The sign under the Western Avenue overpa.s.s still said: POLICE DEPARTMENT.

6TH AREA.

HEADQUARTERS.

19TH DISTRICT.

HEADQUARTERS.

nearly a year after Area Six had been renamed Area Three. Probably appropriate. People still thought of it as Area Six, still answered the phone "Area Six Detectives" when they were tired or distracted.

It was nearly light when Thinnes pulled the plainclothes Caprice along the curb east of the dark brick headquarters building, but the overhead sodium lights still gave an orange cast to the drive and sidewalk. Bare trees and litter and the November chill added to the feeling of depression Thinnes was working on. He shut off the engine. Neither he nor Oster spoke as they got out of the car. They entered by the north doors-the only ones open before six A.M.

A tired-looking woman was talking to the uniforms working in the square ring of the District Nineteen desk, and a tac officer in soft clothes leaned on the polished stone counter, listening to the beef. He gave the two detectives an index finger salute as they headed for the stairs, and both Thinnes and Oster nodded an acknowledgment. The sergeant on duty held a note out for Thinnes but kept his eyes on the woman. Thinnes took it without breaking stride or interrupting her.

Upstairs, he and Oster hung their coats on the pegs along the wall inside the squad room entrance. Before Thinnes could even put his paperwork down, he was set upon by Rossi.

"Thinnes, that lush you sent in sobered up and is yelling for his lawyer."

"Okay."

"...And Patrol wants the uniforms you've got baby-sitting him back on the street. Now."

"My career's in the toilet!" The speaker, Lewis Andrews, was white, five eight, maybe 170 pounds, medium build, hazel eyes, and mousy brown hair. His tuxedo was rumpled and stained, and he smelled like he'd barfed on himself.

"Why is that, Mr. Andrews?" Thinnes asked softly.

Andrews looked as if he thought Thinnes was nuts. When Thinnes didn't say anything more, Andrews looked at Oster, who was no more helpful, then around the stark, white interview room. Finally, he stared at the two-way mirror behind Thinnes. He seemed to find his image disturbing, because he dropped his eyes to his hands, folded on his lap, and added, "The entire idea for the blessed show was a disaster."

"Could you be more specific?"

"My G.o.d! You saw that stuff. And then the son of a b.i.t.c.h gets himself murdered. Right in the museum! I'll never work again!"

"Just how did Mr. Bisti manage to convince you to let him have a show there without showing you the stuff he was going to exhibit first?"

"He showed me the brochure Anita Margolis made up for his exhibition at her gallery. He led me to believe he'd be displaying the same sort of things. G.o.d! And he showed me one work in progress-Triptych-that wasn't too offensive."

Thinnes glanced at Oster, who was taking notes, then nodded for Andrews to go on.

"We were getting pressured by some militant Native American group to show Native American art. I thought what they had in mind was that stuff you see in airports out west-that certainly would have been preferable to the-"

He didn't seem able to find an adequate put-down for Bisti's work. Thinnes raised his eyebrows.

Andrews continued. "One of the board members proposed that we try to appease the Indians by inviting one of their number to have a showing. And Bisti was recommended by someone."

"Who?"

Andrews raised his hands as if to make a who-knows? gesture, then seemed to forget what he was doing with them. "I don't remember. I don't recall if anyone even told me who it was."

"The same person suggested an Indian and recommended Bisti?"

"I can't remember."

"Can't or won't?"

For a second, Andrews looked startled or scared, then angry. "I don't remember."

"This is a murder investigation, Mr. Andrews."

"I am only too aware of that. Believe me, though I'd have liked to have killed him myself, I didn't. I don't know who did. I a.s.sure you, if I did know, I would tell you. I would do anything in my power to end this nightmare as quickly as possible."

Thinnes pulled the price list Caleb had given him from his pocket and pushed it across the table. "What can you tell us about this?"

"Oh Lord! It gets worse and worse."

Thinnes waited.

"You don't see something like that at the Art Inst.i.tute, by G.o.d!"

Oster finally put his two cents in. "You don't see murder at the Art Inst.i.tute either."

When Thinnes and Oster returned to the squad room, Ferris and Swann were sitting around, schmoozing. Both of them were a.s.signed to second watch but because they worked for Lieutenant Evanger, they weren't slaves to the clock. Thinnes had worked Evanger's watch until he was shot. Coming back from sick leave, he'd been a.s.signed to first watch because Rossi was short-handed. Oster had drawn Rossi's watch because he lacked the seniority to opt out.

