She nodded, started down again at a walk. One flight, a landing, another flight, and then the exit came into sight. He felt an urge to call Billy, promised himself he'd do it if they made it out.
"Ready?" she asked.
He nodded, and she stepped into a carpeted hall. Easy, confident, the kind of fine-looking woman who belonged in this building. He fell in beside, willing his pulse steady. Just stroll thirty feet of hallway, clear the lobby, and they'd be out. He concentrated on the little details instead of thinking, tracing the patterns in the carpet, counting the sconces in the hallway. His reflection distorted as they passed the bronze elevator doors. Almost there. He could see the sunlight spilling in the lobby windows.
"Motherfucker, I look like I'm playin'?" The unseen voice from the lobby was familiar and filled with menace. Jason grabbed Cruz's arm, stopped her just before she stepped into view. Shook his head, listened.
"You see this?" A whimper came from the front. "That's right. You right to be scared, old man, 'cause you don't tell me where the Cruz bitch lives, I'm going to work on you with this thing."
Her eyes narrowed. She whispered, "Who?"
"Playboy. The one who tried to hijack me." Fighting the urge to run, his fingers flexing. "Goddamn I wish we had a gun."
She grimaced. "Back door."
He nodded, followed her down the same nice hallway in reverse, carpet patterns and sconces. Around a corner, down another length of hall. "We can get out to LaSalle through here." She pushed open a door, and they stepped into a sweltering loading dock. High ceilings, hard rubber floor, the smell of trash. Roll doors on one wall. He spotted an exit twenty feet away just in time to see it open in an explosion of light, white sun stabbing into the murky dimness. Saw a figure coming through, barrel-chested man in blue, heavy belt – shit, another cop – hands to his eyes, looking back at someone and saying, "Man, it's dark after that sun," and then Cruz pulled him out of the loading dock and back into the hallway.
They stared at each other. Trapped. From one direction gangbangers, from the other cops, and nowhere in between for them to hide, no alternate routes. The stairs and elevator were too risky – the geriatric doorman wouldn't hold off Playboy for long. But if they stayed here, the police would get them.
Jason grit his teeth and looked wildly around. Tried a door that looked like it led to a service closet, found it locked. Looked at a small decorative trash can, wondered if he could throw it. A trash can against a submachine gun. He shook his head. The door to the loading dock was in the center of the wall, and there was just enough space beside it that he could probably pack himself into the corner, hope the guy coming through didn't notice right away. Get the jump on him. Though he wasn't eager to swing at a cop, especially with gangbangers coming the other direction.
Footsteps echoed from the loading dock. They had seconds.
He looked at Cruz, saw the way she was assessing the situation, not frozen up but working it, and he felt a strange comfort in that, and then the idea hit and he yanked her into the corner by the door, putting her back against the wall and standing squarely in front of her, his shoulders spread as broad as possible, and then he said, "Trust me," and he kissed her.
At first her lips were stiff, resistant. Then they opened, her tongue fluttering soft against his, her arms wrapping around him as she realized what he was doing, how right it had to look, how passionate. And maybe it was the energy of the moment, but as the door swung open and he heard the heavy footfall of a cop behind him, he found that he wasn't having to fake the passion, that he was genuinely hungry for her, the spice of tea faint on her lips, the earthy smell of the sweat on her neck, the strength in the fingers gripping his back. She fit against him, and his nerves strained forward, quivering.
He was barely aware of the cop pausing behind him, could feel the tingling in the back of his neck. Then he banished all thought and concentrated on believing in the kiss.
The footfalls began again, softer on the carpeted hallway, one rough voice saying, "Goddamn, you remember what it felt like to kiss a woman that way?" A beat later, the other cop deadpanning, "Sure. Your wife, Saturday night," then both of them laughing, the sound of it receding as they turned the corner.
Jason couldn't say for sure, but he felt like she held the kiss the same slightly unnecessary extra half-second that he did.
He glanced down the hall to make sure they were gone, then stepped back, feeling suddenly naked now that he no longer touched the heat of her body, and she said, "Come on."
Through the doors to the dry heat and wet stink of the loading dock. He cracked the outside door a finger's breadth, risked a glance. The police cruiser was empty. He pushed the door open, and then they were walking down LaSalle, the 22 bus rumbling by, smell of exhaust and blinking tears against the brightness.
"That was close," he finally managed.
"Yeah," she said, and then laughed, not the good laugh from before, but one tinged with something thin and hollow. "I know one of those cops. I recognized his voice."
"Makes sense. Galway probably recruited from your team."
She shook her head. "He's not from my team. He's not even from my district." Her voice had a manic intensity to it. "The city is divided into five separate areas, and he works in a different one."
"But… that means-" He paused. "So other cops are coming after us, too?"
"Yeah," she said, and then said the exact words he was thinking. "How big is this?"
CHAPTER 29
Jason was thinking about the way blood looked as it soaked into dust.
They were back in the car, heading east, just after noon but the sun already slanting down the backside of the sky. Chicago was far enough north that the sun never seemed to really peak, just sort of slid around the lip of heaven, even in the summer. That didn't cool it down any, though. The heat shimmers that rose off the Caddy's hood blurred sweating sidewalks: A churro vendor listlessly ringing his bell, white light ricocheting off glass storefronts, Tex-Mex music coming from the speakers of a Western-wear shop.
Over there, the dust'd been everywhere. Dust on the streets, dust in the air. Devil-dogging the heels of their boots, whoomping out where a 95-pound shell slammed the horizon. When an ajaja settled on Baghdad, the sky would turn yellow with haze. Dust in the crack of their ass, dust in the cuff of their eyelids.
The broken street where Martinez died was powdered with ocher dust.
"Donlan," Cruz said.
"The head of detectives?"
"Yeah." Her voice sounded flat, and she spoke to the passenger window, not to him. "I don't want to believe he's involved, but if he is, that could explain the other cops. Even from a different area."
"You're saying he's got dirty cops all over the city?"
"Not necessarily. He's a powerful guy. If he gave the order, clean cops would try to get it done, too."
Jason nodded. Swallowed, his mouth dry with a memory of desert. "We should assume he's involved."
She seemed to wince, but said nothing.
"I guess we should get off the street," he said. "Any ideas?"
"It's up to me to come up with all the ideas?"
He glanced over, glanced away. A man was hosing down the sidewalk, the water sparkles of cascading sunlight. The light changed, and he turned north at random.
What now? A bar? Another motel?
Nothing sounded right. Besides, every time they tried to help themselves, they just dug deeper. The day Michael had died, Jason had been overwhelmed at the thought of facing just the gangs. Now that seemed parochial, their enemies had multiplied so many times. First, dirty cops with plenty of juice. All the clean cops, too. Galway, and the mercenary with the scarred face. And worst of all, the man with the heavy muscles and the cold eyes. Anthony DiRisio. An evil spirit in a cheap suit.