From my perch under the expressway I could see the back entrance and the side yard, but not the front of the plant. When the shift ended at seven, I could just make out the shapes of people plodding to the bus stop. A few cars bumped behind them down the potholed drive to the road.

Lights were still on at the north end of the plant. One of the basement windows facing me also showed a pale fluorescent glow. If Frank Zamar were still on the premises, he could be doing something-anything-from checking inventory to planting dead rats in the vents. I wondered if I could find a crate in the rubble that would get me high enough to see into the back. I was halfway down the hillside, searching through the debris, when the window went briefly dark, then burst into fiery life.

I was still struggling to undo the front lock when sirens keened up South Chicago Avenue. Two trucks, a command car, and a phalanx of blue-and-whites screamed into the yard.

Men in black slickers surrounded me. Easy there, miss, move away, we’ve got it covered, the ka-chung of axes breaking metal, my God-look at that thing in her shoulder, get her an ambulance, a giant gloved hand scooping me up as easily as if I were an infant, not a 140-pound detective, and then, as I sat sideways on the command car’s passenger seat, feet on the ground, panting again, a familiar voice:

“Ms. W., what in Jesus’ name are you doing here?”

I looked up, startled, and felt giddy with relief. “Conrad! Where’d you come from? How did you know I was here?”

“I didn’t, but I might have guessed if buildings were blowing up on my turf that you’d be close by. What happened?”

“I don’t know.” The current of pain was sweeping through me again, tugging me loose from my moorings. “Zamar. Where is he?”

“Who’s Zamar-your newest victim?”

“Plant owner, commander,” a man outside my narrow field of vision said. “Trapped in there.”