would just, I don’t know, drop to their knees. Stare. But they didn’t. They
went about their business while the world burned around them.’ He shrugged. ‘Get used to anything, I guess.’
‘You mind if I ask where you were last night?’
Palmer looked up, and she saw surprise in his eyes at the change of subject, but no flash of fear, no game face. ‘I was with
someone.’
‘Girlfriend?’
‘Just someone I met.’
‘You have a phone number?’
He shook his head. ‘Her name was Jackie. She said she was a hostess at Spring. You know the restaurant, North and Milwaukee?’
‘Out of my price range.’ She sipped her godawful excuse for coffee. ‘Your brother have life insurance?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘You know it doesn’t pay out on homicide?’
Palmer set down the fry he had been playing with, wiped grease on a napkin. Stared at her, unblinking. ‘I understand why you’re
asking. But I didn’t kill my brother.’
He wasn’t the bad guy. Half her job was instinct, and she knew. Of course, it would be worth running
down the girl to be certain. First thing you learned was that
everybody
lied. But he wasn’t the bad guy.
Which left her with the gangbangers. ‘I need you to come to the station with me, look at some pictures. See if you can identify
Soul Patch.’
‘Okay.’
She nodded. ‘You drive, or you want to ride with me?’
‘You mean
now
?’
She cocked an eyebrow.
‘I can’t.’ He leaned back. ‘My nephew. I told you, I want to get him out of here.’
‘Perfect. I want to talk to him, too.’
‘No way. He’s in shock. No way.’
‘Mr. Palmer, I’m trying to solve your brother’s murder. You can help. Don’t you think Michael would want you to?’
He stared at her, jaw clenched. A long moment passed. Then he said, ‘You know what my brother would want, lady? He’d want
to know his son was okay.’
She leaned back, feeling like a bitch.
‘Look.’ He set his napkin atop the uneaten fries. ‘I loved my brother. I’ll do anything to get the fuckers that killed him.
I just want to take care of Billy first. Please.’
She could compel him, but that didn’t make for the best witnesses. Besides, she liked his insistence on taking care of the
kid. Too rare in the people she dealt with. ‘Tell you what. How about you come see me first thing tomorrow morning?’
‘Thank you.’ He started to scoot out of the booth.
‘Meantime, if you or your nephew remember anything else, call me right away.’
‘Yeah.’ He stood. ‘Can I go?’
Cruz took a sip of coffee. ‘Sure.’ Watched him turn and push through the door, back ramrod as he strode broken sidewalks.
Good-looking guy, seemed smart, cared about the kid. There was definitely something off about him – the way his eyes had gone
all thousand-yard when he was talking about Iraq – but she still didn’t like him for the murder. He was hurting too much.
Tough to lose someone like that. One day there, the next, poof, gone forever.
She thought again about the afternoon last week, when she and Galway had sat down with Michael Palmer. Things were bigger
than anyone realized, he had said, and worse. And she’d humored him. Said if he had proof, she’d act on it. She’d said it
the way she said a lot of things on this job, a voice aimed at calming people, at mollifying the crazies. Not really believing.
And then someone had killed him.
She sipped her coffee and gazed out the window, wondering if that counted as proof.
9. Dog Days
In the dream, Washington Matthews was back in his cell. Bare concrete floors and the scarred metal of the open toilet. History
books from the prison library stacked neatly on his desk. Pharaoh snoring in the rack above, that wet choking gargle bouncing
off lonely midnight walls. Washington thought of getting out of bed, and then in the way of dreams, he suddenly was, just
standing barefoot in the dim light of lockdown. The air was thick and humid. He
went about their business while the world burned around them.’ He shrugged. ‘Get used to anything, I guess.’
‘You mind if I ask where you were last night?’
Palmer looked up, and she saw surprise in his eyes at the change of subject, but no flash of fear, no game face. ‘I was with
someone.’
‘Girlfriend?’
‘Just someone I met.’
‘You have a phone number?’
He shook his head. ‘Her name was Jackie. She said she was a hostess at Spring. You know the restaurant, North and Milwaukee?’
‘Out of my price range.’ She sipped her godawful excuse for coffee. ‘Your brother have life insurance?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘You know it doesn’t pay out on homicide?’
Palmer set down the fry he had been playing with, wiped grease on a napkin. Stared at her, unblinking. ‘I understand why you’re
asking. But I didn’t kill my brother.’
He wasn’t the bad guy. Half her job was instinct, and she knew. Of course, it would be worth running
down the girl to be certain. First thing you learned was that
everybody
lied. But he wasn’t the bad guy.
Which left her with the gangbangers. ‘I need you to come to the station with me, look at some pictures. See if you can identify
Soul Patch.’
‘Okay.’
She nodded. ‘You drive, or you want to ride with me?’
‘You mean
now
?’
She cocked an eyebrow.
‘I can’t.’ He leaned back. ‘My nephew. I told you, I want to get him out of here.’
‘Perfect. I want to talk to him, too.’
‘No way. He’s in shock. No way.’
‘Mr. Palmer, I’m trying to solve your brother’s murder. You can help. Don’t you think Michael would want you to?’
He stared at her, jaw clenched. A long moment passed. Then he said, ‘You know what my brother would want, lady? He’d want
to know his son was okay.’
She leaned back, feeling like a bitch.
‘Look.’ He set his napkin atop the uneaten fries. ‘I loved my brother. I’ll do anything to get the fuckers that killed him.
I just want to take care of Billy first. Please.’
She could compel him, but that didn’t make for the best witnesses. Besides, she liked his insistence on taking care of the
kid. Too rare in the people she dealt with. ‘Tell you what. How about you come see me first thing tomorrow morning?’
‘Thank you.’ He started to scoot out of the booth.
‘Meantime, if you or your nephew remember anything else, call me right away.’
‘Yeah.’ He stood. ‘Can I go?’
Cruz took a sip of coffee. ‘Sure.’ Watched him turn and push through the door, back ramrod as he strode broken sidewalks.
Good-looking guy, seemed smart, cared about the kid. There was definitely something off about him – the way his eyes had gone
all thousand-yard when he was talking about Iraq – but she still didn’t like him for the murder. He was hurting too much.
Tough to lose someone like that. One day there, the next, poof, gone forever.
She thought again about the afternoon last week, when she and Galway had sat down with Michael Palmer. Things were bigger
than anyone realized, he had said, and worse. And she’d humored him. Said if he had proof, she’d act on it. She’d said it
the way she said a lot of things on this job, a voice aimed at calming people, at mollifying the crazies. Not really believing.
And then someone had killed him.
She sipped her coffee and gazed out the window, wondering if that counted as proof.
9. Dog Days
In the dream, Washington Matthews was back in his cell. Bare concrete floors and the scarred metal of the open toilet. History
books from the prison library stacked neatly on his desk. Pharaoh snoring in the rack above, that wet choking gargle bouncing
off lonely midnight walls. Washington thought of getting out of bed, and then in the way of dreams, he suddenly was, just
standing barefoot in the dim light of lockdown. The air was thick and humid. He
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