Frank grimaced. “Tonight? You mean go to that strip joint again?”
Rick didn’t answer. Didn’t have to.
Frank gave a low groan. “Come on, man. We’ve got nothing solid to hit him with. No leverage. We should gather moreevidence, sort through his records. Hell, maybe get some sleep like normal people.”
“You can,” Rick said. “Go home. I’ll handle this one myself.”
“Goddammit, Rick. I’m your partner. I should be watching your back. Can’t this wait till morning? Stella’s already sick of my hours.”
Rick’s jaw worked. He tried to keep his tone even. “I need toknow, Frank.”
It was the truth, but not the whole truth. Just enough to get by, to keep from cracking open the thing he didn’t dare name. He drained his mug in one long gulp, the bitter heat burning a line down his throat. At least the hunger was gone. He’d never been much good at thinking on an empty stomach.
Frank exhaled through his nose, reaching for his wallet. “You’re a pain in my ass, Slade, you know that?”
“Comes with the territory.”
Rose dropped off the check with another smile aimed at Rick. “Y’all need anything else?”
Rick smiled faintly, shook his head. “We’re good, sweetheart. Thanks.”
Frank tossed a few crumpled bills on the table and stood, throwing his coat back on. Rick grabbed his fedora and followed him out, shoes squeaking on the linoleum. The bell above the door gave a defeated jingle as they stepped into the cold. The rain hadn’t let up. If anything, it had thickened—sheets of silver cascading down, making the world into an impressionist painting, smeared and unreal. They made a run for the car, hats on, coats flapping, shoes splashing through puddles.
They drove in silence along the wet-glossed streets, each deep in his thoughts. Bushwick unfolded before them—a pocket of middle-class domesticity carved from Calgrave’s shadow. Tree-lined streets stretched beneath canopies of oak and elm, branches swaying in the wind. Modest two-story houses sat closetogether, their narrow lawns bordered by chain-link or wrought-iron fencing, entryways lit by yellow bulbs that barely held the dark at bay.
Station wagons and sedans lined the curbs, rain beading on their hoods. Here and there, a bicycle lay abandoned by a stoop, a forgotten basketball hoop hung above a garage door. Gutters sagged under the weight of dead leaves. A corner house sat dark and boarded up, its lawn overgrown, a foreclosure notice flapping on the door. But lights still burned in the neighboring homes. Through fogged windows, Rick caught glimpses of warm interiors—the flicker of television sets, the glow of kitchen lights where families gathered around dinner tables, as if refusing to acknowledge the city’s hunger gnawing just beyond the streetlamps. People still lived their lives. Still tried.
Soon, Rick pulled up in front of Frank’s small brick house. Porch light was already on, a warm yellow beacon against the rain.
Frank unbuckled his seatbelt and lingered a moment, meeting his eyes with an expression that said bothgood luckanddon’t be stupid. “Be careful, all right?”
Rick nodded.
Frank opened the door, climbed out, and turned back. “And Rick?”
“Yeah?”
“Don’t let your dick make decisions your badge can’t back up.”
Rick gave him a sideways smile. “Noted.”
Frank shut the door and jogged up to his porch.
Rick watched him disappear inside, the stoop light casting long shadows across the wet steps. He pulled back into the street, taillights vanishing into the rainy dark. As he drove off south toward Duskhaven, he wasn’t sure if his word was a promise or another lie.
Chapter Twenty-One
(8:56 p.m.)
The rain never stopped; it only changed tempo. Tonight, it had eased from fury to a quiet, steady drumbeat on the pizzeria’s awning, a lullaby of sleet against glass and neon.
Ash sat across from Nora in a blue vinyl booth that had likely seen better decades, but still exuded that old-school, cozy charm unique to Little Italy. A fogged-up window behind her framed the street, where steam curled from sewer grates and the distant wail of a siren wove through the city like a dying banshee.
The air inside was thick with oregano, woodsmoke, and melted mozzarella. It was warm, warmer than either of them had been all day. Nora cradled the mug of tea the waiter brought like it was a sacrament, clutching it with trembling hands, the sleeves of her thin sweater sliding low over her wrists. A hint of color was creeping back into her cheeks. Damp strands of hair clung to her face, makeup smeared and forgotten. She looked young. Not innocent—nothing in this city stayed untouched—but younger than she had in that rusty warehouse, curled up like something kicked and discarded.
He studied her for a moment before glancing away.She’ll live.And that was more than he could say for Jimmy.
The lasagna came steaming, a slab of molten comfort on blue and white porcelain. Neither of them spoke for the first few bites. Ash ate voraciously, letting the sweet béchamel and tomato sauce coat his tongue, the ground beef practically melting in his mouth. The cheese stretched in long, satisfying strings when he forked into it, hot enough to scald his palate, buthe didn’t care. He’d gone without food since breakfast, and now the warmth in his belly felt like a remedy.
