"And?"
"It's a real shithole."
"Surprise. Was he there?"
"No. Talked to the landlady, she said he left months ago. Skipped on two months rent."
It wasn't a surprise, really. It would have been too easy to expect him to be sitting around waiting for them. Though it would have been nice for something to go right for a change. She sighed, then thanked the beat cop and hung up.
How to find Playboy without sending him running? The Gangster Disciples would know, but they were his crew, and if they told him she was looking, he might bolt. Which would leave her in a tough spot. Galway was right – Playboy would look good in handcuffs. Whatever the truth might be about Michael Palmer, picking up Playboy was a smart first step.
Best to continue looking for him quietly, working her informants. Cruz was the only reason a lot of them stayed out of jail; hopefully that would keep them from warning him. She swung onto Sixty-third, the paint on the buildings fresher, fewer windows busted as she neared the El stop. In Chicago, prosperity followed the trains, even in Crenwood. There was a cluster of small businesses: a party store on the corner, a Popeye's beside it. Even a coffeehouse, not a Starbucks, but the kind with purple couches in the window and a chalkboard listing sandwich specials named after movies. Somebody's dream, something they'd scrimped to own, had probably hoped to put in Wicker Park or Lakeview, but couldn't afford the rent.
She wondered where Jason Palmer was now. He'd been pretty steamed when he stormed out yesterday, had that vigilante eye. There was something about him that she liked, but something damaged, too. She remembered his distant stare in the fish shop, the way he'd talked about the devastation he'd seen in Iraq, all the buildings burned out. How people just got used to it, didn't even see them anymore-
She almost rear-ended the car in front of her.
Holy shit.
Keanna's voice rang in her ears. Shit's burning down in Crenwood all the time.
Cruz spun toward the Dan Ryan. Had to get back home. She needed her computer, the spreadsheet of crime data. Her head felt light, that beautiful rush that came of being onto something. When her phone rang again, she was so lost in thought she answered without glancing at the caller ID. "Cruz."
"Officer. Are you somewhere you can speak?"
The voice wasn't familiar. "Umm…" She took a second to check the number, but didn't recognize it. "Sure."
"You don't know me, but I'm a friend."
"Uh-huh." She leaned back in the seat. A crazy, then. How had he gotten her cell number? "What is this about?"
"Michael Palmer's death."
She pulled the car over, right up onto the curb, tires crunching on sun-scorched grass. Flipped her hazards as she threw it in park, and said, "What do you mean?"
"You're working on his case, aren't you?"
"Yes. But I'm not a detective. You should talk to-"
"And you're also in Gang Intelligence."
"Yes."
"Have you discovered that this was more than a simple gang retaliation?"
Who was this guy? "I can't discuss that."
"Sorry. Let me be more direct. The Gangster Disciples didn't kill Michael Palmer."
Streaks of sunlight prismed on the dashboard. She stared at their liquid pattern.
"Officer?"
"Okay," she said. "I'll bite. Who did?"
"I wish I could tell you." His voice had enunciation perfect as a news anchor. "But you wouldn't believe me."
"You know, for a mysterious caller, you're not much help."
"The burnt child fears the fire, Officer."
"And a rolling stone gathers no moss. What the hell does that mean?"
"It means, Officer, that I know who killed Michael Palmer. And I'm going to tell you how to find out."
CHAPTER 21
He took a deep breath and another look at himself in the rearview. His heart felt flittery and his fingers tingled. Bar none, this had to be the craziest thing he'd ever done. Jason smiled a grin tight enough to make his teeth ache.
The suit fit well, but looked a couple of years out of style, just as he hoped. It'd caught his eye the moment he stepped into the used-clothing store: double-breasted brown fabric with the faint sheen of too many wearings. A blue tie, Windsor-knotted, and a silver tie clip he'd seen beside the register.
"You're going to be fine," he said to his own reflection. Then he took the Ray-Bans from the passenger seat and put them on, the oversize lenses flashing back a sunset.
He was only three blocks away, but felt every inch of them, the pressure and pop of cracked blacktop beneath the wheels. The breeze stale and warm as someone breathing in his face. The reactions as he turned down the street, the way one of the men at the end of the block glared as he unclipped a phone from his belt and spoke into it. The way things seemed to swirl and resolve, a spiral with himself at the center, the eye of a human hurricane.
He had a moment of panic in his belly, and then he was putting the car into park, and it was too late, the point of no return, and that gave him the energy he needed, just like it always had on patrol, when they left the relative safety of the FOB and went into the streets. Jason moved deliberately, trying not to show hurry or nerves. Just another day, another item on his list. Shuffled papers, took one last breath, then opened the car door and stepped out.
He could feel the stares pressing down. A handful of younger gangbangers sat on the steps of the sagging porch, a radio at their feet spilling hip-hop like fog. He glanced at them, then casually further up, to the two men who stood in the bungalow's doorway. Early twenties, faces composed and steady, poker masks sheened with sweat and hatred.
His veins pumped panic, but he met their gaze, nodded slightly, turned to close the car door. Adjusted his suit jacket as he did, pulling it up enough that they could see his purchases.
The holster was soft brown leather, stained dark down the center with traces of Hoppes #9. He wore it on his right hip, not low-slung like a gunfighter, but high on his slacks. He'd left the Beretta cocked, a subtlety he doubted would be noticed but that might buy him a half second if things went wrong.
He almost laughed. Like he had a prayer of walking if things went wrong.
The handcuffs hung on his belt behind the holster. The Army surplus store had a bunch of different kinds, most of them for sex play, with quick releases and padding. He'd gone for a classic nickel-finish pair, heavy and shiny. Beside them, where his coat would cover it most of the time, hung a silver star on a black leather square. He lingered long enough at the car, retrieving a notebook he'd set on the roof, for the kids on the porch to get a nice long look. Counting on them seeing it.
At a distance.
Because if anyone saw it up close, he was a corpse. He hadn't held a police badge, but he felt fairly sure they didn't have the words "FBI: Female Body Inspector" etched across the face.
It's in the attitude, he thought. That sense of unquestioned entitlement police had, the way they walked the street like they owned everything on it. The pads of his fingers were numb. He pocketed the car keys and turned slow, jacket falling back to cover the gear on his belt, leaving only the butt of the pistol still in sight. Notebook in his left hand, fighting the urge to flex the fingers of his right. Felt a mad urge to run, to just jump in the car and go, knowing he could be back in safe territory in twenty minutes.
Then he thought of Billy, asleep in an Army T-shirt.
He walked over, trying for swagger. Hit the boys on the porch with his Ray-Bans and a stern expression. Showtime. "Which one of you is going to tell Dion Williams I need to talk to him?" Jason asked, and flashed a thin smile that said he didn't have a worry in his life.
The afternoon sun lay on his shoulders. His demons raged, screamed, sent electricity crackling up and down the lengths of his nerves. He stood still.