She tried a smile at my memory but it didn't quite go with the rest of her face and so she put it aside.

"Anyway," I continued, 'at the end of that summer I was leaving for Paris to go write the great American novel. And he was waiting to go into the service. We made this deal when we said good-bye. It was pretty corny. The deal was that when I got rich I would buy him a Porsche with ski racks. Like Redford had in Downhill Racer. That's it.

That's all he wanted. He'd get to choose the model. But I'd have to pay. I told him it was a bad deal for me because he had nothing to trade. But then he said he did. He said that if anything ever happened to mo-you know, like I got killed or hurt or robbed or anything-he'd find out who did it.

He'd make sure nobody got away with it. And, you know, even back then I believed it. I believed he could do it. And something about it was a comfort."

The story didn't seem to make much sense the way I had told it. I wasn't sure what the point was.

"But that was his promise, not yours," Riley said. "Yes, I know." I was quiet for a few moments while she watched me. "It's just that ... I don't know, I just can't sit back and watch and wait. I've got to be out there. I've got to ..." There were no words to explain it.

"Do something?"

"I guess. I don't know, I can't really talk about it, Riley.

I just have to do it. I'm going to Chicago."

There was a footwide slot that ran the length of the glass enclosure at face height through which the arraignment proceedings in the courtroom could be heard and the defendants could answer questions from their attorneys or the judge.

Gladden was disheveled from a night of no sleep. He had been in a single cell but the noise of the jail kept him awake and reminded him too much of Raiford. He looked around the courtroom and didn't see anyone he recognized. This included the cops, Delpy and Sweetzer. He also didn't see any television or still cameras. He took this as a sign that his true identity had not yet been discovered. He was encouraged by this. A man with curly red hair and thick glasses made his way around the attorneys' tables to the glass booth. He was short and had to raise his chin as if standing in tall water for his mouth to reach the slot in the glass.

"Mr. Brisbane?" he asked, looking expectantly at the men who had just been ushered in.

Gladden walked over and looked down through the opening.

"Krasner?"

"Yes, how are you?"

He reached his hand up through the slot. Gladden shook it reluctantly. He didn't like being touched by anyone, unless it was a child. He didn't answer Krasner's question. It was the wrong thing to ask someone who had spent the night in county jail.