“Nice car,” I say.
The words come out before I can decide whether they’re appropriate.
Rolan glances at me. His lips move. It’s the closest I’ve seen him get to a smile.
“Recent acquisition,” he says. “I haven’t had the opportunity to take it out yet.”
“Today’s the day, then.”
“Apparently.”
I look around the garage, half-expecting to see Dmitri materializing from the shadows.
“Where’s Dmitri?”
I catch a glimpse of irritation cross Rolan’s face. “He’ll follow with the others.”
“The others?”
“Security detail.”
“We need a security detail to go to a shopping center.” It comes out flatter than intended. A statement rather than a question.
He opens the passenger door.
I get in.
It smells of new leather. I press my hands flat against my thighs and stare straight ahead while he closes the door and walks around to the driver’s side.
The engine starts.
“Woodfield Commons,” I say.
He nods once, shifts, and the car moves.
The drive is twenty minutes. We leave through a side gate I didn’t even know existed, flanked immediately by two black sedans that appear from behind.
The city opens up around us. December in Chicago means bare trees and the flat gray light that makes everything look slightly overexposed. It’s a typical Midwest Sunday morning, slow and private, with the city exhaling before the week takes it back. I watch it through the window and run and rerun the mathematics of the next two hours, looking for a variable I can use.
“You’re quiet,” Rolan says.
“I’m always quiet in cars.”
“That’s not what I heard.”
The observation is delivered without inflection. I turn from the window. He’s looking at the road, both hands easy on the wheel.
“What do you mean?”
“Dmitri told me you ask plenty of personal questions.”
I did do that.
“Would you even answer if I asked?”
“Maybe.”
I mull over possible questions.
