping. After putting Billy to bed last night, he'd triple-locked the front door and slept with his back against it. The position had taken a toll. His body felt thick and heavy. Flaming ants marched up his spine, and his legs had gone numb.

He stood slowly, the world sliding in funky circles as the blood drained from his head. A rush of nausea pole-axed him. The room throbbed in time with his pulse, and he could still taste the Jim Beam, gone foul now. Adrenaline had pushed aside his drunkenness during last night's excitement, but it wasn't doing shit for the hangover.