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radio built into the dashboard.
    “To wherever the mayor was shot.”
    ***
    Snow crunched under Delilah’s boot as she
stepped out of the cab on East Jackson Drive. “Park down by the
university,” she told Freddie as a voice on the police radio
confirmed an ambulance was en route to collect the final remains of
Mayor Arámbula.
    Buckingham fountain was beautiful, even late on
a winter night. Past the skeletal trees, golden lights illuminated
the sparkling water—the strobe of blue and red from the waiting
squad cars rather ruined the romantic affect.
    The cab pulled away. Delilah walked through the
fresh-fallen snow, drifting across the icy sidewalk with the calm
demeanor of someone exactly where they belonged.
    At the edge of the square, one of the officers
noticed her. “Ma’am, can I help you?” he said stiffly, shining a
flashlight at her face.
    “No.”
    He squinted, trying to make out her face under
the black top hat she wore. “Did you hear anything? See
anything?”
    “I didn’t.” She watched as the ambulance pulled
up and paramedics hurried to the body. They lifted the dead mayor
onto a stretcher and a scrap of paper fell out of his pocket. The
wind caught it, lifting the paper up out of the snow and blowing it
toward her.
    “Hey!” one of the officers shouted. “Somebody
grab that! Gelphi! Catch that!”
    Delilah snatched the paper out of the air with a
gloved hand. “Here,” she held it out to the policeman she assumed
was Officer Gelphi. Three barely legible words scrawled across the
paper: Kalydon - 77 Wacker.
    “Thank you.” Gelphi took the paper back with
obvious hesitation. “Ma’am, I’m going to ask you to move along.
This is a crime scene.”
    “Of course.” News vans were already parking on
Lakeshore Drive and she didn’t need to be on camera. “Have a good
evening.” Pivoting on her heel, Delilah strolled back along the
snowy streets until her nose was numb. Seventy-seven Wacker was an
office building that had been on the market for several months. It
wasn’t somewhere the mayor would have gone for a party, but a black
market business deal? That sounded plausible.
    A warm breeze alerted her to company. “Fancy
meeting you here,” The Spirit of Chicago said.
    Delilah stopped, watching him from the corner of
her eye. “How did you hear about this?”
    “I have friends at the police department.
You?”
    She shrugged. “I know all the good gossips.” She
turned to face him, or as much as there was of him. The festively
lit streets twinkled through his gossamer body. “Where were you
tonight, superhero?”
    “Where were you, do-gooder super villain?”
    With a grimace, she shrugged again. “Busy. I
have an airtight alibi. Over a hundred people saw me flirting with
a handsome man tonight. We didn’t get as far as drinks.
Disappointing, overall. Your turn.”
    “I was trying to attract the attention of
devastatingly beautiful woman.”
    Delilah almost laughed. “Oh? How’d that work out
for you?”
    “She looked right through me.”
    They turned side by side to watch the paramedics
cover the late mayor’s body. A chill that had nothing to do with
the temperature and everything to do with the muted pallor of death
wound its way up her spine, leaving her feeling isolated and angry.
The ripples of this would spread far and wide, destroying the peace
she worked hard to maintain.
    The Spirit of Chicago solidified a little more,
filling in enough space to cast a shadow of his own and whistling
the first few bars of All I Want For Christmas .
    Delilah sighed and shook off her malaise. “I
guess that’s our social plans canceled.”
    “Ours?” the Spirit asked. “My invite to the
cookie swap must have been lost in the mail. I was going to make
snickerdoodles.”
    “There’s a man dead and you’re joking?”
    He held up a translucent hand. “Ghost?”
    “Who can swim and grab towels?” Delilah raised
an eyebrow. “Let’s try the truth. You’re alive and well but