“I think I’ll cry.” Her eyes were gay and shiny with alcohol. “Boo hoo.”

Luther chuckled. He noticed a lot of people looking at them, just as he’d feared.

He took Nora’s hand with a roll of his eyes and she tugged him to his feet and the violinist and the accordionist began to play, and she led him out to the center of the roof under the half moon and her hand was warm in his. His other hand found the small of her back and he could feel the heat coming off the skin there and off her jaw and the pulse of her throat. She smelled of alcohol and jasmine and that undeniable whiteness he’d noticed the first time he’d ever put his arms around her, as if her flesh had never been touched by dew. A papery smell, starchy.

“It’s an odd world, is it not?” she said.

“Most certainly.”

Her brogue was thicker with the alcohol. “I’m sorry you lost your job.”

“I’m not. I got another one.”

“Really?”

He nodded. “Stockyards. Start day after next.”

Luther raised his arm and she swirled under it and then turned back into his chest.

“You are the truest friend I’ve ever had.” She spun again, as light as summer.

Luther laughed. “You’re drunk, girl.”

“I am,” she said gleefully. “But you’re still family, Luther. To me.” She nodded at Danny. “To him, too. Are we your family yet, Luther?”

Luther looked into her face and the rest of the roof evaporated. What a strange woman. Strange man. Strange world.

“Sure, sister,” he said. “Sure.”

The day of his eldest son’s wedding, Thomas came to work to find Agent Rayme Finch waiting for him in the anteroom outside the desk sergeant’s counter.

“Come to register a complaint, have we?”

Finch stood, straw boater in hand. “If I may have a word.”

Thomas ushered him through the squad room and back to his office. He removed his coat and hat and hung them on the tree by the file cabinets and asked Finch if he wanted coffee.

“Thank you.”

Thomas pressed the intercom button. “Stan, two coffees, please.” He looked over at Finch. “Welcome back. Staying long?”

Finch gave that a noncommittal twitch of the shoulders.

Thomas removed his scarf and placed it on the tree over his coat and then moved last night’s stack of incident reports from his ink blotter to the left side of his desk. Stan Beck brought the coffee and left. Thomas handed a cup across the desk to Finch.

“Cream or sugar?”

“Neither.” Finch took the cup with a nod.

Thomas added cream to his own cup. “What brings you by?”

“I understand that you do, in fact, have quite a network of men attending meetings of the various radical groups in your city, that you even have some who’ve infiltrated a few groups under deep cover.” Finch blew on his coffee and took a tiny sip, then licked the sting from his lips. “As I understand it, and quite the contrary to what you led me to believe, you’re compiling lists.”