“The union organizer,” Angie said.

“No,” Cheswick said. “The union organizer’s six-year-old daughter.”

“Christ,” I said.

Cheswick patted the roof of the limo absently, looked out at the yellow street. “The union organizer and his wife, they never found them. They became part of ‘the disappeared’ down there. And nobody ever talked again about striking at one of Trevor Stone’s plants.”

We shook hands and he climbed into the limo.

“One last thing,” he said before the driver could shut the door.

We leaned in.

“Someone broke into the offices of Hamlyn and Kohl the night before last. They stole all the office equipment. I hear there’s a lot of money in hot fax machines and copiers.”

“Supposedly,” Angie agreed.

“I hope so. Because these thieves had to shoot Everett Hamlyn dead to get what they wanted.”

We stood silently as he climbed into the limo and it snaked up the street and turned right and headed for the expressway.

Angie’s hand found mine. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “About Everett, about Jay.”

I blinked at something in my eyes.

Angie tightened her grip on my hand.

I looked up at the sky, such a rich dark shade of blue it seemed artificial. That was something else I’d been noticing down here: This state—so ripe and lush and colorful—seemed fake in comparison with its uglier counterparts up north.

There’s something ugly about the flawless.

“They were good men,” Angie said softly.

I nodded. “They were beautiful.”

29

We walked over to Central Avenue and headed north toward a cabstand the duty officer had grudgingly told us about.

“Cheswick said they’re going to come back on us with gun charges, discharging firearms within city limits, shit like that.”

“But nothing that’ll stick,” she said.

“Probably not.”

We reached the cabstand, but it was empty. Central Avenue, or at least the section we were on, didn’t look like a real friendly place. Three winos fought over a bottle or a pipe in the garbage-strewn parking lot of a torched liquor store, and across the street, several mangy-looking teenagers eyed potential prey from a bench in front of a Burger King, passed a joint, and gave Angie a once-over. I was sure the bandage around my shoulder and the sling under my arm made me look a bit vulnerable, but then they took a closer look, and I locked one of them in a weary stare until he turned his head and concentrated on something else.

The cabstand was a Plexiglas lean-to and we sagged against the wall in the liquid heat for a moment.

“You look like shit,” Angie told me.

I raised an eyebrow at the cuts on her face, the half shiner beside her right eye, the gouge in her left calf. “You, on the other hand…”

She gave me a weary smile and we leaned against the wall for a full minute of silence.

“Patrick.”