"Great. It's been dreamy." I pushed myself out of the chair. Sometimes these meetings took a while, but we were becoming much more efficient.

"Nothing at all from last night?" he asked me. "You meet the governor?"

"No."

"Learn any useful information?"

"No."

Tucker nodded for a long time. He looked disappointed. "Well, that's too bad," he said.

46.

CHARLIE WAS IN A RARE GOOD MOOD TODAY. I DIDN'T know what market-driven event had lightened his capitalistic heart-maybe landing an anchor tenant on one of his commercial properties-but I thought it would be good to take advantage.

"Missed you last night," he said. The Porsche was humming down the interstate to the south side.

"I was there."

"Yeah? Well, that place was a mob house. So who are we doing today? Hoffman, right? Eric Hoffman?"

"Right," I said.

"We're blowing through that list."

It was true. Knowing Charlie, he had the whole thing charted out. Someday, he might want to compare his chart with the one on a conference room in the U.S. attorney's office.

"Hey, I was noticing," I said. "I saw on the list that one of the companies didn't have a number next to it."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. Starlight Catering. Any particular reason we're leaving them alone? Or was it an oversight?"

He didn't answer right away. He was thinking about his response.

"Don't worry about that," he said.

"What does that mean?"

Charlie grew quiet. I had snapped him out of his uncharacteristically good mood back to the angry, aggressive one. That told me something right there.

Charlie made an aggressive move with the Porsche, switching into the right lane and then swerving onto the off-ramp.

"What are you doing?" I asked.

He didn't answer. We took a right after the ramp. He found the nearest gas station and parked at the far end, where we were alone.

"Get out," he said.

I paused, but too long a hesitation could be lethal. I got out and met him at the rear of the Porsche.

"Open your coat," he said.

My heart did some gymnastics. I had hit a nerve with Charlie.

And now he was going to search me.

I unbuttoned my winter coat. My suit coat, the left inner pocket of which was holding the F-Bird, was already unbuttoned. I raised my arms. Charlie put his palms on my shirt at the chest and then ran his hands down to my belt.

"Spread your legs."

"Jesus, Charlie."

"Spread your legs," he repeated.

I did. He did a quick pat on my thighs.

"You want me to empty my pockets, too?" I asked with indignation. I wasn't eager to do it, of course, but I knew that was his intention so it only made sense to appear willing. Better than unwilling. Indignant, insulted, offended was fine. But not unwilling.

I didn't try to stall or talk him out of it. I pulled my car keys out of my right overcoat pocket and then turned the pocket out. There was nothing in the left coat pocket and I turned it out, too.

Charlie didn't seem inclined to stop me. He threw my keys to the ground and put his hand out.

I didn't want to think about what might happen next. I couldn't seem the least bit apprehensive. I tried not to think about the fact that after my pants pockets, there was nothing left but my suit jacket and the F-Bird.

From my right pants pocket, I removed my cell phone and money clip before turning that pocket out. Charlie threw the money to the ground but held on to my cell phone.

One more pocket until we got to the suit coat and the F-Bird.

From my left pants pocket, I removed my wallet and a crumbled photograph I carry around of Talia and Emily. Charlie dropped the wallet but took a look at the photograph.

His expression relaxed. He struggled a moment.

"This is your wife and daughter," he said.

I nodded. "Please don't damage it," I said. "It's irreplaceable. It-means something to me."

Charlie let out a sigh and dropped his arms. As I hoped, the photo, combined with my clear willingness to comply with his search, had taken the wind out of his sails. "Okay, kid, sorry-sorry." He handed me the photo, then the cell phone. He bent down and retrieved my wallet and money and car keys. "Just-you with your questions. It makes me nervous."

"Charlie, I'm going to try real hard not to be offended."

He reached for my shoulder. He felt bad now. "Just being careful. The questions and all.

"Sorry," he said again, as he got back in the car.

47.

LAST NIGHT, I'D ONLY KNOWN TWO THINGS-STARLIGHT had leapfrogged Bert Wozniak's company for a big project, and Starlight was being given a pass by Charlie in our shakedown scheme. Now I knew more. Joey Espinoza's brother-in-law was the owner of Starlight. And that brought back this little tidbit from the first time I visited Charlie's office back in December, when I passed by her office: Joey Espinoza's wife was on Charlie's payroll.

And now I knew how sensitive a thing it was for Charlie. Raising the topic with him almost cost me everything.

