The rookie's heavier, more jaded partner answered. "Naw, but we got cars covering the alley and street at both ends of the block. He's probably lying under a car or squatting in the bushes somewhere along here. We'll get him when it gets light. Or maybe we'll get a dog."

Spiderman wandered up, warming his hands in his armpits, and Ferris joined them. Then patrol announced over the radio that they'd flushed Ocampo. "We're heading him back your way."

They tracked the chase by the transmissions. The first team was joined by other cars. When they'd herded Ocampo into the alley behind his own building, just west of the detectives' location, Ferris, Spiderman, and the rookie joined Thinnes trying to head him off. They tore down the gangway between the buildings, their flashlight beams raising weird shapes from the trash. Suddenly, the rookie tripped and slid-swearing-into the shadowy debris. Following too close, Spiderman went down on top of him. Thinnes had to jump over both to avoid joining the pileup, and the cramping in his gut reminded him he wasn't yet fit enough for such maneuvers.

When he got to the end of the gangway, he stopped. He saw Ferris skid to a halt, midalley, and crouch in a fighting stance. Thinnes took out his .38 and aimed as Ocampo charged up just ahead of a blue-and-white with its lights blazing. Ocampo feinted toward Ferris's left, then charged right and bowled him over, high stepping to avoid tripping on him. He was so busy, he didn't see Ryan fly down the apartment steps. She caught him off balance and shouldered him into the overhead door of a garage facing the alley.

Ocampo bounced off the door and swung at her. She deflected the punch, then landed a solid kick to the side of his thigh. Thinnes could see his jaw drop. Ryan spun Ocampo around and slammed him back against the door.

"GRAB THE WALL," she shouted. "SPREAD YOUR FEET."

Spiderman and the rookie cop swarmed up, guns drawn, and took positions to either side of her. Thinnes put his own weapon away.

Ocampo screamed, "f.u.c.k!"

"For Unlawful Carnal Knowledge," Ryan said. "Are you confessing? a.s.sUME THE POSITION!" When he tried to turn, she shouted, "DON'T LOOK AT ME!" She lunged forward and slammed him against the door again. "HANDS ON THE DOOR! SPREAD YOUR FEET! SPREAD 'EM OR I'LL SPREAD 'EM FOR YOU!" She swung her left foot against the inside of his right, nearly causing him to do the splits. She got her cuffs out and snapped one on his right wrist, then let go of the cuff and grabbed his fingers.

"f.u.c.k YOU!" he screamed.

"That your alma mater? Or the last inst.i.tution you attended?" She swung his right arm in a big circle that ended with the arm behind his back. She kept hold of his fingers, bending them back just enough to hurt if he struggled.

He offered only token resistance. "b.i.t.c.h!"

"Best In Throwing, Catching, and Hitting," she agreed. She patted his lower back. "Bring your other hand around here." When he'd complied, she grabbed his fingers and pulled the wrist straight, then snapped the second cuff on.

"f.u.c.kin' pig," he said.

Ryan patted down his jacket and pockets. "Pride, Integrity, and Guts. You got that right. You also got a name?"

"c.u.n.t!"

"That's a funny name. I'd change it." Ignoring the guffaws of the men enjoying the show with Thinnes, she told Ocampo, "You have the right to remain silent, and I strongly suggest you exercise that right. If you give up the right to remain silent..."

When she'd finished reciting Miranda, she looked around at the others and said, "One of you gentlemen can search him."

Sixty.

Rick said he had to make an early night of it, so they met for dinner at Orly's, on South Hyde Park Boulevard, near the U of C campus and Rick's apartment. The restaurant was a small, comforting place with dark, wood-paneled walls and furniture, hanging plants, and a red, patterned carpet. The evening's specials were listed on a chalkboard near the entry.

When they were seated, and the waitress had vanished with their drink orders, Rick said, "How's Manny?"

"The same."

Rick nodded and looked around the room as if he'd exhausted his line of small talk. He was working up to something. Out of habit, Caleb let the silence be, let it draw out what was on Rick's mind.

"You going to your family's for Christmas?" he said, finally. His body language confirmed Caleb's suspicion that he really didn't care.

