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  She studied the card and slipped it into her pocket. “You understand, lieutenant, that everything comes through me first,” she said, walking around the desk. “Clear?”

  Her long legs were nothing like those of his ex-wife, Janet, but her mouth was.

  “Yes, ma’am, I understand. The mayor underscored that.”

  Outside her office, he let out a breath. He moved back down City Hall’s grand staircase to the ground floor and crossed the lobby, heels clicking on the white marble.

  “Brother Gabriel!”

  He stopped and turned. An old black man in a baggy gray suit, carrying a Bible, approached. They slapped hands.

  “Preacher Cairns! Thought you’d be in heaven by now. How’s biz?”

  “Slow, slow. No one thinks to get married when it snows. You back downtown?”

  “Not yet. Still in exile. Just checking my traps.”

  The old man laughed then sobered. “It ain’t the same these days.”

  “Nope,” Gabriel said. “Not even close.”

  From downtown Gabriel drove his unmarked Dodge north on the interstate. Minimal traffic. He tracked a snowplow shooting salt out its tail. At the university he exited and followed signs to Rysman Hall. Before its doors he stomped snow from his black Ferragamos and stepped inside the tall brown-brick building. He rode the elevator to the fifth floor and wandered down a narrow hallway of closed office doors until he found room 544. He knocked.

  “Enter!”

  He pushed the door open and stuck his head through. An ebony man two shades darker than Gabriel with shaved head sat half-hidden behind books and papers stacked on a metal desk.

  “Professor Betancourt?” The man looked up from a document, reading glasses on his nose. “I’m Lieutenant Gabriel.”

  The man rose and extended a hand. Betancourt came up to Gabriel’s chin. He wore faded designer jeans and a black merino sweater. His eyes lively and penetrating. They shook hands—manicured nails, like his own.

  Betancourt moved a stack of papers from a chair and nodded at it. “Excuse the mess. It’s never tidy but particularly chaotic at semester’s end.”

  “No semester break for you?”

  “A department chair is a two-headed monster—half faculty, half administration—and both eat hours.”

  “This shouldn’t take long.”

  Both men sat. Gabriel let his eyes roam over the bookshelves that ran floor to ceiling along the north wall: a jumble of hardbacks and paperbacks with stapled documents stuffed in between. English literature—he recognized Hardy, Austen, Dickens—and literary criticism, about which he knew nothing. Behind Betancourt a window afforded a view of a gray sky and a parking garage whose top floor had not been plowed.

  “On the phone you said it was a confidential matter.”

  Gabriel showed him his police I.D. and gold-plated badge. “I’d appreciate it if we could keep our conversation just between the two of us for now. It may turn out to be nothing.”

  “I hope a student isn’t in trouble.”

  “It seems that one of your faculty members hasn’t been seen for a few days and his wife is worried. We’re looking into it, but it’s likely nothing.”

  “Who is it?”

  “Professor Stone.”

  Betancourt lifted his chin. “Adjunct Professor Stone.”

  “Adjunct?”

  Betancourt smiled as if a student had given him the wrong answer. “An adjunct is not a regular faculty member but a part-time instructor. Jonathan Stone taught three sections of composition and a class in remedial grammar.”

  “Sounds like full-time.”

  Betancourt shook his head. “No committee responsibilities, no benefits.”

  “And the pay?”

  He shrugged. “I don’t know what we’re paying adjuncts now. There’s a standard rate depending on degree status. Stone, I believe, was ABD.” Gabriel frowned. “All But Dissertation,” Betancourt explained. “An MA who has done the PhD coursework but has not yet completed his dissertation.”

  “Do you know Stone well?”

  “Hardly at all. He was hired by my predecessor. We may have spoken only a handful of times.” Betancourt picked up a pen and began tapping it on his desk pad.

  Gabriel asked: “Do you know if he had any friends in the department who might be able to help me?”

  “No idea. Perhaps his office mate.”

  “May I see Professor Stone’s office?”

  Betancourt stopped tapping the pen. “Stone no longer has an office.” Gabriel waited. “Adjuncts teach on a semester-by-semester basis.”

  “He quit?”

