Rob shifted the beer to his other arm, and Coates shook his freed hand energetically, then hugged him. He said, "h.e.l.lo, John," and offered Thinnes his hand.

Shaking it, Thinnes said, "Bill."

"Well, come in." Coates backed away from the door. "You're just in time. The game's starting."

Thinnes took the beer from Rob and said, "I'll just put this in the kitchen and say h.e.l.lo."

He followed the wonderful aromas to the kitchen, where Rhonda and Louise were elbow deep in potato peels. Louise's favorite thing to make for dinner was usually reservations, but on Thanksgiving, she made everything from scratch. She also made a production of serving it-candles and table linens and flowers, three kinds of forks at each place and two different gla.s.ses. Between setting up and cleaning up, it was a whole day's work for twenty minutes of eating.

"You've gotten much too thin, John," Louise said, after she said h.e.l.lo. She was five five, ash-blond, and gray eyed. And her statement was unintentionally ironic-she was thin as an anorexic.

Thinnes didn't bother to remind her he'd been sick. A bullet in the gut wasn't a reducing method he'd recommend, but he could testify to its effectiveness. He took a beer out of the case he'd brought and squeezed the rest into the refrigerator and the cooler near the door. He extracted a c.o.ke from the cooler for Rob.

Louise wasn't finished. "Rhonda, you really should make him eat more."

"Mother, he's been feeding himself since he was six months old."

The rest of the Coates clan was gathered around the forty-six-inch TV, watching the Bears maul the Lions. Thinnes said h.e.l.lo to everyone, handed the c.o.ke to Rob-sitting on the floor near his grandfather-and squeezed between Coates and his youngest daughter on the couch.

After a few minutes of the game, he found his attention wandering. Compared to the life-and-death problems he worked on daily, grown men fighting over a pigskin ball seemed silly. And adults getting worked up watching them seemed absolutely nuts.

Judith Coates Ashley, Rhonda's younger sister, was a rabid Bears fan and a b.i.t.c.h. Even Rhonda said so. She was carrying on about the game like a Pop Warner football mom. Her husband, Charles-only slightly less enthusiastic-was stretched out in Coates's recliner. Chuck-as everyone called him when they wanted to annoy him-was an attorney who'd always seemed to Thinnes like a pale imitation of Coates. He'd lost interest in Thinnes when he realized he wasn't going to give away any juicy details about open cases. Chuck and Judy's two spoiled brats were squabbling over a pocket video game close enough to the television to periodically interrupt the action with their own skirmishes. Thinnes figured it was going to be a long afternoon.

When Rob and most of the Coates clan headed outside, midafternoon, for a little touch football, Thinnes and Rhonda stayed in the TV room. They left the television on out of habit, but Thinnes couldn't have said who was playing. He sat in the recliner next to the couch and watched her. One of the teams called time-out, and she looked around. She seemed startled to find him watching, but-he could see her thinking about it-she didn't seem displeased. She gave him a little smile. "Penny for your thoughts."

The desire and love he suddenly felt made him feel as if his chest would explode from the internal pressure. He grabbed the chair arm. If he were to hold her-as every cell in his body cried out to do-he would surely crush her. He said, "Censored."

She smiled. "Let's throw a party. Just invite people we like." She looked around and lowered her voice. "No one here-your father. And my boss-people we'd like to get to know better."

"No cops."

"What about Carl?"

"Okay. Maybe him."

"Think about who else you'd like ask." She went back to watching the game.

Thinnes did think about it. Apart from Rhonda and his dad, he didn't have any close friends. Frank Flynn had been one. Frank had bought a .38 slug and six feet of Rosehill. Oster was the closest he could come, at work, to naming someone who'd miss him if he fell off the planet. And Jack Caleb.

But he's a f.a.ggot. And guys who make friends with f.a.ggots are f.a.ggots.