"I have a standing invitation from friends." Caleb looked around the room. In the darkest corner, a man and woman were locked in an ardent embrace. At another table, a dark woman in a sari conversed with a man resembling Rasputin. And further down the room, two young men and a woman hung on the every word of an older man, U of C students and their professor, Caleb surmised. At the table nearest Rick and Caleb's, two men under-dressed for the venue sat with their backs to the wall and watched the door, the waitress, and the other patrons. Caleb recognized the breed: policemen-tactical officers or undercover cops. They chatted amiably with the waitress but kept their eyes moving. Caleb looked back at Rick, who was also studying the room. His drink was half-gone. A s.n.a.t.c.h of an old '60s song ran through Caleb's head-"The Dangling Conversation," by Simon and Garfunkel.

The waitress came by, and Rick said, "Why don't you give us five minutes and another round?" She gave him a nice smile.

Rick said, "I'd like you to look at something."

"Surely."

Rick took a sheaf of paper rolled into a cylinder from inside his jacket pocket and handed it to Caleb. "I'm not Bob Greene but..." He shrugged. "I'd like your opinion."

Caleb unrolled the paper, t.i.tled, "A Ribbon for Your Easter Bonnet." He read: This started out to be a ho-hum human-interest piece-the obligatory heart tugger about an AIDS hospice-but in the course of researching the story, I met someone who taught me that a hospice is just a place without human interest. What makes human-interest stories is human beings. People, individuals like Manny...

The waitress reappeared with their drinks. Rick asked Caleb, "Are you still hungry?"

"No."

"Just a check," Rick told the woman.

Caleb kept reading.

I reject the idea that there has to be suffering involved for something to be pure or true or n.o.ble. Bulls.h.i.t! If someone's suffering, it means there's been a f.u.c.kup. The continued rapid spread of AIDS is the ultimate f.u.c.kup...

Caleb was nearly through when Rick interrupted. "It's good enough so it won't embarra.s.s me-my editor's accepted it-but I'll never stick my neck out like this again."

Caleb understood. The article notwithstanding, Rick couldn't or wouldn't talk about deeper issues. He was intelligent and sensitive-or sharply perceptive-in his writing, but it was obvious he wasn't comfortable with emotion or introspection.

...As we come together to celebrate the resurrection, maybe we could resurrect some hope...

When Caleb finished reading, he studied Rick's face. They thought in different metaphors-as irreconcilable as opera and hockey. Caleb was like a cat, emotionally cautious and reserved; the writer was a dog man, superficially uncomplicated and instantly affectionate.

"Well?" Rick said, figuratively holding his breath.

He wasn't Bob Greene, but the article was-"Very effective."

Rick relaxed. "Thanks."

"May I keep it? For Manny."

"Sure. I was going to send him a copy."

There was silence while they sipped their drinks. Caleb felt a twinge of guilt for being sn.o.bbish, but he was becoming tired of Rick's preoccupation with the trivial, his effusiveness, and his instant a.s.sumption of familiarity. And he taxed Caleb's tolerance for talk of sports and weather.

"We're not working out, are we?" Rick asked. A mind reader.

"To be honest, no."

"Well, as long as we're being honest, I hate opera. And I think all cats should be declawed behind the neck." He said it with a smile.

"What is it you want in a relationship?" Caleb asked.

Rick smiled. "Oh, I don't know." He was being evasive. "But I bet you do."

"Pa.s.sion and security."

"Would you settle for one out of two?"

"No."

"I'm not ready for commitment."

"I know."

"I guess you've got me a.n.a.lyzed."

"What makes you say that?"

"Don't do that shrink thing on me."

"What is it you're feeling guilty about?"

"I'm not feeling guilty!"

Caleb raised his eyebrows and smiled knowingly.

Rick reddened. "All right. We don't have anything in common but good s.e.x." Caleb waited. Rick blushed again.

"You want out and don't know how to say so," Caleb finished for him.

He looked relieved, then looked away. "I feel as if I've been taking advantage of you."

Caleb felt an almost overwhelming sense of relief. He laughed. "I'm over twenty-one. And I've been capable of saying no since I was two years old."

"That's it, then." Rick sighed. "The trouble with being sensitive is you get hurt a lot."

"Your capacity for joy is only as great as your capacity for sorrow."

