Carlo’s smile faded as quickly as it had appeared.
“Where is Martha?”
The rain seemed louder.
Marco lowered his gaze.
“Mama is gone.”
“No.” Carlo shook his head.
“She called me.”
He lifted the black shoe to his ear again.
“Martha?”
Marco looked at the shoe, then at me.
“How long has he been doing that?”
“Since I found him.”
His face hardened, but not at his father.
“At the house,” he said, “he was wearing both shoes.”
We looked down.
Carlo had one bare foot inside a soaked sock.
Somewhere between his home and Fifth and Grand, he had removed the other shoe and turned it into a telephone to speak to his dead wife.
Marco closed his eyes.
When he opened them, the guards were staring at the pavement.
“How did he get out?” I asked.
No one answered.
Marco’s voice became dangerously quiet.
“That is a question several people will answer before sunrise.”
I expected threats.
Instead, he told two guards they were removed from Carlo’s detail until he understood what had happened.
“No punishment,” he added.
“No disappearing.
You will remain available and tell me the truth.”
Their relief revealed how much worse they had expected.
Marco opened the SUV door for his father.
Carlo refused to enter.
“Chloe comes.”
I looked at Marco.
“You know my name?”
“He’s said it three times,” Marco replied.
“Once while you were threatening to summon every police officer in Chicago.”
“I was improvising.”
“That was evident.”
Carlo held out his hand to me.
I had missed my bus.
My phone was nearly dead.
My apartment was miles away.
Every instinct I possessed told me not to climb into a black SUV with Marco DeLuca.
But Carlo’s fingers were trembling.
I took his hand and got in.
Marco sat across from us.
The vehicle smelled of leather and rain.
One guard drove while another occupied the front passenger seat.
Carlo leaned against me as the city slid past the dark windows.
Marco watched every movement.
“Are you afraid of me?” he asked.
“Yes.”
The direct answer seemed to surprise him.
“Yet you told me no.”
“You had armed men.
He had one wet sock.”
