Read The Chicago Way for Free Online Page A

curiosity across the car.
    “Tag along. Why?”
    “Sounds interesting. Besides, this murder thing I’m involved in…”
    “I remember the murder thing.”
    “There might be a rape connection.”
    Nicole exhaled softly and looked out into the newly born night. The quiet was suddenly heavy between us and I felt the weight of years take hold. Not the careless intimacy of a lover. Much more than simply a friend. It was a connection that could only be forged between children. A connection you got maybe once in your life. More often, more likely, never. Then Nicole turned back my way and spoke.
    “I hear you, Michael. And I’d love to help. Thing is, I can’t just take you along.”
    “How about I follow?”
    Nicole shook her head once and shifted into drive.
    “Can’t stop you from doing that. But I won’t make it easy. And you won’t get into the crime scene. Now get out.”
    She pulled away almost as soon as I slid out the door. My car, however, was parked at the corner. I got behind the wheel and was on her bumper within a block. I flicked my headlights. She looked up at her rearview mirror. I still had my coffee, took a sip, and followed.

CHAPTER 10
    T he house was just south of Montrose and east of Cicero, at the wrong end of a street called Pensacola. It was a standard split-level, except gone to seed with green garbage bags stuffed in the windows and ruts of mud where a lawn should have been. A double set of railroad tracks ran past the back of the house. A single cruiser, flasher turning sadly, was parked in front. I caught up to Nicole as she popped open her trunk.
    “Just can’t help yourself, Michael. Here, take this.”
    She hefted a black leather case my way.
    “Don’t give your name to anyone and stay out of the way.”
    “No problem.”
    “And wear gloves. Double gloves and booties. You leave any DNA here and I’ll kill you.” Nicole slammed the trunk shut and we walked toward the house.
     
***
     
    A RAPE SCENE is a lot like a homicide except the victim is still alive. You might figure that to be a good thing. A lot of times, though, you’d be figuring wrong. The house on Pensacola was one of those times.
    A couple of uniforms stood on the front stoop, trying to stay warm and looking for a chance to get back in the cruiser. They waved at Nicole and didn’t take a second look at me.
    Inside, a couple of print guys worked on a small pane of window broken out of the kitchen door. Point of entry. A good bit of breeze blew through the hole but the house still smelled. Small and poor. Not an auspicious sort of up-and-coming poor. Poor with a desperate edge. A lifetime kind of poor. One handed down to kids as a coming-out-of-the-womb sort of prize.
    The refrigerator had a flyer for a singles night at the Wells Street Social Club affixed to it. Beside that were a few pictures. School photos of young kids and a couple of wedding snaps. Up high on the fridge was a high school prom shot, circa 1987. An overweight girl stuffed into a dress with plastic red roses on it. Her date was cut out of the picture. Beside that, a magazine shot of Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie on the beach, except Angelina’s head was gone and the overweight high school girl, now an overweight woman, had taken her place. Someone had written STUD with an arrow pointing to Brad’s smiling face. I took it all in as we walked by and decided I didn’t miss being a cop.
    “Down here.”
    Nicole pointed. Smears of what looked like blood led down a short, cheap hallway to a single room jammed into the end. We already had booties and gloves on. Nicole skirted the blood and led the way into the room.
    “Hi, Vince.”
    Vince was everything today’s cop should be. Hispanic, thirty to thirty-five, curly black hair cut close, white shirt and blue suit that hung lean and long off a well-tapered build. He had a laptop open on a nightstand and a PDA clipped to his belt, right in front of his gun and shield.
    “Nicole.”
    Vince took a look