"How'd it go?" Swann asked. He was a middle-aged black man with an easygoing disposition and an uncanny resemblance to the late, beloved mayor.

Ferris, who was white, cynical, and also middle-aged, jumped in before Thinnes or Oster could speak. "I heard it was a real cl.u.s.terf.u.c.k."

He was gloating, Thinnes decided, subtly rubbing it in that he'd escaped the draft. It was the sort of case he'd only work willingly as a princ.i.p.al, and then only if the killer was obvious.

"You doing anything right now, Ferris?" he asked.

"Why? You want me to take over for you?"

"No, I thought maybe we could send you out for doughnuts."

"She-it," Ferris said. He hurried away before Thinnes could say he wasn't kidding.

"I'll go," Swann offered.

Oster hooked a thumb in Ferris's direction. "You ever realize how much work that chump gets out of, just by being an a.s.shole?"

"Management's worry," Thinnes said. "Not my job description."

Fifteen.

Caleb was awakened by four small, cold feet kneading his side beneath the covers as Sigmund Freud began to purr. In the summer the cat slept on top of the duvet or, if it was really hot, on the parquet floor. But in the cold months, he burrowed beneath the sheets and slept curled against Caleb's hip or thigh, or in the curve behind his knees.

Caleb was simultaneously grateful for the small warm body-another living thing in an inanimate universe-and aware of the fragility of the cat's existence. His presence was at once comforting and frustrating, the latter because of his alien nature. Caleb could never embrace or relate to him as he would have to another human. They could communicate in a limited fashion, but they were symbionts, not soul mates. The cat could think, obviously, but not in human terms. Nor was Caleb deluded into imagining that a deeper commune was either possible or anything but a projection on his part. Though comforting, Freud's presence didn't a.s.suage his loneliness or fill his need for human contact.

As Caleb stretched, Freud rolled on his back between the flannel sheets, the way a horse rolls in the dust. Then he wriggled over to the bed's edge and let gravity pull him from under the covers and down to the floor in a half somersault. He landed with a thud on all four feet.

Caleb rolled on his stomach to watch the cat wash himself and smiled. But, then, a profound feeling of self-loathing swallowed his pleasure. He felt ugly and unnecessary. He recognized depression coiled around his psyche like a constrictor around a small mammal, waiting to tighten its hold with every breath he took. He understood perfectly that David Bisti's death had brought back feelings from other untimely deaths-friends lost to AIDS and Accident and War, and another young man murdered. But recognition didn't vanquish the enemy; insight has its limitations.

He hadn't told the police, not even John Thinnes-though he considered Thinnes his friend-that David had been a client. Even mentioning the fact would have been a breach of confidentiality while David lived. And dead-Caleb wanted to review his file before mentioning it. Then if there was nothing that would compromise David's family, he would talk to Thinnes.

He dropped to the floor and did fifty push-ups on the moss-soft Harati, then rolled over and sat up fifty times. Freud followed him into the bathroom and watched with fascination as he urinated, showered, and shaved. Freud had been watching Caleb perform these tasks for six years, but his fascination seemed undiminished by repet.i.tion. The cat supervised as Caleb turned his attention to selecting the appropriate combination of shirt, suit, and tie from his extensive wardrobe.

By the time he was ready to leave for work, Caleb felt better.

When he got to his office on North Michigan, Muzak was leaking into the hall. The sound disappeared as he opened the door and Mrs. Sleighton spotted him. She always turned the radio down when Caleb or his partner was around, though they'd never asked her to. Years earlier she'd heard them agree that Muzak was the audio equivalent of nondairy creamer. Since then, she'd kept Half & Half in the refrigerator and kept the Muzak to herself. She was slim and gray haired, though still in her forties. And she was always ladylike, though she'd once come to Dr. Fenwick's aid with a broom when he was attacked by a distraught client.

The office was designed to be soothing, with subdued colors and comfortable furniture. And the aroma of freshly brewed coffee added to the ambiance of solace. The Boston fern that usually hung above the fish tank near the windows overlooking Grant Park was missing. He didn't comment on its absence-two days a week Mrs. Sleighton took it down the hall to the janitor's closet for a shower and left it to drip-dry before replacing it. Caleb hadn't let Mrs. Sleighton decorate for the holidays yet-not until after Thanksgiving-but the man from the aquarium store was cleaning the fish tank in preparation for the season.

Mrs. Sleighton said, "Good morning, Doctor."