  “Stone was not invited back.”

  “Who does the inviting?”

  “That would be my decision.”

  “Any particular reason?”

  Perfect silence except for the radiator’s white noise, which Gabriel now became aware of. A few snowflakes fell outside.

  “University teaching is a highly competitive field. We have other adjuncts and graduate instructors who were performing at a higher level and deserved more hours.”

  “How long has he taught here?”

  “Not sure. He was here when I came five years ago.”

  Gabriel nodded. Tough getting fired after five, maybe ten years on the job—even if it was a low-paying one.

  “When did you inform Professor Stone—Adjunct Professor Stone—that he wouldn’t be asked back?”

  “I didn’t speak to him.”

  “Then how would he have learned that he was being dismissed?”

  “Not dismissed. His contract expired. I suspect he may have learned from my secretary.”

  “Who is?”

  “Martha Walczyk.”

  Gabriel reached into his coat pocket and withdrew his notebook and pen. He scribbled a note—“Betancourt prick. Secretary Martha Walczyk”—and returned them to his pocket.

  “She in today?”

  Betancourt stood and managed a smile. “Rain or shine, sleet or snow.”

  In the copy room at the Xerox machine, Gabriel found a fifty-year-old woman in a red dress with a glittery snowman brooch pinned above her heart.

  “I’ll bet you’re Ms. Walczyk.”

  “Mrs. Walczyk.”

  Gabriel sighed. “All the good ones get married young.”

  She smiled, retrieved a stack of documents from the machine and led him from the room. “You must want something badly and quickly. Are you from Administration?”

  “In a way.” He showed her his badge as she sat behind her desk in a windowless room. “Dr. Betancourt said you might be able to help me.”

  Her smile disappeared. “I hope there’s no trouble.”

  “Probably isn’t. Just doing a background check on one of your faculty members, Jonathan Stone.”

  “What for?”

  “We’re just trying to track him down.”

  She brought her hand to her mouth. “Oh, dear. He’s disappeared?”

  Gabriel thought she might cry. He said, “Look. Between us it’s just that he hasn’t been home for a few days and his wife is worried.”

  She began to nod and flicked her eyes in the direction of Betancourt’s office. “He came in Friday to say goodbye.”

  “How did he seem?”

  “Pleasant, as always, as least with me. But you never know with him. Still waters run deep. I heard .…” She leaned forward, elbows on the desktop. “I heard that at the faculty gathering he had words with Dr. Betancourt. I’m not sure how it started, but I can guess. I hope he’s okay.”

  “Probably just taking a little vacation. Can I see his office, Mrs. Walczyk?”

  “Martha.” She lifted a glass plate from the corner of her desk. “Christmas cookie?”

  Gabriel patted his paunch while studying them. “Maybe just one.…”

  She led him to Stone’s office and unlocked the door. Two desks facing either wall. A narrow window overlooking the road below. Stone’s desk held little of interest: pens, paper
clips, textbooks on expository writing and grammar. Empty files.

  Conversely, the other desk held a stack of blue exam booklets beneath a yellow rubber-duck paperweight, three coffee mugs with photos of African American children imprinted, and two shelves of American literature: Mark Twain, Henry James, Walt Whitman; Ellison, Morrison, Wright; Thoreau, Cather, Hemingway, Faulkner. On the wall beside the desk hung a framed poster of small white seals on a flashing rainbow-ed disco floor. “Stop clubbing, baby seals!” read the headline, and underneath that, “Punctuation Rules!” Another poster said: “The past, present, and future walk into a bar. It was tense.” English-professor humor differed from cop humor.

  “Who sits there, Martha?”

  “Dadisi.”

  “Dadisi who?”

  “Just plain Dadisi.”

  “Male, female?”

  “Oh, he’s a guy.” She indicated a yellowed photo on his desk of a youthful black man in a dashiki and Afro with a young woman who held twin boys on her lap.

  “He from Africa?”

  “East St. Louis.”

  Gabriel raised his eyebrows. “Still lives there?”

  She looked at him, nodding. “Even with a family.”

  He gazed again at the poster of the disco-dancing seals. “Odd sense of humor.”

