I heard Pete coming down the stairs. He walked into the living room in sweats and bare feet, his hair still wet but combed, smelling fresh and clean again.

“You need sleep,” I said.

“No, I need to tell you that I was set up.” He took a seat in a soft brown leather recliner that Talia conceded for me, even though it didn’t particularly match the green and yellow décor of this room. It was the best spot on the planet to watch a college football game.

I rested my elbows on my knees. “Start from the start,” I said.

“Look, I’m an idiot. I know that. I was buying some coke. Same guy I always buy from.” He seemed to catch himself—the always part suggested more prior usage than he’d wanted to concede.

“Just tell me,” I said, weary. “Start with his name.”

“John Dixon,” he said. “J.D. He’s a pretty reliable guy, real discreet.”

“How does it work with you two?”

He shrugged. “I’d call his cell phone and he’d find me.”

“How much would you buy? Typically.”

Pete grimaced. “Why does this matter—”

“You let me decide what matters. Answer me.”

“Well, ‘whatever’ is the answer. Sometimes, just a gram or two. Sometimes more, if some of us are gonna party.”

“Eight-ball? Something like that?”

He nodded. “So I called him on his cell phone last night. He tells me to meet him at this spot over on the near-west side, this warehouse out past Dell. He says it’s that or nothing.”

“And what time was this?”

“Like, I don’t know—one in the morning?”

“You had to have a score at one in the—”

“We were partying, Jason. What do you want from me? A bunch of us.”

“But you went alone.”

He shrugged again. “Yeah, I always do. J.D. doesn’t like crowds.”

“Okay, so you’re at this warehouse.”

“Right. And J.D.’s there with this guy he calls Mace. He says Mace, he’s an associate or something. I don’t really care, I’m just there to—y’know, to buy. And before I know it, this cop is running in, yelling at us, his gun’s out, nobody move, that kind of thing. He points his gun right at me and I freeze. I put my hands up and I don’t move. J.D., he took off and—I don’t know, I guess he got away.” Pete threw his hands up. “Then there’s a couple other cops, and me and that guy Mace got handcuffed. They put me in a car, drive me to the station, and they’re talking about ‘uncut rock’ and ‘weapons.’ ”

Pete went quiet. His hands were trembling, but it wasn’t withdrawal. It was horror. “Look, I didn’t say anything to them. That’s what you’d want, right? I didn’t say anything.”

“Right,” I said. “Good.” We were quiet for a while. I wanted to reach over and smack the kid, but he needed a lawyer right now. “So,” I finally said, “where do you get that you were set up?”

“I don’t know,” he said. He looked up at the ceiling. “They put me up against a wall, and this guy Mace was a little ways down, and I hear him say ‘Easy,’ or ‘Easy, now,’ something like that. But, like, in a tone that he knew the cops. He was calm, y’know? I mean, I was freaking out, and this guy was like, ‘Take it easy’ to the cops, under his breath.”

I closed my eyes. I could see it now. Pete was set up, in a sense, but not in any illegal way. It was a classic “spider web.” This guy Mace was working for the police, attracting buyers to his lair so they could be scooped up. Only Mace had to be picked up, too, as if he were under arrest as well, to maintain his cover. That was why Mace wasn’t in lockup, along with Pete. They pretended to go through the motions of an arrest but probably released him as soon as they drove Pete off. He keeps his cover; he works for them again the next night.

“You talked to J.D. on your cell phone?” I asked.

He nodded.

“Do you remember the conversation?”

“Yeah, I remember. I said, ‘Where are you?’ He told me where he was, and I met him there. Not much to remember.”

“And this Mace? Did you guys talk about anything?”

“Just hey, how-ya-doing.”

“That’s it?”

Pete opened his hands. “Yes, Jason, that was it.”

“Was J.D. into guns?” I asked. It wasn’t your everyday guy who came in to purchase a bag of handguns. Drugs was one thing, weapons was another, especially since the feds here had such a hard-on for gun crimes these days. A lot of gang-bangers now carry blades only, precisely because they don’t want the ten-year pinch for a federal gun charge.

Pete shook his head. “I really don’t know if he was into guns or not.”

Okay, so that was probably it. J.D. was probably into guns. J.D. was the bait. But then he got a call from Pete, and suddenly it would be two flies snared in the web, not one. The cops, and a snitch like Mace, would be smart enough to wait for Pete to join the party before closing the deal. Mace was probably earning points after having been collared himself, and two was always better than one.

“Were the guns showing?” I asked. “Did you see guns? Or uncut—”

“Christ, no. I was only expecting J.D., and he’s with this guy Mace, and before I know it, I’m under arrest.”

Pete ran his fingers through his wet hair and moaned. “I am fucked,” he said. “I am so totally fucked.”

Maybe, but I wasn’t ready to concede. Something about this felt wrong. I couldn’t put my finger on it. But I knew that the first order of business was finding Pete’s supplier, John Dixon. I had a few questions for him.

“You’re going to take a week off that sales job,” I said. “You’re going to stay here with me, get some rest, and we’ll figure this out.” I walked over and put my hand on his shoulder. “We’ll get through this, Pete. I promise.” I was calm and resolute as I spoke, so at least one of us would believe what I was saying.

22

THE NEXT MORNING, I left Pete some bacon in a pan and a note, advising him not to leave the house for any reason and to call me when he awoke.

I had to see Sammy. I’d meant to do so yesterday, after the news broke all over the city about the discovery of the bodies behind Hardigan Elementary, but I’d been caught up with Pete’s arrest and bond hearing.

It was Sunday morning, October seventh. Twenty-two days until Sammy’s trial. It dawned on me, on my drive to the detention center, that the water line was reaching my nose. A reasonable person might inquire as to my fitness to handle Sammy’s murder case, under the circumstances, and now I was juggling Pete’s problem, too. It probably said something about my mental condition that I was able to make this observation with a cool detachment—an outsider looking in. I had absolutely no business being calm about things. A man I once called my best friend, my brother for all practical purposes, was facing a life sentence, and my real brother was in quite the pickle himself. I was never one to panic, to let my nerves overtake me, but that was because I refocused that adrenaline to enhance my performance. Now, I wasn’t panicking because there wasn’t any adrenaline, period.

What the hell was I doing handling Sammy’s case?

I waited in the same glass room at the detention center, drumming my fingers, alternately thinking about Sammy’s case and Pete’s. Time was, I wouldn’t have distinguished between the two people—brothers, each of them. I’d left Sammy behind, moving on to bigger and better things, and I suppose in some sense I’d left Pete behind, too.

They walked Sammy in and chained him down to the table, as always. His eyes were bloodshot, and he had a hint of a shiner. I didn’t even want to know the underlying story.

“Did they find Audrey, Koke?” he asked, measuring the words delicately. Inmates have access to newspapers, and someone must have pushed this article in front of him. I scolded myself for not coming yesterday, when the news broke, but with everything going on with Pete, I didn’t have a chance.

“Sam, they found a number of bodies buried behind that school. Bodies of young children. They think Griffin Perlini murdered those children. But they haven’t identified the victims yet.”