FRIDAY 3:15 P.M.

My client was missing, a genius or an idiot or somewhere in between. Good spies, bad spies, and terrorists from any number of organizations were after them and possibly me.

I stepped out into the howling wind and the falling temperatures and blowing snow. The vehicle Duncan had procured got me through the streets to where I was to meet Bernie, the owner of the towing company.

We had agreed to meet at Nick’s Coffee Shop, an old haunt of ours. It was one of the few all-night coffee shops in the city. Sure there were twenty-four hour diners. Nick’s was special.

It was on the bottom floor of an old factory just south of 22nd Street along the Chicago River. You walked along a narrow path built of oak planks recovered from the Great Chicago fire. Nick Buscher was a retired industrialist. He owned the whole building. He lived on the top floor. He opened a coffee shop for something to do. Except for the parking garage on the first floor, the rest of the building was vacant. I’d helped him set up the security for the place.

The coffee shop was a long, narrow room, small tables along one wall going straight back fifty feet. Two people standing next to each other with arms extended could span the width of the place. Inside the front door were the beverage-making machines. Lots of good coffee. And the best hot chocolate in the city next to Duncan’s.

Nick Buscher and his assistant manager, Dave Lundquist, were the only two in the place. It was warm and stuffy. The walls were dark brick illuminated at intervals with low lights. On the wall under each table were outlets. Nick was willing to let his customers plug in and charge their electronics as conveniently as possible.

I stomped the snow off my boots on the rug near the front. The pattern on the rug was too faded to make out. It might have been maroon roses at one time.

I ordered Nick’s specialty, a triple thick burger smothered in grilled onions, topped with a fried egg, tomato, and cheese. I also ordered an Italian hot chocolate and took my cup to the last table in the back. Nick said, “Thanks,” when I paid for the food. That was about all we said. The comfort of a long-time customer. I like taciturn in a barista. Not for me the forced cheerfulness of a hard-working chain barista.

I’d been coming here since I was a freshman in high school.

I hung my outer clothes across and over the table next to me. I sat and glared into the gloom. Buscher and Lundquist sat behind the counter and read the newspaper.

I tried to sort out the case and the cast of characters. Who know who? Who had told the truth? Who had lied? Who could or could not back up other people’s lies?

Nick brought water, hot chocolate, and the burger. I finished the burger before Bernie came in. He noted me sitting in the back, got some coffee, and strode over.

He asked, “You find out all you needed about the accident?”

“I confirmed it existed.”

“It’s a start. My guy has been harassed.”

“Mario?”

“Yeah. I wanted you to know. It might mean something.”

“What’d they do?”

“Came at him just outside the shop at the end of a shift as he was pulling in.”

“Is he okay?”

“Adele had seen suspicious guys lurking about. Anybody who doesn’t belong is suspicious to Adele.”

“Good for her.”

“She saw what was happening and rang the emergency bell. Me and a bunch of guys went out with baseball bats and tire irons. Whoever the fuck it was, pulled guns. We got Mario and retreated. Adele pulled out her shotgun and stood with us. She’d called the cops. When the bad guys heard sirens in the distance, they took off.”

“So it couldn’t have been government people?”

“I would think not.” He sipped coffee.

“Mario’s okay?”

“Yeah.”

I said, “I’m suspicious of my client.”

“Aren’t you suspicious of all your clients?”

“Not like this.” I explained.

“So you think they had training?”

“They must have. You don’t just dance out of your computer lab and infiltrate terrorists groups around the world.”

“What kind of training?”

“Navy SEALs, something on that level.”

“Possible.”

A small diamond shaped window let in a bit of a glow from the light over the door. Through the pane, I could glimpse snow racing past on the northeast wind.

I said, “And I’ve got two dead bodies. One a member of my client’s cabal, and the other supposedly a terrorist.”

“Serious shit.” He raised an eyebrow. “Dead guy you didn’t sleep with?”

“Et tu?” I sipped hot chocolate and said, “Neither of whom I slept with.”

“You do tend to lose them after you fuck them.”

I said, “That is so not true.”

He looked thoughtful, “Didn’t you go down on one guy in the wilds of the Hindu Kush mountains, and he died?”

“He didn’t die because I went down on him. We had a relationship, and it didn’t work out.”

“Well, death is one way things don’t work out.”

“When he died, I was ten thousand miles away and had been for months. He stepped on a bomb when he was out trying to give some local stud a blow job in Kandahar.”

“A likely story.”

“It’s true. Or it’s what I heard.”

He nodded.

We watched the weather and indulged in our beverages before resuming. I asked, “We know any gay Navy SEALs who would be willing to train these guys?”

“Gay Navy SEALS other than you?”

“I’m not sure about any other gay Navy Seals who were in the Hindu Kush at the same time. A few of us used to trade blow jobs inside cold and freezing tents. Does that count? I think they were straight, but who doesn’t like good head? In fact, the CIA guys who were harassing us then gave the best head. Who knew?”

“Everybody likes good head. Could your client have hired some random rogue guys gay or straight to train them?”

“It’s got to have been someone they trusted.”

“There is a finite supply of SEALs on the planet. And we aren’t the only ones capable of providing that training. Maybe they found a friendly former agent in Pago Pago.”

I sighed. “Yeah, it’s kind of a shot in the dark.”

“But it’s a reasonable assumption and another thread to follow. But you say they’re rich. Why couldn’t they just hire a Blackwater type group to train them? They could buy any number of small countries and train away in any backwoods anywhere.”

“I suppose. If that’s what they were doing.”

“From your description, they don’t strike me as stupid. Desperate, maybe. But not stupid.”