My escort handed me over to a desk sergeant, who busied herself with the phone. I studied the wall notices. These, at least, hadn’t changed in thirty years: armed and dangerous, last seen driving, workers’ compensation, missing since January 9.

The desk sergeant summoned a uniformed officer, a heavyset woman whose equipment belt created a giant M between her breasts and hips. “You got to cross that lonesome valley,” I sang under my breath, following her down the hall to an elevator. “You got to cross it by yourself.”

“Is it that bad?” she asked, as we rode up one floor. “What’d you do to get so many big men in a room together?”

I made a face. “Ran away from an ugly county lieutenant last night. But why that should get a lot of big men into a room, I don’t know. In fact, I don’t even know what big men have gathered on my account.”

She held the elevator door open until I was in the hall in front of her: never leave a suspect alone in an elevator. “Well, honey, we’ve arrived, so I guess you’ll know soon enough.”

She opened a door, saluted, said, “Here she is, Captain,” and left.

I couldn’t sort out how many people were in the room, or which ones I knew, I was so astonished at seeing the man my guide had saluted. “Bobby?” I exclaimed. “What are you doing here?”

CHAPTER 34

What Bill of Rights?

Bobby Mallory-Captain Mallory now-had been my dad’s protege on the force; my dad had been best man at his and Eileen’s wedding. If my mother had believed in godparents, Bobby would have been my godfather. But that didn’t bring a jolly twinkle to his pale eyes when he saw me. Nothing about my work makes him twinkle, but tonight he looked as grim as if I’d-well, helped a known terrorist escape.

I felt my knees weaken: Had he somehow learned that I’d taken Benjamin Sadawi to Father Lou’s? I was smart enough at least to keep my mouth shut as I found an empty chair.

I had time now to take in the rest of the crowd at the table. I knew some of the people, at least by sight, but four were complete strangers. The lanky woman with bags under her eyes next to me was a Cook County state’s attorney; we’d met in court several times. Of course I knew Bobby’s own longtime subordinate, my sometime friend Terry Finchley. Lieutenant Schorr had made the long trip in from Wheaton; he was glowering at me like a man who wished his deputies had shot me instead of Catherine Bayard. Stephanie Protheroe, sitting next to him, didn’t look at me. I also had occasionally worked with-or around-the FBI’s Derek Hatfield.

“Vicki,” Bobby said. “We’ve been waiting for you to surface. You have a lot of explaining to do, my girl. The superintendent asked me to head

Chicago’s task force on terrorism, and we seem to have a connection between a terrorist, suspected terrorist, who’s been living in Chicago, and the man you flushed last night in DuPage. All these busy people have been waiting to ask you questions, so let’s get going.”