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“Wilt said you and your father don’t speak anymore.”

He nodded. “Right. Wilt and me kind of have a lot in common. I guess we’ve all got bad family stuff to deal with. Like Cliff’s brother getting killed. You’ve got a fucked-up relationship with your parents, too, don’t you?”

“I don’t know about fucked-up. It’s not even fucked-up. I don’t know where they are. I was raised by my grandmother’s sister and her husband. They’re older, but they’re really cool.”

“Me too. I mean, my grandfather took me because of all the trouble between me and my father. He’s great. It’s kind of great being around some old people. Except he’s always after me to do my kiva ceremony.”

“What’s that?”

“You gotta go into a cave, pray and dance and do all kinds of shit. He says I won’t really be a man until I do it.”

“Are you going to do it someday?”

He shrugged. “I guess.”

We smoked quietly for a few minutes until I got a little giggly. “This grass is pretty great. Where’d it come from—Barry?”

“Yeah, the Great White Father of Weed.”

“Barry Running Dog,” I said.

“Yeah, Barry Howling Wolf.”

“Barry Screaming Mimi.”

We laughed and hollered. Then we went quiet for a while. Lord, he’s gorgeous, I thought as I watched him stretch out on the rag rug before the disused fireplace. I relit the joint that had gone cold.

“What are you thinking about, Sandy?”

“I don’t know.”

“Your face looked fantastic just then. Sort of sad. Can I take some shots of you?”

“Shots. What do you mean—take my picture?”

“Yeah.”

“No way.”

“Why?”

“I don’t photograph well. I’m—I don’t look good.”

“Bullshit. Come on, sit for me.”

“Forget it. Why don’t you take Mia’s picture? She’s beautiful.”

“I already did. I’ve got lots of Mia.”

He began to pull at my sock then, tickling the underside of my foot, torturing me into agreeing to be photographed. I absolutely lost it, being the world’s most ticklish person, and soon gave in.

I lay there, catching my breath, and Dan took my hand in his. For a split second I thought maybe he was going to kiss me, and I went rigid. I had never even dreamed of sleeping with anybody that good-looking. He didn’t kiss me, though. Instead, he helped me to my feet. “Let’s catch the light before it gets late,” he said.

3

I didn’t despise Jack Klaus, the way I did that Detective Norris. But I didn’t much like him, either. Klaus was another white cop, also a detective, and unlikely as it was, we had a few things in common—history of a sort.

Technically the history was between him and Uncle Woody. I didn’t know what kind of favors one owed the other, or how the two came to know each other. I just knew Woody trusted him and they went back a ways. My uncle had called on Klaus to help untangle a couple of grisly South Side murders my family had been pulled into. Sure enough, Klaus had come through for us. He provided vital info from Chicago PD files and kept a great deal of heat off of me and Woody. When the smoke cleared he was being hailed as a supercop. He had earned a big rep for solving the crimes, and a big promotion to match.

His new digs on Taylor Street reflected it. Klaus, who was half Woody’s age, had been appointed to a cushy spot in major crimes. He was sitting behind his blond wood desk when I came into the office. He cut his phone conversation short when he saw me, even stood to greet me. “It’s nice to see you again, Cass.”

I had been well brought up. Normally I appreciate that kind of courtesy. But I didn’t return the greeting.

He had been nothing but respectful to Ivy, Woody, and me. And now he was being nice, going out of his way to look into Wilton’s and Mia’s murders. I just couldn’t get up for being nice back to him.

I had to give him one thing: He sure looked more prosperous than he did the last time we’d met. Gone were the Robert Hall vines and the square haircut. He wore a nicely tailored suit—prison stripes, Nat called straight clothes—and his hair hung fashionably close to the collar of his crisp white shirt. Real sharp. Kind of