“Right. I went to talk to Sister Frances about Steve Sawyer.”

“We know about that,” the man from Homeland Security said.

“You have bugs planted in her room?” I asked. “They’re good quality, I guess, if they survived the fire and you retrieved them. Not like the crap weapons you buy from China and sell to Afghanistan.”

“You were bugging the room?” the white Bomb and Arson detective said, turning to the feds. “Why the fuck were you doing that?”

“National security,” the Homeland Security man said. “I can’t say any more.”

“Beautiful umbrella,” I murmured. “From now on, whenever I do anything particularly embarrassing, I’ll just cry ‘National security!’ and refuse to say anything else.”

“That’s enough,” Torgeson snapped. “What were you doing in Sister Frances’s apartment?”

“National security,” I said.

The two Bomb and Arson squad detectives swallowed smiles. Harmony did not reign supreme between the federal and local law enforcers. I let them bicker with one another for a few minutes.

“I have a question for you,” I said. “You know why I went to see Sister Frances, to discuss the case of the man who’d been convicted of killing Harmony Newsome in Marquette Park forty years ago. Sister Frances was marching with Ms. Newsome that hot summer day and said she didn’t think it was possible that Steve Sawyer killed Ms. Newsome. Are you reopening the case?”

“He was tried, convicted, did his time. We’re not interested.” That was the Latino cop.

“Then why was that the last question OEM asked me in the hospital, why did I care what Sister Frances had to say about that old murder?”

“I think you misheard. You were drugged, in a lot of pain,” Torgeson said.

“You’re the ones with the tape recorders.” I looked at my fingertips. “Go listen to the conversation. I don’t have anything else for you.”

The crowded room was momentarily quiet. Then the Bomb and Arson team started asking me questions that I could answer, to lead them step-by-step through my brief time with Sister Frances. It wasn’t meaningful or helpful, but I was the only witness.

The more times I recounted the Molotov cocktails sailing in on us, the less real they became. It was easy to describe them glibly, as if they were a plot detail in a thriller and not a death-dealing event.

When I finished, I asked what residue they’d found in the bottles: gasoline? rocket fuel? jellied bomb accelerant?

“We can’t answer questions like that,” the Homeland Security man said. “They’re in connection with an investigation linked to our national security.”

It was my turn to remember I needed to keep a leash on my temper. “What about the perps? You must have pictures of them, time-stamped and everything, right? Anything you can show on the street for an ID?”

“We can’t comment. It’s an investigation linked to our national security.”