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The car stopped but kept running, the headlights still on.

“Come on,” I whispered.

The car door opened. The interior dome light came on, which would have been my chance to see his face, but those damn headlights blinded me. So I needed him to walk around the front of the car, passing by the headlights.

No luck. He went around the rear of the car. With headlights shining in my face and no other illumination in the parking lot, I couldn’t see much besides a figure—a figure bundled up in a heavy jacket and hat in the frigid evening air—heading over to the teller window.

I could hear just fine: the ka-thunk as the slot at the teller window opened and closed. Then a pause, while my new friend tried to read the note I had left.

“Flashlight,” I mumbled. “Flashlight.”

He used the glow from his phone to put some light on the note. But he was turned away, so the small amount of illumination from the phone didn’t give me anything. I could see the piece of paper in his hand, but whoever this person might be was hunched over, reading it. All I could get was a heavy jacket and some kind of a hat on his head.

Then the glow disappeared. Another ka-thunk as my newest, bestest buddy closed up the slot on the teller window.

Then he got back in the car. I tried to get a look inside, but the headlights were still hitting me head-on, and when the car turned and the headlights swept away from me, I couldn’t see my hand in front of my face.

I had my phone out, ready to hit the flashlight app so I could catch the license plate, but I couldn’t risk giving away my position. The sedan left the parking lot and drove away.

So I struck out.

But that was okay. I’d have another chance soon.

Still crouched in the bushes, I clicked on my phone and looked at the photograph I took of the note I left in the teller slot.

It said: Tomorrow, 6 p.m. Red Line, Jackson stop, northbound platform. Bring it with you.

The guy tailing me had read the note. That much I could see. If he was curious about me already—and he must have been—he’d be very interested indeed in finding out whom I was meeting with and what that person was going to bring along.

He’d be there. And this time I would see him coming.

“See you tomorrow night, my friend,” I said as the car disappeared from sight.

Thirty-Six

I SHOULD have gone home after that. I should have gone back to my town house and poured myself a stiff drink or six so I could think about the two questions I couldn’t get out of my mind.

What was my sister, Patti, doing talking to the manager of the brownstone brothel?

And who the hell was following me?

But I didn’t feel like making myself crazy just at that moment. So I went to the Hole in the Wall. It was full of cops and bunnies as usual. Most of them were well into their pints, which was fine with me. I didn’t need conversation. I just needed the white noise of the crowd, the heat and animation. A couple shots of bourbon wouldn’t hurt, either.

Detective Lanny Soscia—Sosh—was over in a corner, holding forth with a few of his buddies, probably going on about the Blackhawks’ second line, though I doubt anyone could understand half the words he was saying. He raised his pint in salute when he saw me, spilling some of the beer on his shirt. The best part was he didn’t even realize it.

No, the best part was that he’d be at his desk at eight sharp tomorrow morning, ready to go. Sosh was one of those cops who drank a lot to get through all the shit he saw on the job, but he always came back for more. They’d have to pry his badge out of his dying hand, even if they might have to pry a bottle of Budweiser out of the other.

I took a couple of shots of Maker’s Mark at the bar and then looked over the crowd. I heard a woman’s laugh, and it registered with me. I turned and saw Amy Lentini sitting at a high table with some guy. A good-looking guy, I noted, also noting that I felt a small knot form in my stomach.

Well, shit, I thought. Fair play to her. She could have her pick of the litter. She probably had guys crawling out of the woodwork to ask her out.

I had to admit I had underestimated her. She was smart as hell, and apparently she brought some credentials to the job. A former federal prosecutor; a high-profile takedown of a US senator in Wisconsin. And she twisted me up like a pretzel when we did a mock cross-examination.

Watch that one, I reminded myself. Watch that one closely.

She caught my eye and froze for a moment. I nodded to her.

She gave me the finger. Then smiled. I felt something lift. Something that usually got me in trouble.

The guy she was with had sandy brown hair and a thick neck and shoulders—your basic high school homecoming king–varsity letterman guy who had done just fine in the professional world flashing that smile, knotting that tie just so, timing that joke perfectly. He probably secretly wore ladies’ undergarments and still sucked his thumb when he curled up with his teddy bear at night.

That wasn’t fair. I didn’t even know the guy. He could be totally different from that. For all I knew, he snuck out at night to screw barnyard animals.

And what the hell was my problem, by the way? What did I care what Amy Lentini did in her spare time? If she wanted to gallivant around with some eye candy who has the IQ of a tree stump, who’s to tell her no? Certainly not I, I told myself as I downed my third shot of bourbon and asked for a fourth. I didn’t care about Amy Lentini. Nope. Not one bit.

Then I saw Lieutenant Mike Goldberger moving my way. I felt a rush of relief. Goldie was my port in the storm. Everybody needs one. I needed one right now, in fact.

Goldie liked to have a cocktail now and then, sure, but that’s not why he came to the Hole. He came here because this was where everybody talked, especially after too many pints of Guinness. He liked to lie low, say very little, gently prod the conversation forward, as if he were just being polite when in fact he was collecting and filing every piece of data. He knew more things about more cops than anybody I knew.

“How’s things?” he asked, leaning against the bar, telling the bartender he’d have the same shot of Maker’s Mark I was having.

I repositioned myself, turning away from the crowd and toward the bartender. I moved my head toward Goldie and held my words for a moment. He sensed I had something to say. He knew me well. He leaned a bit in my direction.

But how much to tell him? I didn’t want him or anyone else to know about Patti visiting with Ramona Dillavou. Patti was my problem. She was my twin sister. She didn’t need to go on anybody’s official radar. No, I wasn’t going to mention that part.

As if on cue, my sister, Patti, walked through the front door.

No, I decided: whatever Patti was up to, it would be my problem only.

But the part about my being followed? Goldie could help me with that.

“I think I have a shadow,” I said. “I need your help tomorrow.”

Goldie lifted the shot glass and drained the bourbon, signaled the barkeep for another, then pulled out a twenty from his roll and dropped it on the counter.

“Call me,” he said, correctly reasoning that the conversation would require too much detail for a chat at the bar. He took the next shot, downed it, and walked away without another word.

I looked back at Amy’s table. The guy sitting next to her put his arm around the back of her chair. She didn’t seem to mind. I felt something burn inside me. Maybe it was the bourbon in my throat. Yeah, probably that was it.

I heard someone start up with my name, then the chant. Har-ney! Har-ney! I didn’t really feel like doing a few at the mike, but I didn’t have anything better to do, and my friend Stewart would probably appreciate a little stand-up tomorrow morning when he checked our Facebook page.