Faces and facts mixed and mingled in a kaleidoscope of color and sound. Jim Doherty, features sunken and feral, nursing his hatred in a tomb of darkness under the city. A shooter named Robles, eyes gray and flat, rifle flashing death along the lakefront. An al ey off Milwaukee Avenue and a young man with a rope around his neck. Rachel, staring into the corners of her mind, watching the past cut her present into little pieces. Katherine Lawson and the trace of her hand on my face. Mayor John J. Wilson. A company cal ed Transco and an autopsy file. A red binder. The pieces of this case, maybe two or three cases, held together by the thinnest of wires: circumstance and an educated guess. The rest floated and turned in the darkness, offering themselves up as a piece of the puzzle, with no real clue as to how or why. I sighed and opened my eyes. This was fucked. I got out of my car, walked down Broadway and up a flight of stairs. There was a stack of mail shoved up against the door to my office. On top was a thick manila envelope. The return address was handwritten in black felt pen: SOL BERNSTEIN