Chapter 1

Sleepy equaled dead. Jake Black stretched in the car seat and shook his head--surveillance was not his strong suit. He studied the apartment house across the street and imagined the suspect charging out, AK 47 blazing, Jake leaping from his car and returning fire. Anything to break up the boredom.

The cell phone in his pocket vibrated. He flicked it open to see his home phone number. Gretchen, the tiny red-haired English nanny who cared for his daughter, had orders never to call him on the job--except in an emergency. "What is it?"

Her whisper shook. "She's here."

Impossible. "How?"

"I don't know. The doorbell rang, and there she was."

His gut tightened. "Does she have Amy?"

Gretchen's voice broke. "I tried to stop her, Mister Black, I tried to stop her."

Dear God. He started his car. "I'm coming. Call 911 now!" He disconnected, slammed the gearshift down and floored the gas. Driving one-handed, he called the Agency. "This's Jake."

"Kamura. Is he moving?"

"I am. Emergency at home. Get somebody out to cover for me, now. I'm gone."

"Tell me--"

Jake ended the call. How could Marcie have escaped? Still locked in postpartum psychosis, no way she'd have been released from the sanitarium. After Amy's birth, Marcie's "baby blues" had intensified until he'd been awakened one night by screams. He'd found his wife in the nursery, hitting their four-month-old daughter, shrieking, "You can't do this to me! You can't!"

The diagnosis had been quick; she agreed to go into a psychiatric facility, and she hadn't come out. Exposure to Amy still brought on a violent attack; he couldn't even mention their daughter's name.

As he raced south on Lake Shore Drive, he called Gretchen. "The police there?"

"They say they'll be here as soon as possible."

Who knew when that would be? "How...how is Marcie?"

"I'm so frightened, Mr. Black. I tried to grab Amy away from her, but she screamed she would kill her if I came closer. Amy was crying. But I don't...I don't hear her any more."

"Stay away from them." He rounded the corner and screeched to a stop in front of his brownstone. The afternoon sun dappled its bricks with the shade of trees lining the street. It couldn't have seemed more peaceful.

He drew his gun and raced toward the front door. It swung open before he got to it.

Gretchen pointed. "Upstairs!"

He ran up the stairs and through Amy's bedroom doorway. Toys and books cluttered the floor. Her window stood open; a breeze stirred the chintz curtains. His wife's laugh came from outside. He scrambled through the window and thundered up the iron fire-escape stairs.

On the roof Marcie, as slender as ever, her long brown hair swirling in the breeze, held Amy over the parapet at the roof's edge. Amy hung like a Raggedy Ann doll, her eyes closed. Marcie laughed as she swung Amy back and forth. Amy's head lolled with the motion. Her crucifix glittered at her neck.

That morning, she'd asked to wear her necklace. He'd said it was just for special days. And Amy had said, "Maybe today is a special day, and we just don't know it yet."

Marcie looked around at the crunch of Jake's steps on the graveled surface. She smiled. "Hi, honey, I'm home."

His heart ached at the madness in her eyes. "Please put Amy down, Marcie."

She frowned. "You like her better than me."

"No, honey, no way. You're the best. Just put her down."

Marcie brightened. "But she won't hurt me any more." She pulled Amy's limp form to her. "I fixed that."

He prayed that Amy was only unconscious. "Lay her down, Marcie, and step away from her."

She scowled. "No." She swung Amy back out over the parapet.

He aimed his gun. "Put her down."

She laughed and lifted Amy high and smiled up at her. "Isn't this fun, Sweetie?"

He pulled the trigger; the bullet took Marcie below the ribs. She staggered, and blood reddened an air conditioning tower behind her.

Marcie screamed, "Fuck you." She threw Amy over.

Too late, he pulled the trigger again.

The bullet spun Marcie to face him. Her expression softened. Her eyes cleared, and the woman he loved looked out at him. "I'm so sorry."

She threw herself over the edge.

