Chicago Stories: West of Western by Eileen Hamer Page A

right.” The voice began to work as it always had.
    So if it wasn't about her, what was all this about? Assuming the shots she heard killed the victim. Just another gang shooting? Maybe to scare her off at the same time? She'd only been here three days. She knew the neighborhood's reputation. Even flaky Tony had warned her. Welcome to reality.
    Yet somehow the pep talk fell short. Her hands stayed icy and her breath ragged. Her feet were numb. Another urban casualty, nobody she knew. Don't take it personally. Chill. What happened to the Marine in you? But it's your home, a small voice whispered. He's dead in your doorway.
    Her stomach complained again. She began to count, one breath at a time, staring out into the gaudy-colored night. The blanket's satin binding felt comforting and silky and she stroked the long edge again and again, concentrating on the feel until breath came easily and she understood a little of why she was so emotional.
    Easy to be cool in a foreign country, with only her physical safety and those of the men around her at stake. Missions and bases, places with no emotional meaning for her. Just the mission, nothing personal, just passing through. This was different. Now she cared. This building, in this neighborhood, was her future, her home, where she would fit in. God only knew why she'd picked this particular place, or it picked her, but it was too late to change, way too late. She had used all her leave time, her architectural skills, called in all the contractor favors she had stockpiled, traded her savings and her credit for this building. Worse, she'd fallen in love and it was part of her now.
    Home. She leaned forward to peer out the rain-streaked windshield at the windows glowing in the night. This was home now. Fuck the bastards. Every stupid brick or spray painted image—or body dump—would come to nothing. You're up against a brick wall. You want a brick wall? There it is, see? Brick walls, four of them. I'm here, end of story. Period. Tony said it: Fortress Pelligrini. You, whoever you are, you want a fight, so be it.
    Suffocating now in the close confines of the police cruiser, she needed to move. The patrol cop had gone back to his partner at the body. Nobody was paying her any attention. Opening the car door just enough to slide out, she stepped cat-footed, crackling through the trash-filled gutter, edging her way toward her doorway.
    “Okay, Pelligrini, hold it right there.”
    She stopped short, recognizing Detective Terreno's voice behind her. When did he get here? Maybe he would tell her what was going on.
    “Can't stay out of trouble, can you?” The concern in his voice colored his sarcastic tone. “You know anything about this?”
    She shook her head.
    “Shots woke me up a few minutes ago. I called 911 and came down to see what was up—”
    “That was stupid,” he interrupted, “What did you think you were doing? Real smart, walk out and see if the perp would shoot you, too?” He looked like he'd come in a hurry, coat flapping open, salsa-stained Bears sweatshirt, one boot untied.
    “Give me a break, Terreno. I was just going to look out the peephole to see if I could see anything. And I called 911 before I came down.” Suddenly she realized she was out in the street in her holey t-shirt, no bra and yesterday's sweat pants, had just shoved her feet in her boots and grabbed her pea jacket on her way out. Shit. Jacket. Jesus, no wonder she was cold. She pulled on the jacket she'd forgotten she was carrying. Terreno led her over to her front door.
    “What happened down here?” She wrapped the jacket tight and stretched to get a better look at the body.
    “Some kid got shot. When I know more, I might tell you more. Now get inside there where it's warm and wait.” The detective put a hand on her back and shoved her through the still-open door, pulling it shut behind her.
    Inside was warm and quiet, most of the night's noise shut out. Safe. While she waited for the