As quickly as he had the thought, he had another. It was queer-he immediately appreciated the irony of the term-how you could overlook someone's being gay if he was a relative, or if he'd saved your life. Maybe that was why the bashers were so busy-keep 'em away, keep 'em hostile, keep 'em from getting close enough for you to see the scared face on the head you were about to split. If you admitted they were human-like you-you might have to wonder if you were like them in other ways. Something Jack had pointed out to him once. He'd been right. And there were worse people you could be like.

Thinnes moved to the couch and put an arm around Rhonda. "Yeah, let's have a party. And maybe I'll invite Jack."

After dinner, Chuck borrowed Coates's Cadillac to go rent a movie. When he came back, and Coates asked him for the keys, he got a funny look on his face. Thinnes watched him pat down his pockets, becoming mildly alarmed at not finding the keys there, then look around the room. "They've got to be here somewhere," he said. "I couldn't have gotten back without them."

"Did you leave them in the car?" his wife whined.

He gave her a withering look, but handed her the videoca.s.sette and went out to look. "They're locked in," he announced when he came back. "Let me have your spare set, Bill," he said to Coates.

Coates looked annoyed. "It's at my office." His office was in the Loop.

"s.h.i.t!" Chuck said.

Judy rolled her eyes and said, "Oh, G.o.d!" then went to join Rhonda and her mother in the kitchen. Thinnes put a hand over his mouth to keep from laughing.

"I'll call the cops," Coates said. "Have 'em send someone over to get it open."

"They'll do that?"

"That's what I pay taxes for."

Cops breaking into cars. To order! Thinnes had heard rumors it happened, but he'd never quite believed it. At least Coates used the nonemergency number to call.

He felt sorry for the officer they sent. He had the pressed and polished look of a new academy graduate. Thinnes guessed suburban cops never had it worn or beat out of them, because this guy was at least thirty. He got out of his polished, no-visible-damage squad with a slim jim and an air of confidence. When they pointed out the car, he went back to his squad and adjusted his spotlight to shine on the Caddy's driver's-side door. As he slid the slim jim between the window and its rubber seal, the cop's face and breath-condensing in the frigid air-were lit by the reflection off the pale gray car. Coates and Chuck stood over him, their breaths also steaming.

Watching from the comfort of the Coates's living room, Thinnes didn't see how the cop could succeed. He was aiming for the wrong spot. But he kept trying. He gave it fifteen minutes-fourteen more than Thinnes would've-before he shrugged and got in his car and drove away. Comforting, somehow, to know the cops were inept car thieves.

Coates came in tight-lipped and tersely told Chuck to "forget it." Chuck headed for the kitchen; Coates headed for the phone. Thinnes heard him pick it up, then watched him listen to the message from the other end of the line. Then he slammed the receiver down and stalked out yelling, "Louise, where's the phone book?"

Good luck, Thinnes thought, getting a locksmith on Thanksgiving.

He got his coat and went out to his car. Under the pa.s.senger's seat, tucked into the springs, he had a flat strip of aluminum that had come from someone's lawn furniture by way of an apprentice car thief he'd busted. The strip had been modified to perform as a slim jim. It took forty-five seconds to get it out, slide it down next to the Cadillac's window, and unlock the door. Thinnes put the Cadillac's keys in his pocket and returned his slim jim to the Chevy. He brought the keys into the house and handed them to Rhonda as he kissed her good-bye. Before anyone could make an issue of it, or make the usual snide remark about him not having to work holidays if he had a respectable job, he got in the Chevy and left for work.

Thirty-Seven.

Friday. The day after Thanksgiving. The holiday had put together a lethal combination of booze and family members with long-standing grudges. Add a few knives and guns and baseball bats, and you had overtime for the police. All of the Violent Crimes detectives, except Ferris, were out when Thinnes got to the squad room. Even Property Crimes d.i.c.ks had been pressed into service to catalog the mayhem. Thinnes was fifteen minutes early. He'd just gotten himself coffee when Rossi charged out of his office.

"Thinnes," he barked. "You're doing Indians this month. Here's another one for you." He handed Thinnes a paper with an Uptown address.

