Their timeout was over.
Jason could feel it in his chest. Breathing was a conscious activity, something he had to remember to do. Whatever cosmic force had conspired to give them a few stolen moments of peace and animal comfort, it had moved on.
The Swissôtel was a fifty-story glass triangle wedged between the Chicago River and Lake Michigan. It was above his pay grade, but he'd heard it was nice: panoramic views, modern décor, a penthouse pool. None of which mattered a damn to him right now.
What did matter were the three squad cars parked in the front circle, twenty feet away from them.
"What did you expect?" Cruz asked. "It's not just the alderman. This is a two-hundred-dollar-a-plate benefit. These people are the aristocracy. Helping the unwashed is one thing; eating with them is another."
"Where will the cops be?"
Cruz stared out the windshield of their borrowed car, a Taurus with a bad case of the shakes and a yellow-ribbon bumper sticker that read, I support empty gestures.
"Uniforms in the lobby, probably a few plainclothes upstairs."
Jason nodded, energy speeding his pulse, sharpening his vision. "Look, last chance. This is the only way I can see to get Billy free of this. I have to do it. But you don't."
Cruz leaned over and kissed him, a soft play of lips, more comfort than sex. When she broke the kiss, she kept a hand against his cheek, her eyes close. For a moment they shared a look. Then she said, "Game on, soldier."
Game on.
He got out of the car, closed the door. Tension shivered up his spine, but he kept his face calm and smiling. A valet took the keys in trade for a ticket Cruz tucked in her purse. Jason straightened his uniform with a gentle tug, then extended his arm. Together they walked into the lobby.
The décor was Upscale American Hotel: muted paisley carpet, polished mahogany, yellow light rising from brass sconces. Artfully arranged couches in beige and gray, occupied by guests in expensive shoes. An attractive blonde concierge stood at one end of a marble counter.
Three cops stood at the other end.
They wore Chicago-blue over tactical bulletproof vests, the hardware making them barrel-chested. Radios, cuffs, ammo cases, and key chains all hung on their belts, but all Jason could see was the sidearm each carried. He stopped inside the door, turned sideways, his body blocking their view of her. "You know those guys?"
She snuck a furtive look past his shoulder. "No."
He nodded, his eyes scanning the lobby. Trying to look like the kind of man who belonged at a charity dinner. The son of a prominent businessman, just pausing to talk to his date. There were two more cops standing by the enclosed fireplace near the entrance.
Cops in front, cops behind. He could feel his heart in his throat, even as he reminded himself that there was no way they were the target. The cops had to be routine security, just assuring that an event attended by a political figure went off smoothly: no wackos, no former employees with a grudge. All Jason had to do was keep cool.
His eyes fell on a brass stanchion with a sign atop it:
BENEFIT DINNER FOR THE LANTERN BEARERS
EDELWEISS SUITE
43RD FLOOR
"Okay," Jason said, and started walking. Cruz fell in alongside him, her arm still tucked through his. "What we're doing here is hiding in plain sight."
"Right."
"No one will be looking for us here."
"Right."
"We're just going to stroll past them."
"Right."
Jason's muscles were tense as he moved. The smile plastered on his face felt forced, the same rigid skeleton expression he had in snapshots. The cops were calm, but not lax. Their eyes watched the crowd. The tallest, a jowly guy with a mustache, looked at Jason.
Run, his body screamed. Do it now.
Instead he made himself flash a bare nod, then turned to look at Cruz. Said, "I hope we aren't too late for dinner. I'm starving."
She didn't miss a beat. "I'm sure they'll have something. I just hope we have a better table this time than last."
"Do you think the alderman will still be there?"
"Oh, I hope so. I'd really like to meet him."
They came close enough to smell the aftershave on one of them, something lemony and cheap. Jason concentrated on lifting his feet and putting them down, on his inane conversation with Cruz.
Then they were past, and he took a deep breath. The air was cool and clean. He cocked his eyebrows at Cruz, shook his head barely. They'd made it. He led her toward a bank of elevators, the doors shining like they were polished twice a day. With a soft tone, one opened in front of them.
"Hey." The voice came from behind, gruff and loud.
Cruz tightened the grip on his arm. He kept walking, fighting to keep the pace steady.
"Hey! Hey you."
