"Alderman Owens is involved?" This case just got better and better.

Galway nodded. "He won on a promise to fight gang violence. This doesn't make him look good." He gave her a look that wasn't hard to read. It said, Danger. It said, Cover your ass. She flashed back to breakfast with Donlan, his none-too-subtle warning. Telling her that this was a heater, not to mess it up on some half-ass theory. Telling her she'd regret it if she did.

She felt a vein pulse in her forehead. "So what you're saying is we're in the middle of a shitstorm."

"What do you mean, 'we,' white girl? It's your case." Galway winked as he stood up. He took his vest from the back of the chair and put it on. "Look, jokes aside, can I give you some advice, partner-to-partner? The powers that be want to clear this quick. This is a chance to earn their gratitude. And Playboy would look awfully good in handcuffs. Maybe," he said, tightening the straps on his Kevlar, "good enough to get you off database duty."

As he walked out, she fought an urge to sweep the stack of folders off her desk. Instead, she leaned back, stared at the ceiling tiles. Picked up a pen and clicked it open, closed, openclosed. When had things gotten so complicated? Criminals were usually stupid, generally arrogant, often drunk or high. They loaded their weapons barehanded, leaving casings with fingerprints. They smoked two seams of dust and shotgunned a liquor store owner to get money for a third. They murdered each other for spray painting on the wrong wall.

What they didn't do was operate in elaborate plots.

Still, something was going on. Michael Palmer killed after talking to her about a gang. Apparently, killed by white guys, even though black gangbangers had later gone after his kid. And add to that the warnings from Donlan and Galway, the political pressure.

Cruz opened her bottom desk drawer, took out her vest. Put it on, checked her pistol, her star. Hesitated, then dug out her backup piece, a "mini-Glock" in an ankle holster. Going through the motions, preparing herself to hit the street and look for Playboy. All the while inhabited by a weird nervousness, a sense that things were moving beyond her control. It was starting to feel like she was on a train that had derailed, left the tracks to hurtle through space.

True, she hadn't felt an impact yet.

But that didn't mean it wasn't coming.

They were on their own.

Goddamnit.

Outside the police station the sun beat on Jason's back. Cars hummed by on the Dan Ryan. Billy looked up, his eyes wide, and in them Jason saw that fear was only barely restrained, and felt the weight of that.

The cops couldn't help. He was all that stood between his nephew and the men who wanted to kill him.

First things first, soldier. You need a place to go. Where, though? If the bangers had found Michael's home, they might be able to find his apartment. He needed a place where no one would look for them. But what were they supposed to do, live out of hotels for the rest of their lives?

The answer came like a smile. "Billy," he said, "let's go see an old friend."

The drive was short, but rife with weird milestones. Jason hadn't been back to the street where he'd grown up in years. He passed his old house, still leaning like a drunk about to fall off his stool. Siding spotted yellow, concrete crumbling, but the flowers tended. He was glad to see that. Someone making a go of it.

"You'll like this guy," he said, glancing over at Billy. "He was really important to me when I was growing up. To your dad, too. His name is Washington."

His nephew looked at him like he was crazy, said, "I know Uncle Washington."

Somehow that made things worse. Michael had been gone a day, and Jason was already realizing that as well as he'd known his brother, he hadn't known him at all.

Washington's house was as he remembered it, a three-flat with a fading wrought iron fence and tired curtains in the windows. But beside the steps to the porch there now hung a sign that read "The Lantern Bearers," and under that:

RESPECT

E MPOWERMENT

P RIDE

He led Billy up the steps, feeling like he was walking through an old dream. A stringy kid with pocked cheeks answered the door, listened dubiously, and then told them to hang on. Jason ruffled Billy's hair. The screen door dimmed the view into the house. He saw a figure moving, and his head went light. It hadn't hit him until this moment who he was about to see, or how long it had been.

Then the door flew open. "Oh, thank God." Washington dropped to a knee to wrap Billy in an embrace. "I was worried."

"I'm okay," Billy's voice was muffled by Washington's shoulder. "Uncle Jason has been taking care of me."

Jason shifted on his feet, strangely nervous. It had been years. And the moment felt awkward; he hadn't expected Washington to go straight for Billy. He hesitated, then smiled. "Hello, old man."

Washington straightened, squared himself off in front of Jason. "So." He wore a beard now, and the lines around his eyes were a little deeper. "The prodigal son returns."

For a long moment, they just stared at each other. Then Washington broke into a wide grin, his eyes bright. He spread his arms, and Jason stepped into them, the two of them grinning and clapping each other on the back.

"Welcome home."

Jason closed his eyes and hugged him harder. Then stepped away, one hand on the shoulder of the closest thing he had to a father. His lips pinched in a solemn frown. "You've heard?"

Washington nodded. "Word on the street goes faster than light. You all right?"

"Yeah. I don't know. I should have been there." He paused. "We need to talk."

"Yes." Washington cut his eyes to Billy. "Later, though."

They stood silent for a moment. Jason wanting to ask for something, but not sure what. Help? Forgiveness? For Washington to make it better? He looked away. Then he felt something warm tugging at his arm.

Billy looked up at him. "Can I go inside and see Ronald?"

"Who's Ronald?"

"He's my friend. He can pick me up with one hand."

Jason looked at Washington, saw the nod, said, "Sure thing, kiddo." Billy grinned and dashed inside, his heels flashing. It stabbed Jason's chest. For a moment, Billy had looked just like any normal kid.

"So," Washington made the word sound like a grunt as he settled back in his chair and put his feet up on the porch railing.

They'd arrived in late afternoon, but now, nearly eight o'clock, was the first chance to really talk. Jason hadn't seen the old man in years, and in that time Washington had transformed himself from a librarian who tutored local kids into a full-fledged activist. The house Jason remembered visiting as a teenager had become a cross between an afterschool center and a clubhouse, with former gangbangers washing dishes in the kitchen and studying for the GED in the living room. Washington seemed to be everywhere at once, talking to "his boys," taking meetings, spending hours on the phone.

The delay had turned out to be a good thing. It gave Jason a chance to hang with Billy, to distract the boy from the rest of the world. He'd taught his nephew all the jokes he knew, the clean ones at least, and the two of them had spent the afternoon getting schooled in basketball by teenaged killers.

Now though, with Billy tucked in early and the sky fading to purple, Jason couldn't avoid his own mind anymore. "So."

"Are you okay?"

Jason shrugged. "I don't know."

"He was a good man."

"Yes." Jason felt a buildup of electricity. He still hadn't cried for his brother, and he was starting to hate himself for it. He took a belt of gin, watched bugs loop the streetlights. Tried to think of something to say. "You still working at the library?"