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—Hey.
Antonio and Sumner approached from the sidewalk, both holding their notebooks and wearing the same discouraging expression.
—We took a look around the area —Antonio said, slipping his pen into his jacket pocket—. There are no surveillance cameras on this street.
—Not a single one working —Sumner added, looking toward the nearby poles—. The city cameras were destroyed a long time ago.
Ethan looked toward the corner, then at the cables hanging from a rusted pole.
—What a surprise —he muttered.
—Yeah, well, it leaves us practically blind.
—About what I expected —Hank said, scanning the street—. In neighborhoods like this, if they ever put up a camera, somebody either broke it or stole it.
Little by little, the others began coming back.
Olinsky was the last to approach.
—We talked to the neighbors and the people at the party —he said—. Nobody saw any strangers nearby. No suspicious vehicles either.
—Nobody saw anything? —Erin asked, frustrated.
—At a kid's party, nobody pays attention to the child until he disappears or starts crying —Ethan said.
Sumner looked toward the house, where the parents were still devastated.
—He couldn't have just vanished.
—No, but someone either took him from here, or he walked far enough to get out of everyone's line of sight —Hank said.
—He's two years old —Antonio cut in—. If he walked off alone, he couldn't have gotten far.
Hank gave a single, curt nod.
He looked over the street, the front yards, the porches full of curious neighbors, and the patrol cars blocking the area. Every minute that passed made the case more complicated.
—Notify patrol —he ordered—. I want more personnel combing the nearby streets. Alleys, yards, open garages, abandoned houses, dumpsters, everything.
Antonio was already pulling out his phone.
—Block-by-block search radius?
—Five blocks to start —Hank replied—. If nothing turns up in twenty minutes, we expand.
—Understood.
Hank looked at Erin and Ruzek.
—You two go over the guests again. Parents, cousins, neighbors, anyone who was at the party. Nobody leaves until we have names and phone numbers.
Ruzek nodded at once.
—Yes, Sergeant.
—Sumner —Hank continued—, you and Antonio look for any available footage from the surrounding areas. Stores, gas stations, traffic lights, ATMs, whatever. Even if it's several streets away, I want those images.
Hank took out his phone and stepped aside.
No one argued.
Ethan stood still for a moment, looking left and right.
Those bastards had really left him there alone.
He let out a short sigh, tucked his notebook into the inside pocket of his jacket, and crossed the street.
In front of him stood a two-story family home, somewhat better kept than the others. It had a slightly worn white fence, two or three dry trees in the front yard, and an old rocking chair beside the porch. Nothing out of the ordinary, except that from there, the street and the Casden house were clearly visible.
Maybe someone there had seen something.
Ethan climbed the porch steps and knocked on the door.
Knock, knock, knock.
For a couple of seconds, there was no answer. Then footsteps sounded on the other side.
—One second!
A clear voice came from inside, and with a click, the door opened.
Ethan immediately raised his badge.
—Chicago Police.
On the other side stood a white blonde girl, around sixteen or seventeen years old. Her face looked almost angelic.
Ethan held the badge up for another second, keeping his tone professional.
—I'm Detective Morgan. We're looking for a missing child from the house across the street. I need to ask you a few questions.
She was wrapped in a small white bath towel.
—Hi!
When the girl saw Ethan, her eyes lit up immediately, and when she noticed the badge hanging from his belt, they seemed to shine even more.
—How can I help you, Detective?
The girl leaned against the nearby wall with one hand, adopting an awkward posture.
The towel slipped with the movement, exposing more skin than Ethan would have liked.
—Oops!…
Before Ethan could speak, the girl slowly bent down to pick up the towel and, at the same time, turned her head and shouted:
—Hey, idiot, this detective saw me naked. You want to beat him up too?
Ethan had no idea what was going on, but he remained completely impassive.
He stared straight ahead, watching as the girl wrapped herself back in the towel and then ran inside.
—I'm sorry!
From the adjoining living room, a middle-aged white man quickly approached, his face full of embarrassment.
—I'm Eddie Jackson, and that's my stupid daughter, Karen. She's going through her rebellious teenage phase. Please excuse her behavior.
—Fuck you, Dad!
Karen shouted from the stairs.
Ethan let out a sigh and looked at the middle-aged man with pity.
Poor guy. Having to deal with a daughter like that every day had to be a sentence in itself.
—Don't worry —Ethan said, calmly putting away his badge—. Teenagers are like that.
Then he gestured slightly toward the house across the street.
—I assume you already know what happened across the street, right? I just need to ask you a couple of questions. It won't take much of your time.
