“How did you get away from him under the water?” I ask.

She explains about the hairpin.

“That was lucky,” I say. “And smart.”

As the diver climbs out of the pool I say, “He looks about six-two, two hundred pounds. Does that sound right, Riona?”

She nods. “He was strong. Young, probably—less than forty. Dark eyes.” She pauses for a moment, remembering. “I think he was left-handed,” she adds.

“Why do you say that?”

“When I was laying on my back, his arm came over my neck this way . . . ” she mimes it crossing her throat from left to right. “I think that was his dominant arm.”

“Good.” I nod.

“Not much of a description,” Riona says skeptically.

“It’s better than nothing,” I say.

We all watch the diver pick up her phone after he gets out of the pool.

“Have you tried tracking the phone?” I ask Callum.

“Yes,” he says. “It turned on briefly in Greektown. Then it disappeared again.”

“What kind of info is on that phone?”

“A lot of things,” Riona says. “Personal and banking info. All my work emails . . . it’s password-protected, but you know that doesn’t mean shit to somebody who knows what they’re doing.”

“Could the phone have been the target?”

Riona shrugs. “Seems like there are easier ways to steal it.”

I turn to Callum again. “Do you know who brokers hits in Chicago? If this guy was hired locally, a broker could tell us who the diver was. And maybe who hired him.”

“I know someone.” Callum nods.

I want to go along with Callum for that. So I say to Riona, “Can I take you over to your parents’ place tomorrow? Just for a couple hours.”

“Sure,” she says, without much enthusiasm.

“Alright,” I say. “Now what about enemies. Who has a grudge against you at the moment?”

“Against Riona specifically—nobody,” Callum says. “Against the Griffins—a whole fuck of a lot of people. Top of the list are the Russians. My father killed their last boss, Kolya Kristoff. The new one is an old-school gangster out of Moscow. His name is Alexei Yenin. He worked as an interrogator for the KGB, so as you can imagine, he’s as vicious as they come.”

“Drowning isn’t the Russian’s usual style, but I could see a former KGB officer being a little more subtle than most,” I say.

“Right.” Callum nods. “Still, it’s weird if they targeted Riona.”

“Who else?”

“Maybe the Hartford family,” Riona pipes up.

“Who’s that?” Callum asks.

“A couple of months ago Enzo Gallo asked me for help. Or, more accurately, one of the other Italian families needed help,” Riona says, with an expression of distaste. “Bosco Bianchi was driving drunk and high with a couple of sixteen-year-old girls in his car. One of them went through the windshield. She was put in a medically-induced coma. Bosco’s toxicity test went missing, and I got his confession thrown out. The DA settled for eight months in medium-security. The girl never recovered.”