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South Side. Night was rolling in, bringing with it the bangers, junkies, ballers, wanna-bes, and thugs. None of them were thrilled to see a white guy on their turf, and some flashed their iron as I drove by.
    Ajax’s place wasn’t easy to find, and asking for directions didn’t strike me as a smart idea. Maybe in neighborhoods this bad, whole buildings got stolen.
    Finally, I narrowed it down to a decrepit apartment without any street number. I parked in front, set the alarm on my Bronco, and made sure I had one in the chamber.
    “You lost, white boy?”
    I ignored the three gang members—Gangster Disciples according to their colors—and headed for the building. The front door had a security lock, but it was long broken. There was a large puddle of something in front of the staircase, which I walked around.
    Ajax lived in 206. I took the stairs two at a time, followed a hall decorated with graffiti and vomit, and found her door.
    “Georgia Williams? Chicago PD!”
    Another door opened opposite me, fearful old eyes peeking out through the crack.
    “Is Ms. Williams home?” I asked the neighbor.
    The door closed again.
    I kicked away a broken bottle that was near my feet, and knocked again.
    “Georgia Williams! Open the door!”
    “You got ID?”
    A woman’s voice, cold and firm. I held a brass star, $12.95 on eBay, up to the peephole.
    “Where’s your partner?” asked the voice.
    “Watching the car. We’re looking for a friend of yours. Jasmine. She’s in big trouble.”
    “She sure is.”
    “Can I come in?”
    I heard a deadbolt snick back. Then another. The door swung inward, revealing a black girl of no more than sixteen. She wore jeans, a white blouse. Her face was garishly made-up. Stuck to her hip was a sleeping infant.
    “Can’t be long. Gotta go to work.”
    Ajax stepped to the side, and I entered her apartment. Expecting squalor, I was surprised to find the place clean and modestly furnished. The ceiling had some water damage, and one wall was losing its plaster, but there were nice curtains and matching furniture and even some framed art. This was the apartment of someone who hadn’t given up yet.
    “I’ll be straight with you, Georgia. If we don’t find Jasmine soon, it’s very likely she’ll be killed. You know about Artie Collins?”
    She nodded, once.
    “If you know where she is, it’s in her best interest to tell me.”
    “Sorry, cop. I don’t know nothing.”
    I took out my Glock, watched her eyes get big.
    “Do you have a license for this firearm I found on your premises, Georgia?”
    “Aw, this is—”
    I got in her face, sneering.
    “I’ll tell you what this is. Six months in County, minimum. With your record, the judge won’t even think twice. And say goodbye to your baby; when I get done wrecking this place, DCFS will declare you so unfit you won’t be allowed within two hundred yards of anyone under aged ten.”
    Her lips trembled, but there were no tears.
    “You bastards are all the same.”
    “I want Jasmine, Ajax. She’s dead if I don’t find her.”
    I gave her credit for toughness. She held out. I had to topple a dresser and put my foot through her TV before she broke down.
    “Stop it! She’s with her boyfriend!”
    “Nice try. I already checked Melvin Kincaid.”
    “Not Mel. She found a new guy. Named Buster something.”
    “Buster what?”
    “I dunno.”
    I chucked a vase at the wall. The baby in her arms was wiggling, hysterical.
    “I don’t have his last name! But I got a number.”
    Georgia went for her purse on the bed, but I shoved the Glock in her face.
    “I’ll look.”
    The purse was the size of a cigarette pack, with rhinestone studs and spaghetti straps. A hooker purse. I didn’t figure there could be much of a weapon in there, and was once again surprised. A .22 ATM spilled onto the bed.
    “I’m sure this has a license.”
    Georgia didn’t answer. I rifled through the packs of mint gum and condoms until I found a matchbook with a