“That’s right, cookie,” Mr. Contreras put in. “You can’t be letting people tell you what you can and can’t do for a living.”

Conrad glared at the old man but spoke to me. “Your investigations are like Sherman ’s march through Georgia: you get where you’re going, but God help anyone within five miles of your path. South Chicago has enough death and destruction without you adding your investigative skills to my war zone.”

“That badge and gun don’t make you owner of the South Side,” I began, my eyes hot. “It’s just that you cannot bear the memory-”

The doorbell rang before I could finish my own offensive retort. Peppy and Mitch began a deafening barking, whirling around me in circles to let me know someone was approaching. Mr. Contreras, in his element when I’m on the disabled list, bustled out, the dogs clattering behind him.

The interruption gave me time to take a breath. “Conrad, you’re too good a cop to be threatened by anything I do. I know you’re not afraid I’ll steal glory you have coming to you if I turn up something that helps you solve a case. And you’re a generous coworker with women. So your reaction is totally about you and me. Do you think I-”

I broke off as I heard the expedition to the third floor making its way up the stairs: the dogs racing up and down as Mr. Contreras slowly puffed his way upward, and the hollow thump of a cane against the hard stairwell carpet.

Morrell was coming to visit me. It was his first time moving this far from his own place since he’d come home, and I was touched, and delighted-so why was I feeling embarrassed? Surely not because Morrell would see me with Conrad-and absolutely not because Conrad would see me with Morrell. Which meant I was blushing for no good reason.

Then, over the sound of the cane and Mr. Contreras’s heavy tread, I heard Marcena’s light, high voice and my embarrassment receded into annoyance. Why was she raining on my parade once again? Didn’t she have to get back to England, or Fallujah?

I turned my back on the door and doggedly continued my speech to Conrad. “If you’ve been holding a grudge against me for four years, that makes me feel sad. But, even so, you’re asking something that you have no right to, under law, something you must know I wouldn’t agree to, even if it would end your bitter feelings against me.”

Conrad looked at me, lips compressed, trying to make up his mind how to answer. The dogs raced in before he decided, dancing around me with their tails waving like banners: they’d brought me company, and they wanted petting and cheers for being so clever.

Behind them, I could hear Marcena saying to Mr. Contreras, “I adore horse racing; I had no idea you could see it in Chicago. Before I go home, you must take me to the track. Are you a lucky punter? No? No more am I, but I never can resist.”

So now she was charming the socks off my neighbor, too. I got to my feet again as she and Mr. Contreras came through my little vestibule.

“Marcena! What a pleasure. And horse racing, of course, another passion of yours that I never knew about, like World War Two fighter planes! Come meet Commander Rawlings, and tell him how much you adore model trains, and how your Uncle Julian-or was it your Uncle Sacheverel?-used to let you play with his H.O. layout at Christmas.” Conrad had an unexpected passion for model railroads; his living room held an intricate setup that he turned to when he needed to unwind, and he had a small shop in his garage where he built houses and molded miniature scenery.

Conrad shook his head several times, just a reflex, startled by my sudden chirpy outburst, while Marcena looked at me through narrowed eyes. I introduced them, and went out to the landing to find Morrell. He had reached the top of the stairs, but was getting his breath back before coming in to face a crowd. Peppy came out to see what we were doing, but Mitch had also fallen for Marcena and was staying close to her.

“So you’ve been back in the wars, my mighty Amazon?” Morrell pulled me close and kissed me. “I thought the house rule was only one of us could be injured at a time.”

“Just a flesh wound,” I said gruffly. “It hurts horribly right now, but it’s not serious. Thanks for coming. I’m just finishing with the cops; Commander Rawlings wanted complete chapter and verse.”

“I would have been here sooner, but Marcena didn’t get in until noon, and she needed to rest before setting out again. Sorry to bring her, darling, but I don’t trust myself driving in city traffic yet.”

One of the bullets had nicked Morrell’s right hip where the sciatic nerve comes out. The nerve had been damaged, and it wasn’t clear how completely it would recover. His occupational therapist had urged him to learn to use hand controls to drive, but he was resisting, not wanting to acknowledge that he might not regain full use of his leg. I put my arm around him, and we went back into my apartment, where Marcena was petting Mitch and asking Conrad about his work.

Conrad was answering her tersely. His jaw was rigid, and when he saw me come in with Morrell he broke off midsentence. I introduced the two men before sitting heavily down again-all this commotion was wearing me out.

“You been shot, huh?” Conrad said to Morrell. “Not running in front of a bullet meant for Vic, were you?”

“No, these were all meant for me,” Morrell said. “Or, at least, for anyone trying to get into Mazar-e-Sharif that day. Or that’s what the army told me-I don’t remember it myself.”

“Sorry, man, tough. I took a few at Hill 882.”

Conrad was embarrassed at letting his feelings about me goad him into plain bald rudeness. For several minutes, he and Morrell and Mr. Contreras traded war stories-my neighbor had somehow survived one of World War II’s bloodiest battles without being hurt, but he had seen plenty of other dead and wounded men. Marcena had her own store of war zone anecdotes to contribute. South Side street fighter that I am, I’ve seen my share of ugly fights, but these were small and personal, so I kept them to myself.

“‘War is sweet to those who never saw one,’” Morrell said, adding to me, “Erasmus, I think-you’ll have to ask Coach McFarlane how he said it in Latin.”

His words broke the chain of reminiscences; Conrad turned to Marcena. “Vic was telling me you’ve been riding around the South Side, Ms. Love. Have you been on your own?”

Marcena looked at me reproachfully; I hadn’t been a good chum, telling on her to the cops.

“You’ve spent a lot of time down there lately, you’ve seen a lot of the community, and people talk to you frankly,” I said. “I told Commander Rawlings, because you might have seen or heard something that would be useful to him.”

“I can ask my own questions, Vic, thanks, and don’t go tipping off witnesses again, okay? Maybe Ms. Love and I will go out for coffee and let you two be alone.”

“Absolutely,” Marcena said. “Morrell, when you’re ready for me to drive you back to Evanston, ring me on my mobile. This will be great, Commander: I’ve needed to talk to someone in the police to round out my picture of South Chicago. So much of it seems to be under permanent surveillance.”

Conrad ignored her to stand over me. “Vic, I meant what I said about you messing up my turf. Take care of the basketball program. Deal with the financial crooks on La Salle Street. Leave the Fourth District to me.”