"Piece of cake, Thinnes," Ferris volunteered. "Just look for a male Cauc with long blond hair and a Seventh Cavalry uniform."

Thinnes watched Oster out of one eye and kept the other on the traffic ahead.

"Something's bugging you, Carl. What is it?"

The older detective often made pointed remarks about politics or current events, but he never talked about his personal life. Thinnes knew he had a wife, and three kids he was putting through college, but he rarely talked about them. He never said anything bad. Thinnes respected that. Guys who bad-mouthed their own wives had no idea how stupid they made themselves out to be.

"Nothin'," Oster grunted.

Thinnes waited.

"Aw, what the h.e.l.l. I found out yesterday my daughter's gettin' a divorce. Be final in three days. Guess the father's always the last to know."

Thinnes felt like saying, "Not always, sometimes it's the husband," but he didn't think that would go over well.

"That's not the worst," Oster continued. "She's pregnant!"

Thinnes vaguely remembered Oster mentioning-months ago-that he was going to be a grandfather. He'd been disappointed. Oster was a great believer in education and wanted his children to finish college before they complicated their lives with kids.

"I take out a second mortgage and work OT for a year so she can marry the b.u.m in style, and it doesn't even last a year. Go figure."

Thinnes shook his head by way of answering. He signaled left and didn't answer until he'd made the turn. Two blocks up, he could see the flashing blue lights of the patrol car at the scene, but he kept to the speed limit. The Indian wasn't going anywhere, and the uniforms were on the clock. He stole a glance at Oster and said, "If the guy's such a b.u.m, maybe she's better off raising her kid alone."

"Oh, she won't be raising him alone. She wants to move back in with Norma'n me. Just when we got the last one outta the house..."

"Just say no."

"Where else she gonna go? Cabrini?"

Moot question.

Thinnes pulled the car over to the curb behind the beat car. He put it in park and shut off the engine. "Keep telling yourself it could be worse, Carl." He pointed beyond the parkway, to the vacant lot surrounded by yellow POLICE LINE tape, lit by portable lights, and guarded by the uniforms. "It could be a lot worse."

The Indian was the American variety, male, five eight, Thinnes guessed, though it was hard to be sure given his position. He was dressed in the traditional city-Indian garb-Levi's, jeans jacket, and cowboy boots. No attempt had been made by his a.s.sailant to take the silver and turquoise-trimmed belt or watch. So, he'd had some money, but he didn't look like a drug user or seller.

It was a fresh kill. Steam rose from the blood trickling from a star-shaped entrance wound in the man's temple and from his groin region, where urine seeped onto the freezing ground. Among the deep shadows thrown by the portable lights, it seemed like a soul escaping from the body.

Thinnes took an extra glove from his pocket and pulled it on over the one he already had on his right hand. Poor SOB probably didn't have AIDS, but no sense taking any chances. He probed the center of the head wound with his little finger. Small-caliber weapon, probably a .22. Mob hit?

As he stepped back and pulled the outer glove off, inside out, Oster walked up.

"We got a witness says she saw your shooter." He pointed toward the shadows beyond the sidewalk, where one of the uniforms was talking to a bag woman. "Poke Salad Annie there says Elvis did it."

"Get her statement."

"I was just kidding. She's so high you could get tipsy breathing in the same room with her."

"Get her statement," Thinnes said.

While the technicians hustled around the crime scene, chased by their own long shadows, Thinnes stood outside the police-line tape and tried to reconstruct the murder in his head. The victim hadn't struggled. The expression on his face suggested surprise-though you couldn't count on that. He hadn't been a b.u.m or wino-a blue-collar worker, by his clothes. The boots were new or-probably-his dress boots.

As soon as the photographer was finished, Bendix ambled over and began to go through the deceased's pockets. Thinnes and Oster ducked under the yellow tape and moved closer to watch. He removed a piece of paper and put it in a plastic bag, which he held up so Thinnes could read and copy what was written on it. A telephone number. Unfamiliar area code.

