"You think I'm out to solve a crime, lady?" He looked ragged and tired, but his eyes blazed. "I'm trying to protect my family. That's all I care about."
"Jason." She said it softly, hoping to defuse this, to keep him compliant. She could stuff him in a holding cell, but didn't want to. "I care about that, too."
His hands squeezed into fists, and his lips went white. He stared at her for a long moment. "Terrific," he said.
Then he turned on his heel and stormed away, back straight and shoulders clenched. She thought about calling after him, telling him to stay. Ordering it. Instead, she flopped down in her chair. The star on her belt felt heavy.
"You know what I blame?" Tom Galway rocked his chair back on two legs. Between the neat suit and the salt-and-pepper hair, her partner looked more like an orthodontist than a Gang Intel Sergeant. "CSI."
"Huh?" Cruz looked up from her laptop.
"All these cop shows with elaborate plots. You know, the vic is killed with a potato masher, fashion models with badges talk to twelve people, shine that mysterious blue light all over, it turns out it was the guy's scoutmaster he hadn't seen in ten years."
She laughed. "So you don't buy it?" Cruz had filled him in on all the weird vibes from the case. "You were there, you heard what Michael Palmer had to say."
He snorted. "Yeah, and I liked him, too. More polite than most crazies."
"All that stuff about the gangs being part of a larger problem, his claim there was evidence. You think he was making that up?"
"No, he was one hundred percent correct. The gangs are part of a larger problem. It's called being dead-ass broke. Evidence of that ain't hard to see." Galway shrugged. "Look, your victim spoke against the gangs. He lived in a gang neighborhood, and died in a bar in gang territory. A Gangster Disciple went after his brother and his son. And not just any Disciple, but Playboy, a shithead we know has dropped bodies. Why make this complicated?"
He had a point. But still. "What about the kid's description?"
"A day late and a dollar short. What is he, eight? He's scared out of his mind, probably remembering something from TV. And you can't put an eight-year-old on the stand. Public defender would tear you a new orifice. Besides," Galway looked around, then leaned forward. "I was talking to the lieutenant earlier."
She set down her pen, prepared herself.
"Palmer was an activist," Galway continued. "The press hasn't picked up the story yet, but they will. The chief, the superintendent, they're getting crazy pressure. Hell, Alderman Owens called to say he wants a gang-banger in cuffs on the evening news."
"Alderman Owens is involved?" This case just got better and better.
Galway nodded. "He won on a promise to fight gang violence. This doesn't make him look good." He gave her a look that wasn't hard to read. It said, Danger. It said, Cover your ass. She flashed back to breakfast with Donlan, his none-too-subtle warning. Telling her that this was a heater, not to mess it up on some half-ass theory. Telling her she'd regret it if she did.
She felt a vein pulse in her forehead. "So what you're saying is we're in the middle of a shitstorm."
"What do you mean, 'we,' white girl? It's your case." Galway winked as he stood up. He took his vest from the back of the chair and put it on. "Look, jokes aside, can I give you some advice, partner-to-partner? The powers that be want to clear this quick. This is a chance to earn their gratitude. And Playboy would look awfully good in handcuffs. Maybe," he said, tightening the straps on his Kevlar, "good enough to get you off database duty."
As he walked out, she fought an urge to sweep the stack of folders off her desk. Instead, she leaned back, stared at the ceiling tiles. Picked up a pen and clicked it open, closed, openclosed. When had things gotten so complicated? Criminals were usually stupid, generally arrogant, often drunk or high. They loaded their weapons barehanded, leaving casings with fingerprints. They smoked two seams of dust and shotgunned a liquor store owner to get money for a third. They murdered each other for spray painting on the wrong wall.
What they didn't do was operate in elaborate plots.
Still, something was going on. Michael Palmer killed after talking to her about a gang. Apparently, killed by white guys, even though black gangbangers had later gone after his kid. And add to that the warnings from Donlan and Galway, the political pressure.
Cruz opened her bottom desk drawer, took out her vest. Put it on, checked her pistol, her star. Hesitated, then dug out her backup piece, a "mini-Glock" in an ankle holster. Going through the motions, preparing herself to hit the street and look for Playboy. All the while inhabited by a weird nervousness, a sense that things were moving beyond her control. It was starting to feel like she was on a train that had derailed, left the tracks to hurtle through space.
True, she hadn't felt an impact yet.
But that didn't mean it wasn't coming.
CHAPTER 17
They were on their own.
Goddamnit.
Outside the police station the sun beat on Jason's back. Cars hummed by on the Dan Ryan. Billy looked up, his eyes wide, and in them Jason saw that fear was only barely restrained, and felt the weight of that.
The cops couldn't help. He was all that stood between his nephew and the men who wanted to kill him.
First things first, soldier. You need a place to go. Where, though? If the bangers had found Michael's home, they might be able to find his apartment. He needed a place where no one would look for them. But what were they supposed to do, live out of hotels for the rest of their lives?
The answer came like a smile. "Billy," he said, "let's go see an old friend."
The drive was short, but rife with weird milestones. Jason hadn't been back to the street where he'd grown up in years. He passed his old house, still leaning like a drunk about to fall off his stool. Siding spotted yellow, concrete crumbling, but the flowers tended. He was glad to see that. Someone making a go of it.
"You'll like this guy," he said, glancing over at Billy. "He was really important to me when I was growing up. To your dad, too. His name is Washington."
His nephew looked at him like he was crazy, said, "I know Uncle Washington."
Somehow that made things worse. Michael had been gone a day, and Jason was already realizing that as well as he'd known his brother, he hadn't known him at all.
Washington's house was as he remembered it, a three-flat with a fading wrought iron fence and tired curtains in the windows. But beside the steps to the porch there now hung a sign that read "The Lantern Bearers," and under that:
RESPECT
E MPOWERMENT
P RIDE
He led Billy up the steps, feeling like he was walking through an old dream. A stringy kid with pocked cheeks answered the door, listened dubiously, and then told them to hang on. Jason ruffled Billy's hair. The screen door dimmed the view into the house. He saw a figure moving, and his head went light. It hadn't hit him until this moment who he was about to see, or how long it had been.
Then the door flew open. "Oh, thank God." Washington dropped to a knee to wrap Billy in an embrace. "I was worried."
"I'm okay," Billy's voice was muffled by Washington's shoulder. "Uncle Jason has been taking care of me."
Jason shifted on his feet, strangely nervous. It had been years. And the moment felt awkward; he hadn't expected Washington to go straight for Billy. He hesitated, then smiled. "Hello, old man."
Washington straightened, squared himself off in front of Jason. "So." He wore a beard now, and the lines around his eyes were a little deeper. "The prodigal son returns."