"Yeah, I bet." Cruz leaned back. "These white guys. Any idea who they are?"
He shook his head. "Not a clue. I only saw the gangbangers. The one I'd been calling Soul Patch, that you say is named Playboy." He nodded to the stack of photos on her desk, shots of known Gangster Disciples members and associates. Playboy glowered a Fuck You from the top of the pile. "What's with these guys' names?"
"Monikers. Like nicknames. Usually they pick ones that make them sound tough. We had a guy in here last year called himself Anthrax." She cocked her head. "I thought you Army guys had them, too."
"Only in Vietnam movies."
"You recognize anybody else?"
"No. I didn't get a good look at the other two last night, and the short one, the wrestler, he's not here."
The hit on Playboy was something, at least. Playboy, real name Louis Freeman, was a good lead – Gangster Disciples number two, a couple of priors for assault and weapons charges, suspicion of involvement in a stack of shootings. She'd spoken to him before, and he was smarter than a lot of his boys, which meant he might have had the initiative to pull something like this.
Only problem was, he wasn't white.
When the pieces didn't fit, you had two choices. Look for a new one that did, or push hard on the ones you had. "You still have no idea what they want with you?"
"Like I told you. They were after Billy."
"Uh-huh." She squinted. Paused. "It's just that I don't understand how all this fits together. I mean, your brother being killed by gangbangers, that would make sense. But if it was white guys, then why were the bangers after you? And why would they come after his kid?" Her gun was weighing down the side of her slacks, and she shifted. Clicked the pen. "See what I'm getting at?"
Palmer kept his hands in his lap, a wary expression on his face. "Not really, no."
"There has to be something else, some connection." Click-click. "I understand protecting your brother's memory, but if Michael was into something shady, I need to know about it."
"No way." He shook his head. "Not my brother."
She switched tacks. "Jackie says hi."
"Who?"
"Jackie." Click-click. "Your girlfriend from the other night? She confirms you were with her all night and yesterday morning. But when I mentioned to her that you'd left the Army, she seemed surprised to hear it."
He leaned back, crossed his arms over his chest. "Yeah."
"Mind if I ask the circumstances of your departure?"
"Actually, yeah, I do."
She cocked her head. "Was that some sort of a sore point between you and your brother? Did he disapprove?" Following it out of habit, digging.
"Why are you going after me, lady?" He stared at her. "You know I didn't do it. Are you trying to prove something to yourself?"
She started to snap at him. Then wondered if he was right. "I'm just being thorough."
"What you're doing is hassling me, when you should be out arresting Soul Patch. I mean Playboy. Whatever his fucking name is."
Cruz leaned back. "I'm looking into every angle."
"Including him?"
"Yes." She gave him a steady gaze, waited for him to ease up. When he did, she reminded herself to do the same. Yes, something strange was going on, and no, she didn't have any idea what it was. But she didn't believe he was involved. "I've spoken to some of my informants already. And I'll visit the bangers this afternoon, both Gangster Disciples and some of the other sets."
"You can do that?" He seemed surprised.
"Talk to bangers? Of course. I'm police."
"But, I mean – they tell you things?"
"They rarely give up their crew. But it's a small world. And they're cagey, but not rocket scientists." She leaned forward. "Now, what did these white guys look like?"
He took a deep breath, then rubbed the back of his neck with one hand while he told her. She scribbled notes. Not much to go on – one thin and plain-looking with dark hair going gray, the other a scary-looking Italian, muscular and balding.
"Should Billy talk to a sketch artist or something?
Cruz smiled. "That's cop show stuff. People don't really see each other – how big was the nose, how high was the forehead. Sketches end up looking like a composite of everybody in the room. And that's when it's an adult doing it. With a kid…"
He pursed his lips. "So how are you going to track these guys down?"
"From a description? No names, no license plate, no fingerprints?" She laughed. "I'm not."
"But-"
"The point of this is that if we can get suspects, Billy will be able to identify them. He can put them at the scene where your brother died. But finding them? Nine million people in the Chicago area, a lot of them white."
"That the best you can do?"
She hit him with the stare again.
"I'm sorry. I'm just-" He slumped back, brushed bangs from his eyes. "I don't understand this." There was a weird, appealing combination of strength and vulnerability in his pose, part soldier, part schoolboy, and she found herself wondering what it would be like to have a drink with him. Maybe one of those sexy River North lounges, both of them on a second martini. It was an odd thought, out of left field, and it annoyed her, so she pushed it aside and spun it into concern. "I'm sorry about your brother. He seemed like a good man."
He nodded, then a darker expression came across his face. "Do I have to…" He stopped. "Do you need me to-"
"No." She spoke softly. "We've identified him from dental records. You can see him if you want to. But I wouldn't recommend it."
"Should I be planning something? You know, for his… body?"
"He's with the medical examiner now," she said, choosing her words carefully. "They're trying to see what we can learn about how he died. In a couple of days, they'll release him to the funeral home of your choosing. You should start thinking about what kind of service to have."
"How can I?"
"I know it's a lot to deal with, but the funeral director will help-"
"No, I mean, how can I have a service? How do I know a group of gangbangers won't show up for Billy?"
Cruz opened her mouth, closed it. After a moment, she said, "I'll be there."
He nodded, eyes panning the room, falling across the cramped desk she shared with another officer, the good-enough-for-government fluorescent lighting, the ancient computer. He said, "I need your help. We need some sort of police protection."
"Police protection?"
"For Billy."
She winced. One of those moments when the realities of the job were disappointing. On television, they'd have a safe house guarded by snipers, a fifty-inch television on the wall and ice cream in the fridge. "I can ask patrol cars to spin down the block more often. The Crenwood rotation is pretty heavy, so you'd see a lot of them. Once or twice an hour, maybe more."
"Once an hour?"
She raised her shoulders, held her hands in front of her. "There's not much else I can do. You're welcome to stay here until this is settled."
"Here."
"Yes."
"In the police station."
She shrugged.
"Unbelievable." He shook his head. "He's eight. You know that? Eight."
"I'm sorry."
He stood up. "If you're not going to protect Billy, then I will."
"Mr. Palmer." She stood, too, put steel in her voice. "Don't do anything stupid. Leave the criminals to us."