by Marcus Sakey
"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 alderma
n 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.
CHAPTER 41
Family
The first reaction was fear, an animal panic that made the air hum and buzz, that slowed time, the world gone languid as his instincts screamed for flight.
The second was the copper taste of murder in his mouth. A primal rage, a desire to beat and smash and kill.
Fingers clenched white, stomach loose and warm, Jason stood rooted, staring at the man in the doorway.
An evil spirit in a cheap suit, only this time Anthony DiRisio wore a tuxedo over heavy slabs of muscle. Five o'clock shadow and thin black hair, a nose too large and bent slightly sideways. He stood at the entrance, his eyes scanning the crowd, moving slow and precise. A predator's gaze, working right to left.
"Mr. Palmer?" Owens asked, one eyebrow high.
Jason shook his head, yanked himself out of his stupor. Turned so his back faced the door. "DiRisio." He grimaced. "He must have been watching my apartment after all, and followed us here." Something nagged at him, a detail he couldn't put his finger on. It felt important, but refused to clarify. Maybe something he'd seen on the drive over?
"The arms dealer? Here?"
"Yes. Mr. Alderman, we have to get my nephew and get out of here."
"Your nephew?"
"My brother's son. He's here." Jason clenched his lips, risked a quick glance over his shoulder. DiRisio had vanished in the crowd. "Sir, we have to go. Can we continue some place more private?"
"All right." Owens looked at his second, who frowned. "Daryl's right. I should probably say a few good-byes. It will look strange if I don't. Twenty minutes?"
Jason nodded. "Fine. Where can we regroup?"
"My car is in the service garage. A black Towncar. But how will you get past your man?"
"We'll figure something out."
The alderman smiled. "I'm glad a soldier is on the job." He turned to Thomas. "Let's make the rounds quickly, shall we?"
Jason watched them go. He'd done it. Joy bubbled up within his chest, and he turned back to his friends. Cruz grinned a hundred-watts worth. Washington put a hand on his shoulder. "Good work, son. I'm proud of you." He looked Jason square in the eye. "Your brother would be, too."
Something swelled in Jason's chest, something fluttery and luminous, and he felt the muscles of his cheeks pull into a too-wide smile. He held out a hand, and Washington took it, then pulled him into a hug. The familiar tang of Old Spice filled his nostrils, a safe, comforting smell. He wanted to linger, to laugh and toast their success.
But DiRisio was out there.
Jason stepped back, grimaced. "I'm sorry, but we should-"
"I know, son. Go."
Jason squeezed his shoulder, touched Cruz's arm, the skin soft and warm, and then he stepped into the thick of the crowd. Where would Billy be? The air had the recycled smell of a too-full party, cut by the chaotic tinkling of women's laughter. There wer
en't any other children around. It was too crowded for DiRisio to try anything, or at least he hoped so. Still, he wouldn't feel better until he found his nephew. He started for the buffet, where Ronald had last seen Billy.
But there was no sign of the boy. He felt his heart quicken. He couldn't risk calling out. DiRisio could be stalking this same ground. But where would the boy be?
Then he had a thought, and dropped to a squat. A small pair of shoes were barely visible beneath the table. Jason parted the tablecloth. Billy looked up, his smile blooming like a flower. He wore a tuxedo and a clip-on bow tie. Now in robot form, the Transformer wreaked havoc on a landscape of baguette slices and gouda cubes.
Jason's heart climbed his chest, buoyed by a wave of pure warmth. If this was what responsibility meant, he could get used to it. "Hey, kiddo."
"Uncle Jason!" The boy leaned forward and threw his arms around Jason's neck. "I missed you."
"Me too." He tousled Billy's hair. Part of him wanted to crawl under the table with him, but there wasn't time. Soon, though. They were almost finished. "We gotta go, buddy. You ready?"
Billy nodded, released his arms, and climbed out, carrying the toy by one robotic arm. Jason stood, trying to at once scan the room and remain inconspicuous. At least DiRisio didn't know Billy was here. He kept to the fringe of the crowd, moving against the windowed walls.
Ronald stood in the corner, Cruz beside him, her features drawn with worry. She brightened when she saw him. Jason spotted Washington, nodded toward the others, and he joined them.
"Now what?" Cruz had moved so her back was to the room. "Out the front door?"
Where would DiRisio be? Jason put himself in the other man's position. "No. He doesn't know we spotted him, and the crowd is tough to move through. His best bet would be to watch that door."
"So what then?"
A harried server pushed past him, balancing a tray of desserts. He saw Cruz looking at it, met her eyes, both of them smiling. "Let's go."