The elevator slid shut in front of them. Jason's throat felt swollen as he turned around. The tall cop stood behind him, one hand resting on the butt of his gun. Jason thought he might be able to jump him, get a punch in and make a run. Kevlar did nothing against a fist. He started to speak, lost it. Coughed, then made himself say, "Yes?"
The man stepped closer. He had thin brown hair and wore the lemon aftershave. His fingers tapped on his sidearm. He looked at Cruz, then back to Jason. Narrowed his eyes slightly.
Then he said, "I just want to thank you for what you're doing," and extended his hand. For a second Jason didn't understand what he meant, how this cop he'd never seen before could possibly know what they were doing.
Then he remembered the uniform. Relief flowed through him like warm water. "Thank you, Officer. That means a lot to me." He took the cop's hand, shook it firmly.
"Are you back for long?"
"For good, I think."
"I'm glad to hear it." The man hesitated. "No matter how you feel about the war, we all owe you guys a debt. The country said go and you went. You've made us very proud."
Jason felt a surge of absurd gratitude. "Thank you."
"Anyhow, don't mean to keep you folks." Another ding sounded, and a different elevator opened. The man raised an arm to hold it open, and gestured them in like a doorman. "Have a good night."
"You too, officer." Jason pressed the button for 43. He could feel one eyelid wanting to twitch in a nervous tic, and rubbed at it. As the doors closed, Cruz slumped against the back wall of the elevator. "Jesus. Thought we'd had it there."
Jason nodded, flexing his shoulders to release the tension. Modest beeps marked floors as the elevator rose. "You said there will be more upstairs?"
"Probably."
"Will they know you?"
"Doubt it. I know a lot of the tactical guys in Area One, but the Loop is Area Four. But-"
"You were on TV. I know." He shook his head. "We'll keep it quick and low profile. Just get in, find Washington and the alderman, go from there. Simple."
Cruz looked as dubious as he felt. Sure. Just waltz past plainclothes cops, convince a guy who thinks I'm suffering post-traumatic stress to extend his voucher to the most important politician in the room, then convince the alderman, without a shred of evidence, to undertake a crusade that will set the city on fire.
Simple.
Jason pushed the thoughts from his mind. Replaced them with an image of goofing off in Lake Michigan, he and Mikey linking arms in a cradle for Billy to stand in, counting three, two, one, and then heaving together, the boy arcing a dozen feet, his legs bicycling, water trailing prismatic behind whoops of joy.
The elevator doors slid open. Jason counted three, two, one, and stepped out.
The buzz of conversation hit first, a hundred voices talking and laughing. A short hallway opened to a banquet room dotted with circular tables. White linen, half-empty wine glasses, bright floral centerpieces. Beyond burned the lights of Navy Pier, the Ferris wheel turning in slow circles.
Ronald stood out in the crowd, towering above millionaires that looked at him with the frosted smiles of zoo-goers dubious about the security of the cages. Jason caught his eye, and the big man moved to meet them. His tux pants were two inches too short, and the fabric strained over his biceps. "Thought y'all were going over to that bar."
"We did."
"Get what you need?"
"Yes and no." He grimaced. "Mostly no. How's Billy?"
"Good. Last I saw, little man had discovered the buffet."
Jason's head snapped fast. "He's here?"
Ronald shrugged. "You axed me to keep an eye on him. Where's he gonna be safer – in a roomful of rich white folks, or alone back at the house?"
For Jason's money, Billy would be safest locked in a small room with armed guards outside it, but he saw the point. "Yeah, all right. How 'bout Washington? You know where he is?"
"Holdin' court, I expect."
"Thanks," Jason said. "When this is all over, I hope you'll let me buy you a beer."
The big man shrugged. "You can buy me two, you want to."
The crowd was in that state of upscale levity born of single malt before dinner and pinot noir during, and as Jason wound his way through, people smiled at him, nodded. A woman raised a champagne flute in salute. He had chosen the uniform because it felt more natural than a suit, but he was starting to wonder if the trade-off in visibility was worth it.
"You're a celebrity in that thing."
"Sure," Jason said. "Everybody loves a soldier. These folks just don't like their sons to become one. You see him?"
"No."
