Cheap paneling ran between a carpet dotted with stains she chose not to look too hard at and a ceiling smoked beige. Cigarette ghosts soured the air. The smell tugged at Cruz; right now, she'd have dug butts out of a bar ashtray. "Classy place."
"It'll do." Jason closed the door, flipped the deadbolt, and slid the chain across. Pulled the blinds, concealing the rusting Dumpster and mismatched junkers in the motel parking lot. He moved with an economy of purpose, and she found herself watching him with appreciation. The emotion of someone far away. Adrift from the real.
She wandered to the bed, looking at the grungy pillowcases with distaste. Above the fake headboard hung a print of a lily painted by someone who'd once heard flowers described. She brushed at the mattress, sat on the very corner. "You ever listen to Tom Waits?"
"Huh?" He looked away from the break in the curtains.
"This place reminds me of a song of his, I forget the name. 'The rooms smell like diesel, and you take on the dreams of the ones that have slept there.' "
He smiled. " '9th and Hennepin.' From Rain Dogs."
"You're a fan? Me too. I used to date a guy who got me into it. He'd fall asleep to it."
"Jesus." Jason laughed. "Must've made for some black-eyed dreams."
She nodded. "The guy was a waste of time, but at least he introduced me to Waits." There was dirt under her nails from laying on the ground. A memory hit, and she chuckled. "One time he played it while we were, you know, in the middle of things." A flash of rumpled sheets and the smell of bourbon. His tattoo, dice showing sixes and a ribbon that read Its all good, just like that, no apostrophe. "So we're going, and Waits sings 'I knew him when he was nothing, and he hasn't changed a bit,' and I burst out giggling. I mean one of those can't-stop, hurts-too-much fits. Right in the middle of things."
Palmer laughed through his nose, eyes alight. "Was he pissed?"
"What do you think? One minute he's king stud, the next I'm laughing so hard I can't breathe." She smiled to think of it, then shook her head. "Yeah, he was pissed."
A loud rumbling from outside caught both their attention, and they sat frozen and listening as it grew louder and passed, an anonymous semi headed for the freeway.
"You know the one I love? 'Christmas Card From a Hooker in Minneapolis.' It's got this line, 'I wish I had all the money that we used to spend on dope – '"
" 'I'd buy me a used car lot and I wouldn't sell any of them,' " Cruz said.
Jason smiled, stepped away from the curtain. Pulled a ladder-back chair with a broken slat and sat down. Facing forward, which she liked. She said, "How'd you get into him?"
"My brother."
The real world flooded in like they'd broken a levee. She winced, crossed her arms. Realized she still had her shoulder holster on, though her gun was back by the river. Shit. Her gun. "I guess we can't trade song lyrics all night."
"No." He sighed. "Too bad, though. First normal conversation I've had in days."
She looked him over, cop instincts taking in detail. Dark circles and needing a shave. His back straight, a lot of strength, but also that haunted look she sometimes saw flickering through the eyes of men living under the Stevenson overpass. "So."
He nodded, ran a hand through his hair. Straightened. "So the guy by the back of the van was Anthony DiRisio. You said the other was a cop?"
"Tom Galway." She sighed. "My partner."
"Your partner?"
She nodded. "Yeah."
He stood and went to the window. Glanced out. Checked the door again. Turned to her. "You remember what Billy said? He told us that the guys who killed my brother wore suits. One was tall, balding, and muscular. That's DiRisio. And the other was thin with black and gray hair."
It shouldn't have surprised her after what she'd seen, after her former partner had fired on her, but it still did. "Jesus. Galway." A thought struck like a shaft of light through a cloud. "Wait a sec. What if we're reading this wrong? What if it were someone else in the bar, and Galway was only pretending to be in on it tonight? What if it's some kind of sting?"
He shook his head. "He shot at us."
"Maybe he missed on purpose." It sounded thin even as she said it. A cop firing a submachine gun in the heart of the city? A ricochet could have bounced anywhere. And if it was sanctioned, where was the backup? There should have been thirty men, tactical teams, a chopper, the works. No way they'd let bangers roll away with live SMGs. "Okay. So Galway and this DiRisio guy are selling weapons to the crews." She sighed. "How'd you find out about it?"
He stiffened, then gave a little laugh, rubbed his neck. "I guess it doesn't make any difference now." He sat down. "I went to see a guy named Dion Wallace."
"The Gangster Disciple leader?"
"Yeah. I pretended to be a cop, and convinced him I was going to arrest him if he didn't give me a name."
"You what?" She was on her feet. Unbelievable. The arrogance of this guy. "That's a felony."
He looked at her with a sarcastic smile. "Well, seeing as how actual cops are selling heavy weapons, let's put impersonating one on the list of things you can arrest me for later, okay? Besides," he said, "if I hadn't been there, you'd be lying beside the river now. Remember?"