  He returned on Interstate 70, cordoned by a levee of dirty snow along either side that matched the gray sky. Traffic still thin. Snow day for many though the schools were already on break. Ugly. The old north St. Louis suburbs held rows of post-war bungalows now fallen into disrepair. Some had been bulldozed. The snow helped cover some of the wounds but it was still butt ugly.

  He exited at Union Boulevard. No prettier here—a rust-belt industrial neighborhood now largely abandoned. The old Chevy plant. A metal works. Crumbling warehouses. Soon he approached a new one-story concrete bunker where a painted sign hung on the concrete-and-redbrick façade: “North Patrol Division, Home of the ‘Real Police’.” He always wondered whether that was a swipe at downtown, the Highway Patrol, or the coppers on TV. But they did cover a tough territory—the 6th, 7th, and 8th districts, the city’s continually deteriorating North Side.

  Another sign in the snow-covered, semi-circular front yard had the same edgy tone: “KEEP OFF THE GRASS.” No please, no thank you, just keep off the fucking grass. Nonetheless beneath the snow the public had worn a dirt path through the turf just feet from the sidewalk. He parked the Dodge in the back lot.

  Once inside he lifted his chin toward the young officer lurking near the front desk, where bulletproof glass protected the police from any citizens who might wander in through the front door. Beyond the glass, in the lobby, sat vending machines and an ATM—one of the few safe venues on the North Side for fast cash.

  “Hey, Bosco! How are those babies doing?”

  The Bosnian smiled. “Babies? Mato’s in first grade at St. Aloisus.”

  “Already? Tempus fidgets, my friend. Is The Gecko around?”

  “Working from home till his street gets plowed.”

  At his desk—he’d been given his own glass-encased office in deference to his rank and former status—Gabriel found an email from Ellen Cantrell, a studio photo of her husband attached. Handsome guy: blond, clean-shaven, wire-rimmed glasses, gaunt. Innocent looking. Nice tie. He forwarded it on to The Gecko:

  Geeko Gecko—

  If you would get off the young wife for a minute to attend to some high-priority official biz much appreciated. Missing person pic attached Jonathan Stone. Adjunct English prof, hubby of mayor’s press secretary Ellen Cantrell. Last seen Sat. a.m. Took own Jeep. Check for it and usual credit cards, plane tix, TSA, hospitals, bank accounts, DWI, blotter, etc. No need to involve the Cyber Crimes Unit on this just yet. Shhhh! Also, find me a list of who was working the mayor’s party last Friday night.

  Next he went to the English Department on the university website. There he found the same color photo Ellen Cantrell had sent him and a brief bio:

  Jonathan Stone teaches a variety of undergraduate writing courses, ranging from creative writing to professional writing to composition. His interests in writing and writing pedagogy encompass the use of technology in human communication and learning processes as well as face-to-face and online classroom instruction. His forthcoming PhD dissertation, “The Masks of Mark Twain,” examines the iconic author’s use of misidentification, subterfuge, and disappearance in Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, Pudd’nhead Wilson, A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur’s Court, The Prince and the Pauper, and other pivotal works.

  “What the hell?” Gabriel said aloud.

  He sent an email to Stone’s university address telling him “There’s a police search under way for you. Please let us know if you’re okay. Your wife’s worried.” But he sensed it wouldn’t be that easy.

  At the Downtown YMCA, Gabriel barreled down the lane, sending an opponent tumbling backward to the ancient wooden floor and banking the ball in off the backboard.

  “Game!”

  “Charging!”

  “Bullshit!” barked Gabriel. “You were moving with me.”

  “You threw an elbow,” yelled Fearn as he picked himself up. “You could hurt somebody, you fat ass.”

  Gabriel gave him a hand up. “If you’re so scared, call 911.”

  “Honor the call, Carlo.”

  “Alright, pussy, take the ball. But when the big Mexican comes, you better step aside.”

  “More like an African elephant.”

  “Halfrican,” Gabriel corrected him. “But let’s stop the jiving about my weight and ethnicity and play ball.”