Beside the swinging service doors was a dead zone. Jason stepped into it, scanned the room, an eye out for Billy. The crowd was mostly white, with a handful of Hispanics and African Americans. Everyone was dressed the same, and for a moment it seemed vaguely funny, all the world-makers in uniforms of their own. Then, through a break in the crowd, he spotted Washington, arms up in preacher pose, talking to a good-looking black man with a broad smile. "Got him." He squinted. "And I think that's the alderman he's with."
As he started over, he felt his heart quicken, a lifting in his chest. His mouth was dry, his words gone. Everything he cared about depended on the alderman believing them. Jason had an image of Billy splashing down in Lake Michigan, the way the kid would always rocket to the surface in an explosion of bubbles, saying, "Again, again!" He thrust that aside, too.
Washington saw him coming, and a shadow rippled over his face. He stopped in the middle of a sentence, one arm out like he were holding a metaphor. "Jason." Not sounding happy to see him. His eyes flicked up and down Jason's uniform. "I didn't expect you tonight."
"I didn't either." Jason turned to face the alderman, suddenly unsure how to begin.
"Ahh, Alderman Owens, this is Jason Palmer. He's…," Washington paused, "… an old friend of mine."
The alderman hit him with a friendly grin. "What's a respectable soldier doing hanging around with a reprobate like Washington?" They shook, the man's grip firm. "This is Daryl Thomas," he said, gesturing to the man beside him. "He's my right hand and my second in command."
"This is Officer Elena Cruz, with the Chicago Police Department." Saying her name felt like a risk, but he needed her to lend credibility to what he had to say.
"Officer Cruz," the alderman took her hand in that horizontal handshake. "It's a pleasure." But something stirred in his eyes, like he were trying to remember details he'd recently heard. "What brings you out tonight?"
A dozen approaches flashed through Jason's mind, then vanished just as quickly. There was no strategy to follow here. He had to just tell the truth, to tell it as fully as he knew how, and to pray that it was enough. "You do, sir."
"Oh?"
"I need five minutes of your time."
"I'm always available to constituents, especially friends of Washington's. Call the office tomorrow, ask for Daryl. He'll make sure you get set up with an appointment next week."
"I'm sorry, sir. I wasn't clear." Jason straightened his shoulders and put his hands behind his back to stand at something like attention. "I meant I need your time right now. This second."
Washington put a hand on his shoulder. "Maybe this isn't the best-"
"Sir, this is a matter of life and death." Jason didn't risk looking away from Owens, but his thoughts were on Washington. Stick with me, old man. Trust me.
The alderman had the amiable hesitancy of a man expecting a punch line. "Life and death?"
"Yes."
Owens and his assistant shared a look. "I have to admit, I'm curious, Mr. Palmer. What's this about?"
There it was. The simple question, and there was a simple answer to match, a simple, dirty answer. The one they'd discovered in the basement of Michael's ruined bar, in the darkness beneath the city. An explanation for everything: His brother's murder, the hunt for Billy, the gang war, all of it. An answer written in blood and shadow.
"Money, sir. It's about money." He paused. "It's about men who are willing to do anything for money. And they're doing it in your district."
"Jason, what are you-" Washington's voice was thin and nervous.
"I'm sorry." Jason turned to face his mentor. "I'm sorry to do this here, tonight. And I know we've had our disagreements lately, and I understand your side of things. But I'm looking you in the eye and I'm telling you, this is the truth. This is why Michael was murdered."
Washington stared at him appraisingly. The moment stretched, and Jason found himself aware of tiny details, the mismatched angles of hairs in Washington's mustache, the smell of cooling steak permeating the room, the chamber music barely audible under the crush of conversation. The older man hesitated, then nodded slowly.
"Murdered?" Owens spoke softly. "Sergeant Palmer, if this is some sort of joke, I'm going to be very disappointed."
"Sir, believe me when I tell you that I've never been more serious in my life."
The alderman nodded, the motion businesslike and sure. "Then you best go ahead."
Jason took a breath. Words were all he had, but they such a small thing when set against blood. And the debt of blood here ran higher than he could say.
"A few days ago, my brother was murdered in your ward." He raised a hand to forestall sympathy. "Two men came to the bar he owned. They were looking for something, and when he wouldn't give it to them, they killed him."
"What were they looking for?"
"Do you live in Crenwood, sir?"