"No wallet," Bendix announced. "And no keys. But you may be in luck."

"How's that?" Thinnes asked.

Bendix held up a plastic evidence bag containing a .22-caliber sh.e.l.l casing. Then he pointed to a slight dip in the terrain that had collected residue from a snow shower earlier. "And someone left a footwear impression. What d'ya wanna bet it's the shooter's?"

"No takers," Oster said.

Bendix's crew had finally finished casting the "footwear impressions" and were packing up when Thinnes yelled out, "Hey, Bendix, get the dog s.h.i.t, too." He pointed the flashlight he'd borrowed at a pile of s.h.i.t just inside the crime-scene perimeter.

Bendix hurried over and gawked. "What kind of c.r.a.p is this? I'm filing a complaint."

"It's physical evidence, Bendix. Officer..." Thinnes checked his notebook for the patrol officer's name. "Officer Enright observed that pile of s.h.i.t steaming when she arrived. Since it was only six minutes between the 911 call and Enright's arrival on the scene, we can a.s.sume that whatever dumped that pile was here during the killing or pretty soon after."

"What the h.e.l.l d'you expect me to do with it?"

"What ever you do with any unstable evidence. I want to know whether it's from the two- or four-legged variety of dog." Thinnes turned to Oster. "Have everyone doing the canva.s.sing ask who around here has a big dog. And maybe you could check with animal control and see if there've been any complaints."

While he was talking, they watched Bendix amble over to one of his junior partners.

"You really hope to learn anything with this dog s.h.i.t?" Oster asked.

"At the very least, it'll p.i.s.s Bendix off." Thinnes shrugged. "And who knows, maybe the dog's owner knows something."

"Maybe the dog is the two-legged variety and he did something."

Thirty-Eight.

"Dr. Caleb," Mrs. Sleighton said, when Caleb came back from lunch, "a Mr. w.a.n.g called. He'd like you to get in touch with him as soon as possible."

w.a.n.g was the manager of Caleb's condo. He was efficient and discreet and would never contact Caleb at work for a trivial reason. Caleb's only client for the afternoon had canceled, so he decided to go see w.a.n.g. When he entered the lobby of his building, the doorman handed him a note from the building manager. "Please see me at your earliest convenience. Thomas w.a.n.g."

w.a.n.g was in his office, and he looked very relieved when he opened the door for him. "Doctor, so good of you to respond promptly. You received an...animal." With a sweep of his hand, he indicated a small, wire-and-plastic animal shipping crate in the center of his oriental carpet. Affixed to the outside of the carrier was an envelope. Caleb opened it and read: 29 November Dear Jack, Tampa is exquisite! Divine weather, beaches with sand white as granulated sugar and littered with bronze G.o.ds, water warm as blood, brilliant, saturated colors. The rocks could have been sculpted by Henry Moore. It'll take ten years to pay for all the film I've exposed. If I didn't have the show coming up, I'd never come back. You must come.

But you won't. So here's a little souvenir. I rescued it from a pack of SAVAGE urchins. But then what? I know I can trust you to keep it safe or, at least, dispose of it in a P.C. manner. It's had all its shots-courtesy of a divine DVM I met on the beach. (I'm going to immortalize him-or at least parts of him.).

Anyway, I'll be here another week if you change your mind.

Ciao.

love, Jeremy Health and rabies-vaccination certificates accompanied the shipping manifest in another attached envelope.

The crate contained a tiny kitten, white underneath, with bright splotches of orange and black above. It had a white blaze on its face, yellow eyes, and long, graceful, white whiskers. Caleb picked it up-her, he noted-and put his hand under her. The kitten planted all four tiny feet on it and tucked her tail around them. Looking around, she took in the room as if Caleb's hand was her usual observation post and his a.s.sistance her right. He laughed. So perhaps, Freud had his friend.

He turned to w.a.n.g. "Would you mind putting the crate down by my storage s.p.a.ce?"

"Of course not."