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coffee back to the desk and, for the third time, turned my attention to Vince’s surveillance reports on Dr. Feelgood.
    Dr. Feelgood had a real name—Dr. Andrew Glassman. The night before last, Glassman left Rush Medical Center and drove his Mercedes east on Harrison to the Printer’s Row neighborhood. He had dinner at Custom House with a colleague from work—Dr. Sam Martell—during which they talked shop. He then headed up Lake Shore Drive, exited at Fullerton. He spent two hours visiting his mother at a fancy nursing home, like a good son should. Then he retired for the evening to his Gold Coast condo, arriving just before eleven o’clock. Probably drank himself to sleep with a warm glass of milk.
    As fervently as I might have wished him to be, Dr. Andrew Glassman was not Public Enemy Number One. I’d had Vince on him almost a month and the guy hadn’t so much as changed lanes without signaling.
    I flipped to the next report. Last evening, the good doctor left work, bought a single red rose at the hospital flower shop, and drove to Lakeview. Jill’s neighborhood. He parked at a meter on Halsted and took a table at Erwin Café, an upscale American bistro. He sipped a glass of white wine and read a novel called The Book of Ralph, until his date arrived fifteen minutes later. Of course his date was Jill. Vince terminated surveillance, according to my instructions.
    The last item on Vince’s report: “Subject closed his book, stood and presented the rose to Ms. Browning. They kissed.”

CHAPTER FIVE
    S urprise!”
    Terry and Angela Green stood on the other side of their front door, both wearing huge smiles. Their greeting confused me at first. Then I looked down and saw the bump. Angela was pregnant. I almost dropped the wine.
    â€œCongratulations,” I said, because what the hell else was I going to say? Big hugs ensued as the happy couple drew me into their home. I handed the wine to Terry and said to Angela, “How far along?”
    â€œFive months. We didn’t want to tell anyone right away because, well, you never know.”
    I held her at arm’s length and looked her over. She was always a thin woman and hadn’t really filled out yet, cheekbones still prominent on her chestnut brown face. But she seemed to be gaining weight where it mattered. She had the bump and was a little fuller in the hips and backside. I judged that she was now a C-cup, the inappropriateness of such an observation notwithstanding. I’d always had a secret thing for Angela.
    I let go of her shoulders and said, “You look great,” in a tonepurely platonic. Turned to Terry and asked, “Boy or girl?” Terry was a reporter—I knew he wouldn’t wait to be surprised with the pertinent information readily available.
    â€œBoy,” said Terry.
    Angela said, “His name is Chester, after Chester Himes. And if it’s okay with you, we’d like his middle name to be Ray, after Terry’s best friend.”
    It hit me like a bucket of cold water. Why would anyone want to name a kid after me? I said, “Sure, it’s okay with me.”
    â€œTry to contain your enthusiasm,” said Terry.
    â€œNo, I didn’t…I didn’t mean it that way. I think it’s great. Thanks.”
    Angela laughed and waved us off. “You boys go out on the balcony, smoke your cigars. I’ve got dinner to make.”
    Â 
    â€œCheers, man.” I clinked my glass against Terry’s and we sipped his scotch and smoked my cigars. “I’m happy for you guys.”
    â€œThanks. It’s not a done deal but all the tests are normal so far. I think this one’s gonna take, knock on wood.”
    â€œYou’ll make a great dad.” And I meant it. But on another level, I wasn’t happy for Terry at all.
    More accurately, I wasn’t happy for me.
    Truth is, I felt the end of an era approaching. Terry and Angela were moving