Here was how I figured it. Joey wanted his brother-in-law's company to get the sweetheart state contract. He talked to Charlie. They probably cut a deal. The PCB does what it does, manufacturing a reason why the lowest bidder-Adalbert Wozniak's company-isn't qualified. Voil, Starlight gets the contract. Wozniak feels cheated. He starts making some noise. He even goes to the state's inspector general to complain. It comes back to Charlie. He and Joey decide that Wozniak has to be silenced. Especially because, at this point, Joey is already securely in the grasp of the federal government. They've already sunk their hooks into him. The absolute last thing Joey needs is more trouble. So Charlie handles the details. Wozniak is gunned down. It looks like one of those gang things that happen far too often. A tragic, senseless loss. An unsolved murder. Terrible, but not unusual, not in the part of town where Wozniak had his offices.

Only there's a problem: The murder is pinned on a teenage member of the Columbus Street Cannibals, the same gang that Joey Espinoza has been tied in to. The heat actually turns up on Joey. So Charlie does what he can to keep Joey from singing about the Wozniak shooting, and the Starlight Catering deal, to the feds. I'll hire your wife while you're inside, he tells him. Maybe he offers to cover Joey's mortgage, too. Maybe a job afterward. Joey won't lose his house or his wife while he's serving time. Probably other promises are made, too. Whatever it takes, to keep Joey quiet from his new federal friends.

Damage control.

Adalbert Wozniak wasn't murdered because he refused to pay the Cannibals' extortion demands. He was gunned down because he was about to expose a pay-to-play scheme involving Joey Espinoza, Charlie Cimino, and the Procurement and Construction Board.

I felt sure of it. But there were still things I was missing. I was missing the connection to Ernesto Ramirez.

And I was missing proof of any of this.

48.

I MET ESMERALDA RAMIREZ FOR LUNCH AT A DINER near her home. I got there first. The place wasn't crowded. The economy was slipping further. People were worried.

The weather matched the mood of the country. Typical Midwest February, cold and wet and gloomy. No snow had fallen in several weeks, but sheets of ice lined the streets and sidewalks. I almost took a header walking into the place. Everything was harder to do this time of year.

I didn't recognize her when she walked in. She was wearing one of those puffy jackets, light blue, and a matching hat with a beanie on top. She looked like a little girl in many ways.

But she wasn't a little girl. She was a widow. A mother of two. And unemployed, last I checked.

"How are you?" I asked. I hate small-talk intros like that, but I really wanted to know.

From what I could tell of Essie Ramirez, she didn't like to play the pity card. She gave a bitter smile, like she was actually going to give me a substantive answer, but she quickly retreated. "I've had better days," she said. "And you? Have you succeeded in your quest?"

"Getting there."

We ordered coffee and took menus.

"I have questions," I told her.

She wrapped her hands around the coffee. Her youthful face was drawn, sleep-deprived, and lined along the eyes and forehead. She was tired and stressed. I wasn't having the time of my life these days, either, but I had some money and I didn't have two children to feed and care for.

She looked up at me.

"You said I'd made some progress with your husband," I said. "That I'd convinced him to tell me what he knew."

"Yes. That's what I thought."

"And then he came home one night and he said, 'The truth doesn't matter. It's not worth prison.' Words to that effect?"

"Yes."

"Why 'prison?' Why would he be worried about going to prison?"

She took a drink of coffee and savored it. It was actually a pretty good cup for a diner. Hot, dark, and smooth.

I liked Essie. She had very little going for her right now, but she carried herself with quiet dignity. She didn't complain or even raise her voice when she spoke. And I had to admit, she was attractive. Large, watery brown eyes, long lashes, a small curved face. Ernesto had done well for himself.

She stared at me for a moment. "Are you asking me if my husband was involved in something illegal?"

"Yes."

"Then ask me that."

That was another thing I liked about her. She was direct. From my limited conversations with her, she had absolutely zero capacity for bullshit.

"Was your husband involved in something illegal?"

"The answer is no."

"Do you think you would know? I mean, you said he was protective. Old-fashioned. He wouldn't talk to you about certain things."

"And I took all of that into account in giving you my answer. I knew him better than anyone. I would have known."

I believed her. I believed that she would know if her husband was up to no good, even if he tried to shield her from it. And that was saying something, because in my experience, the human capacity for deception knows no bounds.

"Did your husband ever talk about Joseph Espinoza? Or Joey Espinoza?"

"No."

"Hector Almundo?"

"No."

"Charlie Cimino?"

Third time was a charm. She held on that name. "That one," she said. "He owned housing, I believe. A slumlord."