Both deputies’ faces tightened into the same ugly expression. “Don’t try to make trouble for us, old man. We ask the questions. You answer them. If you’re a good enough boy we’ll let you look at the body. That’ll be a real treat for you.”

The morgue attendants were leaning against the walls, waiting to see which way the fight developed. “Mr. Contreras is seventy-seven,” I said. “He’s old, he’s tired, and the guy who’s missing is his last friend from his neighborhood. He doesn’t want trouble, and he’s not trying to make it; he just wants to put his mind at rest. I’m sure you wouldn’t like to see your fathers or grandfathers in this situation.”

“What’s your interest in this, babe?”

Hendricks again. As long as they kept their badges facing us I’d know who was talking. I resisted an impulse to crack his shinbone against my right toe.

“Just helping out my neighbor, sugar. Shall I call Dr. Vishnikov and get his permission to view the body?” Vishnikov was one of the assistant ME’s, whom I knew from my PD days.

“Keep your pants on. We’ll get into the morgue as soon as you answer our questions.”

The outer door opened again. I looked past Jaworski’s left shoulder and relaxed fractionally. It was Terry Finchley, a violent crimes detective from Area One.

“Terry,” I called.

He’d gone to the counter to check something with the intake man, but he turned at my voice. “Vic!”

He came over. “What are you doing here?”

“Trying to ID a body. These deputies apparently pulled an old man out of the canal near Stickney today. My friend and I want to make sure it’s not someone we know. Deputies Jaworski and Hendricks, this is Detective Finchley with the Chicago police.”

They didn’t like it, not one bit, me being on first-names with a Chicago cop and a black one to boot. They exchanged glares and jutted their chins out some more.

“We need to ask the girl and the old man a few questions, Detective, so why don’t you just butt out.” The two had turned to look at Finchley, so I couldn’t make out which was speaking.

“Can’t do that,” Finchley said easily. “Not if it’s the guy they pulled out at Stickney. I just got asked to come in and take a look at him—seems they think he may belong to Chicago, not the county.”

The deputies started looking meaner. I wondered if they were going to slug me or Finchley first. The hostility in their bodies radiated throughout the room; the man at the counter felt it and came around to the front. The attendants leaning on the wall behind us stopped their light conversation and moved closer to us too.