Jake ran to the parapet. Their bodies lay side by side in the alley below. It looked as if they held hands.

His heart locked up.

One year later

Jake Black pulled the trigger a second time.

Again the woman staggered. Then she dove off the rooftop after the child, her muffled laughter falling away.

A nasty mechanical buzz screamed. The blue of sky dissolved into the white of his apartment's bare walls, and his alarm clock yelled at him.

Jake groped and turned it off, then realized that he was holding his breath, his jaws clenched and aching. He lay still for a long moment, confused and hurt.

Why?

His gaze drifted to a snapshot in a plain black frame on his nightstand--Amy in her favorite, flowery party dress. He touched the tiny silver crucifix hanging on its chain from a corner of the frame. Amy wore it in the picture, forever five years old. The crucifix glittered, and then he couldn't look at it any more.

When he swung his legs out of bed, a foot came down on an empty wine bottle. God, his head hurt--the price of self-medication. He scowled at all the damn sun coming in the big picture window that faced east.

He went to the window to see what the weather was like--sunny enough, with fat clouds drifting towards Lake Michigan in a sepia sky.

Sunlight flared from nearby high-rise windows and ant trails of cars on twenty stories below on Lake Shore Drive. On the lake, white triangles of sails leaned before the wind. The view cost extra, but it was a waste; nothing much touched him any more.

In the bathroom, his red, puffy eyes stared at him from the medicine-cabinet mirror. He wondered about the moisture beneath them. More and more, he found it there when he woke. He touched it with a fingertip, then tasted. Salty.

 He dumped a few ibuprofen tablets into his palm and turned to readying for his noon appointment with the Attorney General of the United States. As he lathered his face, he debated whether to wear a suit or not. Wearing a suit sucked--but he was meeting Marion Smith-Taylor in a luxury hotel--but he hated wearing a tie...

 * * *

Searching for Murphy, Jewel Washington pushed through the lunchtime crowd that filled the plaza in front of the Equitable Building, next to the river in downtown Chicago. She had to find the lard-ass cop before she went back to work, for her brother. She saw Murphy, like a big, round boulder parting a stream of girly secretaries cramming in a buzz of noontime shopping--except this boulder stared blatantly at their bobbing chests as they passed.

His piggy eyes stumbled across Jewel as she closed on him. Murphy's gaze went for its customary tour of her body--yeah, she was wearing a sleeveless, scoop-neck top and a mini-skirt, but what the hell, couldn't a girl enjoy a spring day without some slob feeling her up with his eyeballs?

She handed Murphy a hundred-dollar bill and got a small plastic packet of pink powder in return. She hated pink, but it was the only thing that could stop Timmy's pain--for a while.

Murphy said, "You get tired'a paying cash, I'll be glad to take it in trade."

"I don't think so, Murphy." She tapped a tarnished spot on his Chicago PD badge. "That be illegal."

He chuckled, all his chins jiggling. "Damn, wouldn't want that."

A bony white kid shuffled up to the cop, his nose leaking, body shivering, winces of pain flickering across his face. Jewel knew the signs; it had been too long since his last hit of pink.

He held out a handful of grubby bills. "N-n-need one."

Murphy took his time counting the money while the kid jittered. It hurt her to look at him, he was so much like her brother--no, she wasn't going to go there. Too nice a day.

The clock on the Wrigley Building said she had time to do a little window-shopping before she had to be back at the office, so she walked north along Michigan Avenue, heading for Water Tower Place, not that she could afford anything in the boutiques there. The breeze that swirled around the tall office buildings reeked of car exhaust, but her skin liked its touch even though the sky above was its usual beige. She basked in the sun's warmth, imagining she could feel it turning her gold-brown color a shade darker.

A clot of gangbangers swaggered along the sidewalk, guns dangling in their hands, radiating dares that no one answered. Creeps oughta get a life. She cut wide and strolled.