The alderman looked cagey at the change of subject. "Yes. Halsted and Sixty-first. Aldermen have to live in their districts."
"There's an El station near there."
"About two blocks south. What does this have to do with-"
"I grew up on the south side, but I had a few friends who lived on the north. I'd ride the El up to see them, and it was like going to Oz." He remembered staring at all the clean, bright buildings. No graffiti, no gangs. "My friends' parents liked living in the city because they were close to work, restaurants, shops, you know. All the usual reasons. After I left, I'd always wonder why Crenwood looked so different."
"The north side tends to be college-educated, with white-collar jobs and higher household income. That means better schools, more business, more community resources." The alderman shook his head sadly. "It makes sense, but can you imagine a world where the lower income neighborhoods got more support and better schools?"
Jason smiled. Felt himself liking this guy. "That'd be a better world than this one. Because I agree – those are the neighborhoods where people want to live. I'm not an expert, but as I understand it, that's why when it became popular to live in the city again, people chose neighborhoods like Lincoln Park and Old Town. And when they got crowded and prices went up, folks started to push further out, into Wicker Park and Lakeview and Andersonville. Neighborhoods that were still rough around the edges, where they could afford a flat or a carriage house, a place to raise their children. Developers came in, and then retail, and everything got nice and safe. Now the same thing is happening in Bridgeport and Rogers Park."
"Gentrification is a thorny issue." He sounded bored.
"But it's an opportunity, too, right? The trick is being ahead of the game. You need to buy before the neighborhood hits. If you really want to make money, you do it somewhere other people weren't even looking."
"I suppose." Owens glanced at his watch.
"Mr. Alderman," Daryl Thomas nudged his boss. "You should probably work the room before people start to leave."
Cruz looked at Thomas with her eyes narrowed, but Jason didn't have time to wonder what it meant. "Sir, wait-"
"Sergeant Palmer." Owens put a hand on his shoulder. "I assure you, this is a problem I've put a lot of thought into. And I'd love to hear your take on it. But why don't we talk another time, when we can really roll up our sleeves?"
"Because if you don't listen right now we may not live to see you again."
Owens paused, stared over the edge of rimless glasses. "That's a little melodramatic, isn't it?"
"Ask my brother." Jason spoke softly.
The alderman's smile curdled. "Sergeant, I'm sincerely sorry for your loss, but I'm not sure where this is going. Are you saying your brother was killed because of some sort of real estate scheme?"
"Yes. And not just him." He took a breath, then launched into it. "Sir, someone is using every means possible to lower property values in Cren-wood so they can buy it up against its eventual gentrification."
Owens gave him a long look. His eyes searched Jason's.
Then he broke into laughter.
"I'm serious, sir."
"So am I." Owens chuckled. "This is Crenwood you're talking about. Do you know how low property values are already?"
"I do." Cruz spoke firmly. "Sir, I've worked Crenwood for a dozen years. It was always poor, but it used to be a solid neighborhood of working families. Now it's a war zone. And honest people who wouldn't have dreamed of selling a decade ago are taking fifty cents on the dollar."
"Getting worse is in the nature of things." But the alderman stroked at his chin, his eyes narrowed. "Who are these alleged people?"
Jason grimaced. "We know some of them, sir, but not all of them. We've been over legal documents, real estate contracts, shipping manifests, documentation of holding companies. There weren't any personal names, but there was plenty to trace everything back to a source. That's what the men who killed him were looking for." He didn't mention that they didn't have the evidence anymore. One step at a time. Get the guy onboard, then he could tell the whole story. "And they came after us, too."
"What happened?"
"They ran our car into the river." He kept his gaze level.
"Ran your car-"
"Into the river. Off the Thirty-fifth Street bridge. That's how Officer Cruz cut her head." He gestured, and she pulled her bangs aside to show the bruise, still visible under makeup. "We can take you there if you'd like, show you where we went over."
The alderman hesitated. "You said these people are using every means to drive prices down. What does that mean?" Jason felt a thrill of hope. The alderman had said these people, not these alleged people.
"Mr. Alderman, what I'm about to tell you sounds far-fetched," Cruz said, her voice soft but steady. "Sir, the people behind this are fostering a gang war in Crenwood. They're keeping the Gangster Disciples and the Latin Saints at each other's throats. Then they're torching specific properties and laying the blame at the gangs' feet. And to make sure that the war stays hot, they're arming both sides. Last night we watched two of these men sell submachine guns to a group of Latin Saints."
