“Detective,” she said. Neutral at least this time.

“Sister,” said Lynch, then, “Sorry, force of habit. Ms Magnus. You’ve got no idea what twelve years of Catholic school can do to you.”

He wasn’t sure, but that might have got him a little smile. “Sure I do,” she said. “Perhaps it will make things easier for everyone if you just call me Kate. What can I do for you?”

“Something’s come up with Membe’s case. I’ve got a picture of a man that might be connected. If he is, it would be from overseas. I’d like you to look at it, maybe show it to your residents.”

Magnus was quiet for a moment, looking at Lynch. “I thought Membe was just an innocent bystander. You said he was likely shot because he might have seen the man who killed Stein.”

Lynch nodded. “That’s what I thought. Might still be what I think. But diamonds tie into this somehow, West African diamonds. And the man in the picture might work for the people who control those.”

“You mean Hezbollah.”

Lynch’s eyebrows went up, she saw that.

“It’s not a secret, Detective, not if you’ve lived over there.”

“Yeah,” Lynch said. “Hezbollah or maybe friends of theirs.”

“So Stein’s murder was political.”

“I don’t know,” said Lynch.

She was quiet again, the gate in the fence between them still closed.

“If this is something from Africa, are my other residents safe here?” she asked.

“I think so,” Lynch said. “It bothered me a little when I thought about it, Membe getting shot like that. Even if he saw the guy, so what? Just another guy getting into a car. But if he knew him, recognized him for some reason, then it makes sense. So I still think it was just bad luck, bad timing. No reason for the guy to come back after anyone else. Just bad luck, but bad luck that goes back to Africa.”

“That’s the worst kind of luck,” Magnus said. She opened the gate, let Lynch in, said something in a language Lynch didn’t know, called the men over.

“What do you want to know?” she asked Lynch.

He took the picture from his jacket pocket, unfolded it and handed it to her. “Just if they know this man, and, if so, from where.”

She looked at the picture a moment, then turned it so the men could see, translating, probably a couple of times, Lynch figured, because it seemed like she stopped, then started again in what sounded like another language. None of the men said anything, but one of them, the big man Magnus had to stand down last time Lynch was here, knew. Lynch could tell. He saw the man’s eyes widen for just a blink, and then the man looked away, looking at anything but Lynch. The men all muttered, some shaking their heads.

Magnus said something else to them and they returned to the garden, the big man moving as far from Lynch as he could get.

“They all say no,” she said.

“But the big one knows him,” Lynch said.

“Probably.”

“Is he from the same area as Membe?”

“Yes.”

“OK,” Lynch said. “I’m not going to push him on it now. For now, it confirms what I figured. The shooter recognized Membe. But talk to the big guy. See what he knows. If you can get something from him, let me know. I don’t want to jam him up. But I need what he knows.”

“Momolu,” Magnus said, some edge behind that. “The big guy has a name. His name is Momolu.”

Lynch paused, took that in. “Look, I know you think nobody gives a shit, and you probably got good reason. You can believe this or not, but Membe and Stein, they’re the same in my book. You kill somebody in my town, if I can make you answer for it, then I do.”

Both of them quiet for a minute, Lynch looking up the street. The kid who’d run between the buildings when Lynch pulled up was back, sitting on a stoop now. Waiting for Lynch to leave so he could give his crew the all clear.

“Alright,” Magnus said. “I didn’t mean to be rude. But yes. I have reason.”

Lynch nodded. “How long you had the drug market going on up the street?”

“A few months. Used to be over on Monroe, but they’ve moved it a block north.”

“Last thing you need,” Lynch said. “Weather’s getting nice, your guys are going to want to get outside some, aren’t going to know the neighborhood, know the code. Somebody flashes a sign at them and they wave back wrong, things could get bad. Don’t need some drive-by bullshit or anything.”

“Are you going to clean up the drug trade detective, so we can do our gardening?”

“Can’t clean it up,” Lynch said. “But I bet I can move it a couple of blocks.”

“And the people on the block you move it to, do they deserve it any more than we do?”

Lynch let out a long exhale. “Look, I do what I can where I can, OK?”

“I’m sorry,” she said. “And thank you.”

Lynch nodded. She went to hand the photo back to him.

“Keep it,” he said. “Might help when you talk to Mobulo.”

“Momolu,” Magnus said, but at least she was smiling a little this time.

“Momolu,” said Lynch. “Hey, I’m trying.”

“Yes detective, I do believe you are.”

Lynch turned to open the gate.

“Notre Dame d’Afrique,” Magnus said.

Lynch turned back. “What?”

“The church in the background in your picture. It’s in Algiers.”

“Thanks,” Lynch said, wondering to himself why he had to hear that from her.

Back in the car Lynch called a contact in gang crimes, guy that knew the West Wide.

“It’s Lynch. Listen, you got somebody running a street market on Madison just north of Oakley. Find out who and tell them that block’s off limits. Tell ’em to move their act a couple blocks west or I’m going to make them a hobby.”

Wouldn’t stop anything, Lynch knew that. But they’d move.

CHAPTER 55

Hardin woke to the smell of gun solvent. Wilson sat cross-legged on the floor in just her panties and a camisole. She had newspaper spread on the rug; one of the Berettas Hardin had taken off Corsco’s guys broken down, the slide off, the recoil spring out. She was running a bore brush through the barrel. She looked up.

“It’s after nine, you slug. This what time you tough Legion punks roll out of the rack?”

“Late night,” he said. “Someone was draining my vital essence.”

She held up the rag from her cleaning kit. It was covered with dark splotches. “You gotta start stealing guns off a better class of thugs,” she said. “These are a mess.”

“Good in the sack and the little woman is cleaning my guns,” said Hardin. “I think I’ll keep her.”

“Careful sport. My .40 is already cleaned, locked, and loaded.”

Hardin picked up the remote, flicked on the TV, switched to WGN for the Chicago news. He caught a follow up on the Downers Grove shootings, but still nothing on them.

“You look through that paper before you started?”

She nodded. “Nothing. Also called a guy back at the Chicago office – don’t worry, I used a throwaway and I called him at home on his cell. He was making some strange noises about how I wasn’t in this too deep yet, and I should call Jablonski and all this could still get worked out.”

“Weird.”

“Yeah,” said Wilson. “We should be all over the news by now. It’s like they don’t want to catch us.”

“Sounds like someone still wants to deal. Guess I better call Fouche.”

“You sure you can trust this guy?” asked Wilson.

Hardin shrugged. “If I can’t, we’re fucked. Unless you know somebody who can move a pound and a half of illegal diamonds.”

Wilson set the barrel back in the slide, pressed the spring in place, slid the assembly back on the frame, worked the trigger to check the action, then snapped the magazine into the well. She got up, stretched, the camisole riding up and revealing an abdomen as flat and hard as a piece of slate.

“We gotta think this through,” she said. “This Fouche, he’s the guy you called before?”