CHAPTER 11

We sat under the El tracks on Webster at an ancient DePaul bar called Kelly’s. I had a can of Bud and a burger. Nicole had a Diet Coke.

“What made you take this gig?” I said.

“The task force?”

“Yeah.”

“That’s not what we’re talking about.”

“I know, but the other stuff will wait. Talk to me about this.”

I tried to hold Nicole’s gaze, but she broke off. I took a sip of beer and waited.

“I went back again,” she said. “Just last week.”

“Why?”

“Why not? It’s where we grew up.”

“You don’t want to forget, do you?”

“What I want doesn’t really matter. Some things just don’t go away. Probably be the last thing I think of when I pass over. First thing I remember on the other side. And that’s all right. I’ve learned to live with it. Learned how to grow strong from it. You should, too.”

“I’m good,” I said. “You know that. I just worry about a scene like tonight.”

Nicole smiled and held out her hand. I took it.

“Michael, you’re always good. Always fine. At least that’s the part we all get to see. Sometimes, though, I wonder.”

I didn’t say anything, didn’t move very much.

“The SWAT team’s a good thing for me,” she continued. “Lets me do something.”

“The empowerment thing?”

“Yeah, the empowerment thing.”

My friend looked empowered, almost too much so.

“You sure?” I said.

“Yes. Besides, it gets too rough, I got you around.”

“Whether you like it or not.”

“Absolutely. But let me ask you a question?”

“Shoot.”

Nicole lifted her glass and talked around the side.

“How exactly you going to save this poor black girl if you’re sitting in a prison cell?”

“I guess it’s time for my story.”

“It is.”

And so I told her. About Gibbons and Elaine Remington, the print and Diane Lindsay.

“You sleeping with her?”

“No.”

Nicole rolled her eyes.

“Matter of time. I know Diane. She does some work at the Rape Volunteer Association.”

“And?”

“You’re in over your head.”

“Never stopped me before.”

“Really? When was the last time you slept with a woman?”

I shrugged. Nicole cut right to it.

“I’m going to guess there’s been no one since Annie. And that’s been…”

She counted on her fingertips and looked toward the ceiling.

“…over a year.”

There had actually been plenty of women since Annie, but it was all playacting, dipping a toe in the water. I had a feeling Diane Lindsay would take me to the deep end and that, as my friend hammered home, might be a problem.

“Simple fact of life, Michael. What’s done is done. You gotta move on. Hard as it is, everyone else already has.”

“Let’s try one thing at a time,” I said. “Right now, she’s a journalist and I’m a potential story. As in ‘murder suspect’ sort of story.”

Nicole sat back, dragged a straw idly through her drink, and looked into its caramel-colored depths. I took another sip of beer and studied the nearest EXIT sign. Sometimes friendship can be hard. Especially with me on the other side. After a while Nicole shrugged and let it go.

“Have you talked to Bennett?”

“Yeah. He says to just lay low. Whole thing will blow over.”

“Bennett is usually right,” Nicole said.

“True. By the way, he asked for you.”

“Bennett’s a sweet guy.”

“Yeah. And still a little obsessed.”

“I told you we talked. Straightened that all out. Long time ago.”

“The boy is only human, Nicole. Just another face in the fawning crowd.”

“Whatever. Now get yourself another beer and give me the dirt on Diane Lindsay.”

I didn’t have any dirt, or anything else to offer, on our local news celeb. So I made up a few things, which seemed to make Nicole happy and, of course, is the American way.