She stopped to eye a cupcake display in a restaurant window, then checked out her reflection. Her eyes--a crazy ice blue donated by some honky ancestor--jumped out at her. The reflection was dark, but she could still make out the scar, a dark brown, three-inch trail curving down her face from high on her cheekbone. Fuck that.

Jewel gave her body the once-over like Murphy had. Still lookin' good...wait a minute, was that a little bit of extra tummy? She turned sideways. Yep, gettin' poochy. She sucked in her gut and walked on, wrestling with whether to diet or exercise, or both.

 * * *

Striding through the gray trudge of pedestrians along Michigan Avenue, Jake Black puzzled over why the U.S. Attorney General had asked for a meeting. Sure, Marion Smith-Taylor had her hands full with a crime wave that didn't look like it was going to stop but, thanks to the Federal ramping-up that had reigned in the years since 9/11, she had an army of agents. What could she possibly want with a freelancer?

A tiresome clump of a half-dozen gang punks swaggered toward him, their pants so baggy one kid had to hold onto his waistband to keep his from falling off. With cocky menace and semi-automatic pistols visible, they blocked most of the sidewalk, forcing people to step off the curb or sidle along a building front. Jake locked his gaze onto the eyes of the guy in the center and walked straight at him.

The kid kept his cool as they came together but, one stride from collision, he dropped his gaze and sidestepped. Jake cut through, never slowing.

He focused on what he knew of the Attorney General. He'd heard from his old contacts in the Justice Department that she was honest and devoted to the law, and that she hated the under-the-table deal-making of politics.

  * * *

Two punks slouching against a gun shop window smacked kisses at Jewel. A green stripe ran down the center of the blond's buzz-cut hair. A red do-rag decorated the smaller guy's shaved head--he cupped his crotch and licked his lips. Ugh. She picked up her pace, her mini-skirt riding high.

They pushed off from the store and swung into step on each side of her. Green-Stripe edged close. "Hey, Brown Sugar."

"I ain't your sugar." Keeping her gaze straight ahead, she said, "They's a cop back there."

"Yeah." He laughed. "Murphy."

His sour, musky odor assaulted her. Their arms brushed hers. Alarm prickled her skin. Wishing she wasn't wearing high heels, she broke into a run, darting between a couple holding hands.

Do-Rag flashed past her and then stopped a few feet ahead, arms spread wide. A hand grabbed at her elbow from behind. She cut around a woman with a stroller, then ran back toward the cop. She yelled, "Murphy!"

Green-Stripe grabbed her arm and yanked her to a stop. He swung her to face him and leaned close. "You need somethin' to relax you, chocklit, and I'm it."

He pulled her toward an alley. She yanked free and spun. His partner stood waiting for her.

They grabbed her arms and hauled her backward, toward the alley. She struggled, but couldn't tear free.

Fifty feet away, Murphy stood and stared.

She cried, "Murphy?!"

The punks dragged her into the alley; her call ricocheted from concrete walls. "Help me! Somebody! Hey!"

Glances flicked her way from the throng on the sidewalk, then instantly away. See-no-evil, don't get involved, stay safe; she'd done it a million times.

Now what she had to do was live through this.

 * * *

A woman's scream cut into Jake's thoughts. Ahead, two scruffy punks pulled a young woman into an alley. A reflexive impulse to go to the rescue struggled to rise...but then his mental ground fog of numbness sucked it under. A policeman headed her way. Good, let the cop deal with it.

The woman's cry came again. "Murphy!" The officer, a wide man with multiple chins, halted at the alley and gazed at the action.

Jake reached the alley and stopped a few feet behind the cop. What the hell, he could spare a minute if he needed a hand.

The shorter punk held the woman's arms from behind while the blond with a stupid green line in his hair ripped her shirt open.

She yelled to the cop, "Murphy! Murphy, it's me!"

Clothes-ripper turned to the officer and gave him a fuck-you smile. Quick, smooth, he slipped his hand inside his Bulls jacket and pulled out an automatic pistol. He didn't aim the gun, just held it ready.

