The wingtips didn’t move, but the voice said, “Whatchu want?”

“We’re looking for Qween,” Sam said. “And before you jump to conclusions, she’s helping us. She’s not in trouble. Tell you what, I got ten bucks here if you help us out.”

“What I gotta do?”

“Nothing. Just tell her, if you see her, that we need to talk. That’s all.”

The wingtips were still for a moment, then withdrew into the shadow as the man shifted position in the narrow space. Pretty soon, he stuck his head out. He was old, and it was impossible to tell his race. His oddly expressive features, like a clown in a silent movie, looked exotic one moment, and the next, like the perfectly ordinary lined and pitted face of a homeless man. The grime on his face didn’t help.

It was clear he had been homeless for a long, long time. He didn’t strike the detectives as the kind of bum who would sit with his back against a building, shaking a cardboard coffee cup for spare change. He would never beg out in public. Too proud. An unlit, half-smoked cigarette was clamped between the first two knuckles of his fore and middle fingers.

“The fuck you want with Qween?”

Sam said, “We need to talk to her. That’s all.”

“Qween ain’t gonna want to talk to no cops.”

“You tell her that Detectives Jones and Johnson are looking for her. We’ll try and stick near the river, by Adams Street, Union Station.” Sam pulled out a bill. Snapped it in front of the guy to get his attention. “You tell her if you see her, got it?”

“I ain’t stupid, white boy.”

“Never said you were. Making sure you’re honest.”

The old guy cracked up at that. “Shit. Nobody alive is honest.”

Ed asked, “You heard about the rats?”

“Ever’body heard ’bout the rats.”

Ed leaned closer. “What’s wrong with ’em?”

“Damned if I know. Why’nchu watch the news? They got all the answers.”

Ed caught sight of somebody on the Dearborn Bridge aiming a long lens in their direction. “Time to go. Some asshole’s taking pictures.”

“You just remember,” Sam told the old man, “you see Qween, then you tell her we need to talk. We’ll hang near Union Station as much as we can.”

“Fine, fine. I’m finna go up thataway m’self sometime.” He held his hand out.

Sam slapped a folded twenty into the old man’s palm.

Dr. Reischtal stepped into Tommy’s room and stood over the patient for a while, silent. He kneeled at the side of the bed. Put his elbows on the mattress. The gloved hands came together and interlaced over Tommy’s waist.

“Oh, Lord. Hear me. Hear me, oh Lord.” Dr. Reischtal didn’t say anything else for a while.

Eventually, Tommy wondered if Dr. Reischtal was waiting for an answer.

“Oh, Lord. You are the one, true god. Let me smite him, oh Lord. Let me smite him.”

It got so quiet Tommy could hear the fluorescent lights’ faint buzz behind the plastic. He decided that if Dr. Reischtal so much as picked up a syringe, Tommy was going to yell as loudly as possible. Beyond that, he couldn’t move.

The silence stretched out several minutes, until finally, Dr. Reischtal took a deep breath. His voice was low and ragged. “I understand now. If that is your will, then so be it. He will lead us to the vector. Thy will be done. Until further reconsideration is necessary. Amen.” He stood, and watched Tommy.

Again, he refused to say anything. Tommy would be damned if he showed any weakness to this asshole. It became almost a game, to see who would break the quiet first.

Dr. Reischtal seemed not to notice. Thoughts bubbled up and he merely said, “It will be interesting to observe your condition in the coming hours.”

Tommy ignored the ominous aspects of this remark, and tried to push his luck. “You think you could turn me loose? I gotta take a leak fucking awful.”

At first, Dr. Reischtal refused to answer. He walked to the door and knocked. It opened almost immediately. “Mr. Krazinsky is in need of a Foley catheter,” Dr. Reischtal told the tech. “See that it is done and soon. I would hate to think that he is in any discomfort.” He stopped and looked back at Tommy. “One more thing. Upon further review of his case, Mr. Krazinsky will not need any further sedatives. I want him . . . alert.”

“God is not in the details,” Mr. Ullman was fond of telling his subordinates. “I am. And if you want to remain employed with this hotel, you will do well to remember me.” This was true. Employees had found themselves in the unemployment line with a suddenness that made their heads spin for something as seemingly simple as an unshaven chin, an unequal portions of risotto, or missing a single pubic hair on the black tiles under the toilet.

In the six months since the grand opening, it had become clear that the name of the building had irrevocably become The Fin, and although the owners had initially balked at the simplistic nickname, they had since come to recognize the value of such a branding. In the first few months, they had quietly co-opted the name, trademarked it, and now they embraced it.

The incident involving the homeless and the resulting bedbug infestation had nearly ended Mr. Ullman’s own career. After an unpleasant discussion with the CEO and board of directors, he had been allowed to keep his position, but he been placed on probation. Grateful for his second chance, he redoubled his efforts in making the Serenity the cleanest hotel in Chicago, if not the nation. He was merciless. His eyes would zero in on details such as a scuff mark on the inside of an elevator, a stray thread on a pillowcase, or a smudged fingerprint on a vase of flowers in the lobby. Every single employee in the building knew his name and feared his wrath.

In addition to the unprecedented levels of sanitation, he also went to war on the insect population. An army of contractors went through the skyscraper, injecting a silicone sealant in every gap, every crack. Entire floors were repainted to hide these efforts. Each room was then sealed off in a rotating basis and blasted with highly pressurized steam. Professional-grade insecticide was now standard issue along with the rest of the cleaning products. The union didn’t like it much, but after one short meeting with the general manager, the hotel now included new heavy-duty rubber gloves and a surgical mask for the staff.

With Mr. Ullman in charge, the bugs didn’t stand a chance.

Back in the car, Ed turned left onto Wacker immediately after crossing the bridge. They cruised along the emergency side of the hospital, noting the shadows of soldiers within the doors. He circled the block, slowed down, timing it so he’d hit a yellow stoplight, then red. That way, they could take a full thirty seconds to watch the hospital.

But they saw nothing.

They kept circling, weaving around a five-to-seven-block radius several times before they saw any movement. A bus had pulled up in the empty emergency lane, discharging a group of tired, confused-looking people, all struggling to haul medical equipment and small luggage bags inside.

“If I didn’t know better, I’d say that a bunch of doctors or scientists or folks like that just got off that bus,” Ed said.

“Good thing you know better,” Sam said.

Ed drove down Monroe a few blocks, then circled around to Adams, and parked in the shadow of the Willis Tower. “I’m getting sick of driving in circles.”

Sam nodded, watching the late morning commuters shuffle to work.

“We’re not gonna see anything from the outside. Not anything that they don’t want anybody to see.”

Sam nodded again. “You wanna go inside?”

“Not especially.”

“Me neither. Not yet, anyway.”

“Any ideas?”

Sam sat for a moment and didn’t answer. He shrugged. “Make some calls. Check email. Listen to the radio. Go for a ride.” They said together, “What the hell, I ain’t paying for gas.”