  Fearn’s team brought the ball down court but their shot hit the rim. Gabriel pushed in for the rebound and hit the guard on the fast break for an easy lay-up and the win.

  “Inevitable,” Gabriel said as the players slapped hands all around, “bad calls notwithstanding. Just a matter of time.”

  Fearn came and put a hand on his shoulder. “Your time’s running out old man. Enjoy it while you can.”

  “Oh, I am, I am.”

  Gabriel joined Fearn and two white cops—Mueller and McDiarmid—in the steam room and lowered himself onto the tiles with a sigh as steam billowed about him. He had been coming to the Y since he was a kid. Back then the ten-story brown-brick building, pushing a hundred, had six floors of dormitories, barbershop, tailor shop, and cafeteria, all catering to men only. Though now co-ed and rehabbed over the years, it still felt like a homey, fading men’s club.

  “I saw Boscovic at the desk this morning. What gives?”

  “Didn’t you hear?” asked Fearn. “Returned fire and winged some punk in the calf. He’s off the streets while IAD screws with it, but it looks good.”

  Gabriel coughed as he took in the damp air. “I prefer the saturation method—keep shooting till it stops moving. But if Bosco grazed someone in the leg, he meant to graze someone in the leg.”

  “You like him.”

  “I like tough cops.”

  “He tougher than Mad Angelo?” came a voice out of the mist—Mueller.

  That was a good question for Gabriel, given his history with the mayor—Mad Angelo Cira—when they were young cops together, and the mayor’s feisty reputation, always vaunted at election time. He chose not to answer it directly.

  “I wouldn’t mess with Bosco. Known him since he was at Vashon and got in trouble.”

  “Bosco went to high school at Vashon?”

  “Balkan War refugee. Hardly spoke a word of English. One of the homeboys came on to his sister in a disrespectful way. Bosco objects and homie pulls a knife. Next thing he knows, Bosco has him facedown on the ground with the knife blade an inch up his ass or thereabouts.”

  “You’d never guess by looking at him.”

  “While his fellow Vashon Wolverines were hanging on the corner playing grab-ass, Bosco was killing Serbs. His sister was the only family he had left. Worked with me briefly as a rookie. I remember chasing a perp—some nickel-ass dealer—down a
n alley where the guy tries to hide under a panel truck. Bosco didn’t want to dirty his new uniform wrestling the guy out, so he starts letting the air out of the tires. Dealer exited like he was shot from a cannon.”

  Mueller and McDiarmid left laughing. When the door closed Fearn said:

  “I hear you’re on special assignment too.”

  “Hard to keep secrets.”

  “Particularly when an exiled lieutenant has a City Hall sit-down with the mayor first thing in the morning.”

  “Just a little security work, dawg. Part of my rehabilitation.”

  “Good luck with that. You can have headquarters.”

  “I will, my man. Gabriel’s coming back from Siberia.”

  - 3 -

  The Mississippi had always intrigued Gabriel, ever since he was a kid. Just blocks from the near-North Side neighborhood where he grew up, it had marked the end of his known world, luring him and his pals, who scoured its banks for treasure, played at river pirates, and watched the barges and riverboats ply its swirling brown waters. As teenagers they expanded their horizons, driving across it via the Eads Bridge to East St. Louis for liquor, jazz, and women. Now he used the new bridge to transcend the icechunked channel, heading once again to East St. Louis, Illinois, a city that for him had long ago lost its dark allure.

  The streets there hadn’t seen a snowplow, so Gabriel followed scant tracks left by other vehicles. Not much got done here, not much good. It had the highest crime rate in America. One of every thousand citizens was murdered each year. Yet another city official had recently been arrested for soliciting kickbacks. A newspaper investigation found that one out of four cops had a rap sheet.

  He found Dadisi’s place—a newer two-story frame town-home on a cul-de-sac amid an urban prairie where redbrick factories and warehouses once stood. Bars covered the windows and front door; the sidewalk and driveway had been shoveled. Snowflakes swirled about as Gabriel made his way from his sedan.

  A girl of six or seven cracked the door, stared, and ran off. Dadisi appeared—receding gray Afro now, reading glasses, cable sweater. Gabriel held up his badge and I.D.