"Good morning, Mrs. Sleighton."

"Would you like coffee?"

"I would, thank you."

She poured it into the Laurel Burch cat mug, Caleb's favorite, and handed it to him along with three telephone-message slips. "You've had some phone calls already."

"Thank you."

"And Mrs. Willis cancelled."

Caleb didn't have to think about that. "Bill her."

Mrs. Sleighton pressed her mouth into a severe line and for a fraction of a second, something close to anger flashed across her face. She didn't approve of billing for missed appointments. But then, she didn't understand, either, how patients manipulated their therapists into a.s.suming the role of parent, "giving" their time away. Caleb wasn't going to play. If Mrs. Willis wouldn't make the commitment therapy required, she would at least compensate Caleb for his time.

"Your eleven o'clock called to ask for an earlier appointment. I took the liberty of giving him Mrs. Willis's."

"Very good. Thank you, Mrs. Sleighton."

He took his coffee into his office and closed the door.

The office had been designed for his patients' comfort as much as for utility. His desk stood opposite the door, with comfortable chairs on either side. To the right, facing the desk, a conversation area-couch and armchairs, coffee table with ashtrays and designer Kleenex box-was arranged next to windows overlooking Grant Park. A cat lithograph by Jason Rogue graced the wall opposite the window wall, and below the lithograph stood a new PC.

He had an hour before his first client was due, so he started his morning game of phone tag with the callers.

He ushered his last patient of the day out at 11:04 and asked Mrs. Sleighton to intercept his calls for the next hour.

Back in his office, he swallowed the cold remains of his second cup of coffee before crossing to the impressive wall of bookshelves behind his desk. With pressure applied to the proper spot, the center third of the shelf swung out from the wall, like the door it was, to reveal a walk-in safe behind it. Caleb applied the combination to the dial, and the door opened noiselessly. The s.p.a.ce inside was six feet wide and as long as the office. It was filled with metal shelves like those found in libraries. When Caleb and his partner bought the practice, the safe room had been overflowing with old records, all consigned now to computer disks occupying a single carton. The a.s.sociates' current files took up even less s.p.a.ce, residing-for the most part-on the hard disks of the partners' PCs. Backup copies of the files lived in the safe room with the few videotapes Caleb and Fenwick had acquired or made.

They hadn't let the liberated s.p.a.ce go to waste. Caleb's art collection-carefully wrapped paintings and collages-was stacked between the shelves at one end of the room. The shelves were filled with other things that wouldn't fit comfortably in his apartment or safely in his storage locker. The shelves in Fenwick's half of the room were covered with books, all first editions.

Caleb found the six-year-old videotape he was looking for and took it back out to his office, where he opened the cabinet containing the VCR and television. He turned on the system and popped the tape in.

David Bisti came back to life on-screen. He was younger on the tape but only slightly less confident. From off camera, Caleb heard his own voice ask, "Do you mind if we tape this interview?" Through the whole tape, he remained a disembodied voice.

"Why?" David said.

"It saves me having to take notes and insures I don't miss anything."

"Who else is gonna...?"

"Under appropriate circ.u.mstances, I might share it with a colleague-only one whose confidentiality I trust. I'll stop the tape if you start to feel uncomfortable."

David shrugged. "Why not?"

Caleb had adjusted the volume and focus from controls in a desk drawer. "Tell me what brought you here?"

David seemed to be ordering his thoughts or-more likely-marshaling his courage. Caleb didn't rush him. Finally he said, "I can't work. I force myself to do my job, but it takes all my energy and I hate it. I don't have anything left for my real work."

"Which is?"

"I'm an artist. And I'm good. But lately, my ideas have been drying up. When I stand in front of a bare canvas, I panic."

"Tell me more about your work."

"Job or art?"

"Both."

The next twenty minutes of the tape chronicled David's tribulations with his job, at an advertising agency where he felt his talent was unappreciated and his time wasted on boring scut work.

When Caleb had had enough, he'd said, "Tell me about your family and educational background."

"How's that going to help?"

"I don't know yet. That's what we're trying to determine."

David gave another resigned shrug and said, "I'm twenty-three years old. I have a BFA from DePaul. I'm from a small family-just my mom and me."

Caleb waited for him to elaborate, and when he didn't, asked, "What about your father?"

"He died." Caleb let the silence go on. Eventually, David felt compelled to add, "When I was thirteen."

A significant age, Caleb thought but didn't speak it.