"We know DiRisio's name."
"You extorted it from a gangbanger. Not too useful. If it's even his real name."
"We'd have Billy. He could identify them."
"Our ace in the hole is the eyewitness testimony of an eight-year-old?"
"So what, you want to just quit?" His voice had that tone men only got when speaking to women.
"No, coach," she said. "Stay in my face and I'll win the big game."
He stared at her, anger in his eyes, and then something broke, and he ducked his head and laughed. "Right. Sorry." He blew a breath. "Been a long couple of days."
"Yeah." She paused. "Look, you're right. Your nephew's testimony is something. But it's not enough. Not nearly."
"So where does that leave us?"
"I believe the technical term," she said, "is 'up shit creek.' "
Their TV had a porn channel.
They'd talked round and round until they were worn out. No evidence, and no way to know who was clean and who was dirty, so they couldn't go to the cops. No lead on DiRisio. Working Galway was their best bet, but he would know that. He'd surely protect himself. And the mere thought that Donlan might be involved was enough to make her consider fleeing the country.
Finally, in frustration, they'd decided to take a break, clear their heads. He was in the shower, and she'd flopped on the bed looking for local news, see if by any chance there was mention of automatic weapon fire in downtown Chicago. A deep exhaustion had begun to settle, a hollowed-out feeling from the spent adrenaline. The dingy mattress felt better than it had a right to, and she was channel-surfing, the volume muted. Click, sports. Click, sitcom. Click, two blondes with fake tans and fake tits doing unlikely things to one another with an enormous pink dildo.
It was like a nature film, bugs filmed in extreme close-up. This turned men on?
She shook her head, clicked again. The water stopped, and she heard the curtain slide and a towel pulled from the rack. It was a strangely intimate sound, and put her back in another hotel bedroom. Cramped and dim, a threadbare robe and the smell of red wine spilled on the sheets. Burning shame as she listened to James Donlan in the shower, whistling as he washed her off his body before going home to his wife.
Stop, she thought automatically. But it never worked.
She remembered their awkward breakfast. The pressure he'd put on her, telling her not to screw this up. Was it a message that he was involved? Or was it exactly as it appeared on the surface, a politician's desire not to see a simple case get complicated?
No idea. She sighed and rubbed her eyes. Her mother had warned her not to be a cop, said that it would only lead to trouble. Lately it seemed like she was right. Cruz had loved the first nine, ten years, being on the street, running down bad guys. Sure, over and over she'd needed to prove herself, but over and over she had managed to. But ever since her mistake with Donlan, things had gone downhill. First the respect she'd fought to earn had disappeared like smoke. Then the order had come to tie her to a desk, and she'd spent month after endless month working the database, entering reports and interviews other cops gathered. Seeing the street from a distance, a collection of stats. Just a secretary of horror, a reporter of gang crimes and murder scenes and arsons-
Cruz was on her feet before she realized she was moving. She rounded the bed, hit the closed bathroom door, didn't even hesitate. Shoved through.
"Whoa!" Palmer was bent just inside the door drying his legs, but as she came in, he jerked upright, yanking the towel in front of him. His body was tan, his chest lean and muscular, spare, with the puckered ridge of a scar trailing down his left pectoral to where metal dog tags dangled. "What the hell?"
She smiled. "I know what we need to do."
CHAPTER 27
Goddamn amateur.
Anthony grit his teeth, the line of his jaw hard, that muscle jumping. He had the windows half-open, and a warm breeze blew through the car, tugging at his tie, rifling the Sun-Times on the passenger seat. He'd brought it thinking he might read a little to calm down, but the paper lay untouched. His SIG sat on top of it, an ugly suppressor screwed onto the barrel. In the movies everybody had a suppressor, like you could buy one at the corner store, but he'd never had any luck getting a line on them, even with his contacts. Had to build his himself: Steel tube, drill-pressed holes, springs and washers. Used a metal lathe to machine a threaded bit that matched the SIG, then silver-soldered the pieces together. He'd heard you could buy suppressors over the counter in Finland, have to get there someday.
But tonight the SIG was just in case there were any more surprises.
The thought set his jaw jumping again. Galway. Amateur. First he wouldn't acknowledge what had to be done to silence the Billy Palmer brat. Anthony had been forced to plead the case like a first-time trigger-man, and Galway had still found a way to screw that up, using gangbangers to do the deed. And tonight, when Jason Palmer delivered himself up dead to rights, Galway managed to let him get away.
So now here Anthony was, two in the fucking morning, sitting in this fucking jig neighborhood like he had nothing better to fucking do. A fucking custodian, just mopping up the fucking mess.
Headlights glowed in his rearview. About fucking time. He wriggled low in the seat, took up the SIG, held it close to his chest, barrel up, just in case. But the Jaguar passed, the engine smooth and soft as it paused outside a garage, the door rolling up. The garage was surprisingly orderly, no clutter, clean swept, even a pegboard with tools neatly hung. The guy had probably never used them, bought them out of a catalog 'cause that's what you were supposed to have in your garage.
Anthony smiled. Felt that tingle in his bladder that meant play time.
He counted one hundred, then got out of the car, leaving behind his SIG in favor of the cop's Smith. He'd busted the porch lights when he first arrived – it took three shots for two lights, which pissed him off a little, but the suppressor threw off accuracy – and so he walked tall to the front door. He wondered idly if the guy would have company tonight. Galway wouldn't like that. Weakling amateur, no stomach for the work at hand.
Two locks, one an up-model Schlage that cost an extra twenty seconds, and he was inside, mouth open, listening. A hunter. Let his mind feel his way through the dark as his eyes adjusted. Sleek furniture coming into focus, a black leather couch, a low glass coffee table, a painting of an African woman fighting a tiger, only her head tilted back and her tits exposed, like maybe they weren't actually fighting, maybe the tiger was tearing off a piece. It wasn't clear, let you decide. He kind of liked it.
Thick white carpeting covered the floor, and he moved easy, his passage barely a rustle. Eased up the steps as music started above, something softer than Anthony would have expected. Brown sugar beats and a woman's voice, singing how when she first met him, he was the sweetest thing, a Sade tape in the cold of spring, and then Anthony kicked the door open, the wood swinging fast to crack off the opposite wall, Dion Wallace frozen in tableaux in the middle of his bedroom, perfect, no cover, no weapons, a snifter in one hand, a bottle of Courvoisier in the other, paisley silk robe open and his junk exposed.
"Hiya, C-Note. I'd ask how it's hanging, but I can see for myself." Anthony smiled, stepped in. "You know, I'd always heard you boys packed extra weight. Must be cold in here, huh?"
Dion had the panicked look of an animal surprised, eyes darting left and right, like he wanted to dive back in his hole. "Man, what you about?"