"Submachine guns?" The alderman's eyes widened. A faint sheen of sweat lit his brow. "Who was selling them? Who are you talking about?"
Cruz hesitated. Jason met her eyes, thinking, Moment of truth.
"One of them was an arms dealer named Anthony DiRisio," Cruz said, speaking slowly. "And the other was a police sergeant named Tom Galway."
The alderman stared at her open-mouthed. The noise of the party continued, but it felt far away. Jason's fingers tingled, and spiders climbed his spine. He could see every face in the room. Rich men with sagging bellies, taut-skinned women wearing jewelry that cost more than he'd made in a year of soldiering, all talking and laughing and making deals in slow motion, a twisting dance of flesh and intent.
"This doesn't make any sense." Owens looked back and forth between them.
"It does if you're the right kind of person. If you're rich and want to get richer and don't care about the people in your way."
"But why Crenwood? With the gangs, the violence, the blight, we're hardly the next Lincoln Park."
"Not the next, no. But Chicago is getting full. People keep moving in from the suburbs, and the hot new area to buy keeps pushing outward. It's mostly gone north, but that can't last forever. Besides, there's another reason." Jason saw someone move in his peripheral vision, spun in time to see two men embrace, slapping each other on the back. Jumping at shadows. "It's why I asked where you live."
Owens squinted at him, his hand stroking his chin. "The El."
"Exactly. All the places I've mentioned, the ones that gentrified, they were on the train lines. Like those friends I used to visit. Their parents wanted to live in the city, but it's a pain to drive to work. Traffic is brutal and parking is expensive. So people want property along the mass transit lines. And once all the neighborhoods on the northbound trains are too expensive or too far-"
"The South Side will start to look like prime real estate. And if someone had pushed property values low enough to buy a lot of land, especially around the trains, they'd make a heap of money." The alderman turned to look out the window. The lights of Navy Pier burned parti-colored, the edges shimmering where they met the water. He folded his hands behind his back and stood straight, staring into the night.
"If what you're saying it true, then a lot of innocent people are being hurt." Owens turned back around. "And if it's not, you're asking me to commit political suicide. Accuse a CPD sergeant of arming gangbangers? Start digging into real estate records for the whole ward, hounding investors, maybe even donors?" He shook his head. "I'd be making enemies I couldn't possibly take on."
Jason's pulse beat his forehead as he watched the alderman make up his mind. And why not? Who were they to him? Nothing but strangers with wild theories.
"Sir-" He opened his mouth, willing the words to come. Not sure what they could possibly be, what could make a difference. Realizing that if he didn't say the right thing, right now, he was going to fail Michael one final time.
"Edward." Washington had been so silent through the last few minutes Jason had almost forgotten he was there. Now, seeing the man straighten, he felt a flush of panic. Washington looked at Jason, then at Cruz, and finally over to the alderman. "Sir, you're wasting time."
Oh god. Jason scrabbled for words to stop him.
"How's that, Dr. Matthews?" Owens's face was unreadable.
"Because you listened to all of that."
"Wait a sec-" Jason started to interrupt.
Washington ignored him. "You listened to all of that, and you're not doing anything about it yet."
Jason's jaw dropped open.
Washington paused, and when he spoke, it was in the rich voice of a lecturer. "Edward, I realize you don't know Jason Palmer, and that must make it hard to believe what he's said. But you know me." Washington put a warm hand on Jason's shoulder. "And I'm telling you that his word is all you need."
The party still swirled around them, but for Jason, the world had come down to this single minute. His chest swelled, and his vision went swimmy around the edges. He could feel the rush of blood in his veins, the stickiness of his palms.
Then the alderman nodded. He spoke slowly, saying, "All right, Washington. All right." He turned to Jason. "I'll need all the details you can give me."
Jason wanted to throw his head back and whoop. They'd done it. Maybe their luck was finally changing. He gave Cruz a giddy smile.
Only she wasn't looking at him. Instead, she stared the opposite direction, her mouth open. "What?" He followed her gaze to the entrance of the room.
And realized their luck wasn't changing at all.