Her reply died in her throat. She saw the shadow of Scarface's gun, the way she'd stood frozen as he lined up for a kill shot. Macho asshole or not, Palmer had saved her life. She sat, stared at the pattern of stains on the carpet.
He sighed. "Look. I'm a very normal guy. This is all new to me. But this thing, it's real, and we're in it together." He paused. "We're going to have to trust each other."
"You say that like it's nothing."
"I was a soldier, remember? I know what it means to trust someone. But whatever is going on, it just keeps getting scarier. We need to help each other."
She blew air through her lips. "You're right."
Palmer nodded, rocked the chair back on two legs. Laced his fingers behind his head and stared at the ceiling. A TV turned on in the room next door, cartoons playing too loud through thin walls. "You know what I still can't figure? Why Michael? Why would these guys go after my brother?"
The muscles in her back clenched. She'd asked the same question of him earlier. But after what she'd seen, she realized she knew the answer. "Because of the mysterious caller."
He cocked an eyebrow.
"Remember I said someone called me? He wouldn't tell me his name, but he knew who I was, and said he was a friend of your brother's." This afternoon seemed a thousand years ago. Strain had been showing at the seams of the world, but at least a semblance of normalcy had remained; amazing what a few hours could do. "This guy, he told me to go to Lower Wacker and look for a black Odyssey. That was why I trusted you – I saw the van."
"Hmm." Palmer leaned forward with his elbows on his knees. "So someone else knows what's going on."
"There's more." Cruz massaged her temples. "He said…" She sighed. "He said that he had given Michael something that had gotten him killed. Some sort of evidence."
Palmer stared at her, rubbed his chin hard enough the five o'clock shadow grated. He looked like he was considering putting the chair through the window. She waited. Finally, he said, "The briefcase." He leaned forward, buried his head in his hands, groaned.
"What briefcase?"
He spoke through his fingers. "When I saw Michael the other day, he had this briefcase, just a regular leather case, but he kept fidgeting with it. Set it down one place, talked for a minute, moved it somewhere else. I didn't think anything of it at the time. But whatever was in that briefcase is the reason my brother was killed." He looked up. "I was three feet away, and I didn't know a goddamn thing about it."
"Where is it now?" If they could get hold of that, everything could change.
He smiled grimly. "They have it. Galway and DiRisio. Don't you see? That's why they came to the bar, for the briefcase. It must have evidence about what's going on, dirty cops selling weapons to the gangbangers. If Michael had gone public with it, they'd have been ruined."
Cruz nodded, the pieces clicking into place. "And after they got what they came for, killing your brother would have been the best way to cover it. Kill him and burn down his bar, and everybody blames it on the gangs."
It was such a simple thing, once all the facts were in place. Simple and ruthless and terrifying.
"Any idea who the caller was?"
"Not really, no. He knew a lot about the department. Could be a cop." She concentrated, trying to think of anything else that could help them. "By the way he talked, I'd say he's educated. He spoke precisely, like a news anchor. And he used some weird expressions."
"Weird?"
"I pointed out he wasn't giving me much specific information, and he said something like 'the burnt child fears fire.' "
"The burnt child fears fire? What does that mean?"
"Apparently," she said, "it means his way or the highway."
He looked like he was doing long division in his head. "He told you not to tell anyone."
"Yeah," she said. "Actually, more than that. He told me not to tell any of my colleagues." She though back, remembering the play of sunlight through the window, the feel of the phone in her hand. Felt a shiver down her core. Jesus. Oh, Jesus. She looked up at Palmer. "He specifically said not to tell a guy named James Donlan."
"Who's he?"
Her body felt heavy. "He's the head of the Area One Detective Division."
Palmer's mouth fell open. "My god."
"Yeah."
They sat for a moment and listened to the cartoons coming through the wall. Her shoulder holster pinched, and she undid it, set it on the bed beside her. Rubbed at her eyes, remembering Donlan as she used to know him, a friend, then a confidant, then a lover. "It might not mean anything. The guy could just have been making a point."
"Hell of a point."
She nodded.
"What about calling Internal Affairs? Couldn't they help?" Palmer said it like a civilian, somebody who'd watched cop shows but never worn a star.
"IAD?" She winced. Coming out against another officer was betraying the brotherhood. Besides, it wasn't that simple. "We've got no evidence."
"We'd tell the same story, though."
She laughed. "Sure. It'd go like this: 'While neglecting my assigned duties in order to work a case I'd been ordered off, I had an anonymous caller tip me about a secret meet where I saw my former partner, a decorated sergeant and twenty-year veteran, sell submachine guns to gangbangers. No, I don't know where he got them, or where they are now. No, I don't have any pictures or physical evidence of any kind. On the up side, I did manage to lose my service weapon – does that count for something?' "
"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."