Jake wondered how the uniform would handle it.

The cop continued on, hands clasped behind his back as if out for a stroll on a beach.

There was a time Jake would have chewed out the guy for not doing his duty. Today it was just another swirl in the fog.

The kid replaced his pistol and unzipped his pants. A cry from the woman shriveled into a wail, "Murphyyyy."

The cop didn't look back. People flowed past, blinders on.

Jake looked north toward his waiting appointment.

Back into the alley.

The woman staggered her attacker with a kick to his leg. He slapped her, then had to dodge a knee aimed at his crotch. Girl had guts. Jake sighed, stepped into the alley, and drew his silenced, nine-millimeter Glock from the holster under his windbreaker. He settled into a marksman's stance.

The punk holding the woman saw Jake and his grin O'd toward a shout. Jake couldn't allow a warning; the one who pulled the gun was fast. Jake's bullet stopped the kid's yell in his mouth and slammed him back. His hands don't know he was dead and pulled the woman on top of him as he fell.

Jake shouted, "Freeze!"

The tall one spun toward Jake. His hand emerged from his jacket with the gun as he yelled, "Fuck--"

Jake's shot took him in the heart. The kid rocked back, looked down at his chest with surprise, then up at Jake with fear. His knees buckled and he collapsed, his gun clattering on the pavement.

A familiar rush of nausea hit Jake. Sickened, he swallowed it back and stuffed his pistol into his holster.

The woman scrambled to her feet. Clutching at her torn top, she stared at the mess that was her attackers, then looked at Jake.

He turned his back on her and stepped into the mindless herd. His internal fog blanket smothered his revulsion at killing, and his thoughts went back to his meeting.

What did the Attorney General want him for?

Would he give a damn?

Could he give a damn?

  * * *

Jewel trembled, the scar across her cheek throbbing as though it remembered old trouble. She settled herself down. Her Mama always said, "In this world, you got to be hard. Ain't nobody there for you but you." Hallelujah, Mama.

She'd been lucky today. She felt compelled to thank the guy, even if he was white--Mama'd taught her manners, too. Jewel hurried after him, trying to arrange her torn top into decent coverage, but one tit or the other kept falling out. Great, now she had to walk down Michigan Avenue with her boobs hanging out. And wouldn't they love it back at the office.

She spotted her rescuer slicing through the crowd. She really should get back to her job but hell, he'd pretty much saved her little brown ass. She shouted, "Hey!" No response.

He crossed the street. She hurried after him; the man could move. As she reached the curb, the crossing signal switched to Don't. She stopped and gnawed her lip in frustration as she watched him leave her behind.

A middle-aged woman in a suit pushed past her and hurried at a fast walk to beat the light. Dumb thing to do.

Drivers in the front row of cars leaned forward, heads turning in unison as they tracked the woman. A couple of them gunned their engines. The light changed.

A black Ford pickup leaped at her, snagged a leg and spun her into a light pole. The driver, a cracker who looked seventy, raised a fist out his window and yelled, "Yee-haa!" He sported two skull-and-crossbones decals on his door just below the window.

The woman crumpled in the gutter and screamed, one foot pointing an unnatural direction. Pedestrians ignored her.

The light changed and "Walk" flashed; Jewel pulled off her shoes and ran, glancing at the injured woman as she passed. She pulled up and hurried back, scolding herself for her do-gooder impulses. After she dragged the woman off the street and leaned her against a mailbox, Jewel dug her cell phone out of her purse and dialed 911. "Got a dumb bitch hit by a road tagger, corner of Michigan and Ohio."

The woman yelled, "Who're you calling a dumb bitch?"

Jewel ran on. At the next intersection she spotted her quarry across the street, entering the Chelsea Hotel. Walk changed to Don't, but this time Jewel hit the crosswalk at full speed. She made it across before the light went green; drivers honked their horns in frustration.

She dashed for the hotel her man had gone into.