“Nobody makes pictures for me,” Lasner said, looking back, the rhythm of negotiation. “At my studio.” He held Ben’s eyes for another second, then smiled. “You know, if your father had been like you, he’d still be-” He looked away, at a loss. “I mean-”

Ben said nothing, waiting.

Lasner held up a finger. “Don’t take advantage. People don’t forget that.” He lowered the hand, a dismissal, and walked away, followed by his moving reflection on the glass roof. “We’ll talk in the morning,” he said, the words in a slipstream over his shoulder.

But when the train pulled into LaSalle Street it was the scene from Grand Central all over again-Lasner surrounded by hats, tips given out, telegrams handed over, the group moving down the platform in a huddle. Ben followed behind, not wanting to interrupt, then lost him outside in the line of waiting taxis. Dearborn Street, where the Chief would pull out, was only a few blocks away, but what would he do there? He turned east instead, past the murky bars and shadowy streets under the El, light poking through the girders in latticework patches. Off the train, things seemed to pass in a plodding slow motion. Nothing whizzed by the window. He had all day.

He crossed Michigan to the lakefront, hoping for a breeze, but the lake was flat, a sheet of hot tin. In the park, dogs panted under bushes. He thought of Warner being wheeled out on a stretcher in Lasner’s imagination. But anyone could have an attack, even someone as young as Danny. Except he hadn’t. What had his life been like? Maybe the same pressure cooker the Warners steamed in. Not the easy California you saw in magazines, men in open-necked shirts. Did he look like that? His wife would have pictures. Hans Ostermann’s daughter, the only thing Ben knew about her. She’d be at the hospital now, waiting things out.