on, sit for me.”
“Forget it. Why don’t you take Mia’s picture? She’s beautiful.”
“I already did. I’ve got lots of Mia.”
He began to pull at my sock then, tickling the underside of my foot, torturing me into agreeing to be photographed. I absolutely lost it, being the world’s most ticklish person, and soon gave in.
I lay there, catching my breath, and Dan took my hand in his. For a split second I thought maybe he was going to kiss me, and I went rigid. I had never even dreamed of sleeping with anybody that good-looking. He didn’t kiss me, though. Instead, he helped me to my feet. “Let’s catch the light before it gets late,” he said.
3
I didn’t despise Jack Klaus, the way I did that Detective Norris. But I didn’t much like him, either. Klaus was another white cop, also a detective, and unlikely as it was, we had a few things in common—history of a sort.
Technically the history was between him and Uncle Woody. I didn’t know what kind of favors one owed the other, or how the two came to know each other. I just knew Woody trusted him and they went back a ways. My uncle had called on Klaus to help untangle a couple of grisly South Side murders my family had been pulled into. Sure enough, Klaus had come through for us. He provided vital info from Chicago PD files and kept a great deal of heat off of me and Woody. When the smoke cleared he was being hailed as a supercop. He had earned a big rep for solving the crimes, and a big promotion to match.
His new digs on Taylor Street reflected it. Klaus, who was half Woody’s age, had been appointed to a cushy spot in major crimes. He was sitting behind his blond wood desk when I came into the office. He cut his phone conversation short when he saw me, even stood to greet me. “It’s nice to see you again, Cass.”
I had been well brought up. Normally I appreciate that kind of courtesy. But I didn’t return the greeting.
He had been nothing but respectful to Ivy, Woody, and me. And now he was being nice, going out of his way to look into Wilton’s and Mia’s murders. I just couldn’t get up for being nice back to him.
I had to give him one thing: He sure looked more prosperous than he did the last time we’d met. Gone were the Robert Hall vines and the square haircut. He wore a nicely tailored suit—prison stripes, Nat called straight clothes—and his hair hung fashionably close to the collar of his crisp white shirt. Real sharp. Kind of like one of the actors on
The Name of the Game.
A long brown cigarillo rested on the lip of a brass ashtray near his hand.
I took out my pack of Multifilters, and he lit my cigarette.
“I understand they were friends of yours,” he said. “You holding up okay?”
“I guess.”
“Tough thing to be going through.”
“Right.”
He waited for me to expand on it. But I just sat there.
“You probably know I don’t have jurisdiction in the case. I can only poke around, ask to be kept up-to-date.”
“Okay.”
“It’s early in the investigation. But I was able to find out a few things anyway. I thought maybe you and me could catch some breakfast and I’d tell you about it.”
“No.”
“No?”
“I mean no, thanks. I don’t want to keep you from your job. Can’t we just talk here?”
He shrugged. “Sure.”
He used the intercom to ask for coffee. A few minutes later, it was delivered along with a tray of sweet rolls.
“They don’t have a lot to go on so far. There were plenty of prints and junk left in the apartment from the previous tenants. You and your roommates had all been in the empty place, too—and the maintenance guy who had the heart attack. All that just puts more BS in the game. And as you know, they haven’t fixed time of death exactly. But before we get into what I know, let me ask you something, Cass.”
“What?”
“What do
you
think happened? Any idea who could have killed them? Maybe they were dealing? They ripped off a supplier, burned the wrong guy.
“Forget it. Why don’t you take Mia’s picture? She’s beautiful.”
“I already did. I’ve got lots of Mia.”
He began to pull at my sock then, tickling the underside of my foot, torturing me into agreeing to be photographed. I absolutely lost it, being the world’s most ticklish person, and soon gave in.
I lay there, catching my breath, and Dan took my hand in his. For a split second I thought maybe he was going to kiss me, and I went rigid. I had never even dreamed of sleeping with anybody that good-looking. He didn’t kiss me, though. Instead, he helped me to my feet. “Let’s catch the light before it gets late,” he said.
3
I didn’t despise Jack Klaus, the way I did that Detective Norris. But I didn’t much like him, either. Klaus was another white cop, also a detective, and unlikely as it was, we had a few things in common—history of a sort.
Technically the history was between him and Uncle Woody. I didn’t know what kind of favors one owed the other, or how the two came to know each other. I just knew Woody trusted him and they went back a ways. My uncle had called on Klaus to help untangle a couple of grisly South Side murders my family had been pulled into. Sure enough, Klaus had come through for us. He provided vital info from Chicago PD files and kept a great deal of heat off of me and Woody. When the smoke cleared he was being hailed as a supercop. He had earned a big rep for solving the crimes, and a big promotion to match.
His new digs on Taylor Street reflected it. Klaus, who was half Woody’s age, had been appointed to a cushy spot in major crimes. He was sitting behind his blond wood desk when I came into the office. He cut his phone conversation short when he saw me, even stood to greet me. “It’s nice to see you again, Cass.”
I had been well brought up. Normally I appreciate that kind of courtesy. But I didn’t return the greeting.
He had been nothing but respectful to Ivy, Woody, and me. And now he was being nice, going out of his way to look into Wilton’s and Mia’s murders. I just couldn’t get up for being nice back to him.
I had to give him one thing: He sure looked more prosperous than he did the last time we’d met. Gone were the Robert Hall vines and the square haircut. He wore a nicely tailored suit—prison stripes, Nat called straight clothes—and his hair hung fashionably close to the collar of his crisp white shirt. Real sharp. Kind of like one of the actors on
The Name of the Game.
A long brown cigarillo rested on the lip of a brass ashtray near his hand.
I took out my pack of Multifilters, and he lit my cigarette.
“I understand they were friends of yours,” he said. “You holding up okay?”
“I guess.”
“Tough thing to be going through.”
“Right.”
He waited for me to expand on it. But I just sat there.
“You probably know I don’t have jurisdiction in the case. I can only poke around, ask to be kept up-to-date.”
“Okay.”
“It’s early in the investigation. But I was able to find out a few things anyway. I thought maybe you and me could catch some breakfast and I’d tell you about it.”
“No.”
“No?”
“I mean no, thanks. I don’t want to keep you from your job. Can’t we just talk here?”
He shrugged. “Sure.”
He used the intercom to ask for coffee. A few minutes later, it was delivered along with a tray of sweet rolls.
“They don’t have a lot to go on so far. There were plenty of prints and junk left in the apartment from the previous tenants. You and your roommates had all been in the empty place, too—and the maintenance guy who had the heart attack. All that just puts more BS in the game. And as you know, they haven’t fixed time of death exactly. But before we get into what I know, let me ask you something, Cass.”
“What?”
“What do
you
think happened? Any idea who could have killed them? Maybe they were dealing? They ripped off a supplier, burned the wrong guy.
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