"Well, you can go for the joy. I'll settle for good s.e.x once in a while." He put his hand out. Caleb gripped it. "No hard feelings?" Rick said.

Just shaking hands felt awkward after everything, but Caleb said, "No." He reached for the check, but Rick beat him to it.

"I got it. If you're ever just h.o.r.n.y..." He grinned, then emptied his gla.s.s in a single long swallow and put it down. "Take your time; finish your drink."

Caleb sat back and nodded and watched him put on his jacket. He felt simultaneous relief and sadness, but not grief. He had found Rick. He would meet others. You have to kiss a lot of frogs...And somewhere, in a city the size of Chicago, there had to be someone for him. Someone who loved cats and enjoyed opera.

As he followed Rick's departure with his eyes, he noticed that the amorous couple in the corner had come up for air. He realized he'd seen the woman recently-naked, in Ivan's collection. It was Irene Yellow. The man she was with was Professor Matthew Dennison. Caleb got up and went to look for a phone.

Instead of calling a cab, he dialed Area Three.

Sixty-One.

Thinnes was waiting when Caleb came out of Orly's. "Where's your car?" he asked.

"I took a cab. I didn't want to worry about parking in unfamiliar territory."

They sat in the Caprice and waited. Even with the windows cracked, their breath condensed on the gla.s.s, shutting them off from the surrounding neighborhood. Shutting them in together. Thinnes felt less uncomfortable than he had on the Wisconsin trip. As they discussed the Bisti case, Caleb seemed like a new partner he was finally getting used to.

"We still haven't figured out why," he said, "but we're pretty sure we know who killed Redbird. And Redbird may not have been his first victim." Caleb waited attentively, so Thinnes told him about the circ.u.mstantial case against Elvis, including everything about the dog. He noticed, by the time he finished, that the heat had leaked from the car. He restarted the engine. "His parole officer told me Hale hates Indians even though his father probably was one. Is there such a thing as a Custer complex?"

"Sounds more like an Oedipus complex to me. Or a child's quite logical hatred for an absent or abusive parent."

They followed Irene and Dennison to an apartment building-not the address either had given the police-and sat in the car, watching through the windows of the landings as the pair made their way to the third floor, pecking and pawing each other like actors in a steamy movie. When they paused for a long clinch in front of one of the apartment doors, Thinnes sneaked a sideways look at Caleb. What was he thinking? Was watching a straight couple any kind of a turn on for him? Caleb's face gave away nothing.

After a bit, Caleb said, "Professor Dennison told me he was at the reception to investigate a rumor that David was using genuine Anasazi artifacts in his pieces. The implication was they were illegally obtained. Can we put any credence in that?"

"People lie to the cops. That's the First Law of Detecting. And the Second Law is: People lie to the cops."

"People lie to psychiatrists, too."

"What do you do about it?"

"Same thing you do. Have them go over the story so many times they confuse the details. Then confront them with the discrepancies."

"Let's do it, then."

They gave the subjects a chance to get comfortable, then they followed a tenant into the building lobby. Thinnes flashed his star before the security door closed, and the man dropped any objection he might have had to their following him in. Upstairs, Dennison opened the door.

His face showed disbelief and shock. Irene came to the door behind him, and her expression mimicked his. Thinnes said, "Can we come in?"

Dennison shrugged and stepped back, b.u.mping into her. He had just a towel wrapped around him, and he tucked the edges in at his waist as he led the way to the living room. Irene was wearing a man's shirt as a robe, with the sleeves rolled. It looked like she had nothing on under it.

Thinnes and Caleb hung their coats on a coatrack by the door and followed the pair into the living room. They sat on the couch. Irene and Dennison sat on the love seat, opposite. He crossed one leg over the other, not caring whether the other men could see up his "skirt." Thinnes laughed to himself. The professor would probably be a little more modest if he knew Caleb was gay.

With a little prodding, the couple told their story: Both, it turned out, were on friendly terms with Bisti, who'd headed up a group of artists, Indians, and archeologists bent on putting black-market antiquities dealers out of business-both by dropping a dime to the fuzz whenever they came in possession of incriminating evidence, and by flooding the market with brilliant fakes implied to be the real thing.

"That's fraud," Thinnes said.