—What the hell?!
The curse exploded from inside the house before Eddie could answer.
A second later, Frank appeared in the hallway with a plate of scrambled eggs in one hand and a fork in the other. His hair was a mess and his shirt was buttoned wrong.
He stared at Ethan, opened his eyes wide, and pointed at him with the fork.
—It's you!
His finger trembled, though it wasn't clear whether it was from surprise, a hangover, or indignation.
—I knew I saw you a moment ago. I knew it!
Ethan looked at him in silence.
Frank took a step forward, narrowed his eyes, and then lowered his gaze to the badge Ethan had just put away.
—Shit… —he muttered, as if he had just witnessed a tragedy—. You're a cop?
Eddie closed his eyes for a moment, resigned.
—Frank…
—Oh, my God!
Frank began pacing in circles around the room, still holding the plate of eggs.
—You're a goddamn cop. A real cop. Badge, gun, and that whole air of moral superiority funded by my taxes.
Ethan raised an eyebrow.
—You pay taxes?
Frank stopped dead, offended.
—What are you doing here, Frank?
Frank blinked, as if the question were absurd.
—Me? I live a rich and complex life, Detective.
Ethan looked at Eddie.
—Does that mean he lives here?
Eddie opened his mouth to answer, but Frank beat him to it. He made a couple of small hops in place, slicked his hair back with a greasy hand, and pointed at the man with exaggerated solemnity.
—This is my friend, Eddie.
Then he turned toward the inside of the house.
—Oh, and this is Sheila.
A middle-aged white woman appeared from the kitchen, holding a spatula in both hands. She had a nervous smile, far too fixed, and greeted Ethan with a small, almost automatic gesture.
—Hello —she said carefully.
Her posture was rigid. Her eyes moved from Ethan to the open door, then back to Ethan, as if the mere presence of a stranger at the entrance made her uncomfortable. Everything about her carried a mixture of forced kindness and anxiety.
Frank, of course, did not seem to notice any of it.
He wrapped an arm around Sheila's waist and smiled with smug satisfaction.
—She is Eddie's wife —he announced—. And my life partner.
The silence that followed was uncomfortable enough that even Ethan needed a second before responding.
He looked at Eddie. Then at Sheila. Then back at Frank.
He definitely did not have the energy to untangle that kind of domestic disaster.
Ethan took a deep breath and decided to completely ignore the obvious complexities of that relationship.
—All right —he said, taking out his notebook again—. Then let's focus on the missing child. Did any of you see anything unusual in front of the Casden house during the last hour? Any vehicle, any stranger, anyone talking to the child… anything at all.
—No.
Eddie did not even flinch at the sight of Frank holding his wife. He simply shook his head, with a calm Ethan found almost concerning.
—I didn't see anything. A cop already came by to ask.
—All right. Thank you for your time.
Ethan closed his notebook and was about to put it away when Frank stopped pretending to be indifferent.
—Wait a minute.
He set the plate of scrambled eggs on the nearest table and approached with quick steps, as if he had just remembered a historic debt.
—You and I have unfinished business.
Ethan looked at him cautiously.
—Us?
—Yes, us.
Frank fixed him with a stare, clenching his teeth with theatrical indignation.
—Don't pretend you don't know… Last time, at the Alibi, you and Kevin cleaned me out. Hundreds of dollars. My money. Money I worked hard for.
He placed a hand over his chest, as if the memory physically hurt him.
Ethan raised an eyebrow.
—Why do you say it like that? —Ethan asked, placing a hand over his own chest in feigned offense—. Aren't we friends?
Frank let out a dry laugh, bitter and exaggerated.
—We are not friends.
—That night, you were the one who invited me to drink.
—Because I thought you were a decent person —Frank snapped, pointing at him—. A man of the people. A fellow barstool brother. Not an undercover agent of the system waiting for the perfect moment to financially ruin me.
—And I am —Ethan replied with complete calm.
—You're a goddamn cop.
Ethan let out a long sigh, as if Frank had wounded him deeply.
—Frank, I'm disappointed that you would reduce my identity to a profession —Ethan corrected—. And saying I scammed you is disrespectful to our friendship.
Frank looked at him as if he had just heard the dumbest thing of the day.
—I just said we're not friends —Frank snapped, immediately pointing at him again.
—Well, then explain something to me —Ethan said, tilting his head—. Weren't you the one who invited me to drink because you saw my clothes, my watch, and my face that said, "this guy probably doesn't check receipts," and thought you'd found a gold mine?
Frank opened his mouth to answer, but for the first time, he took a second too long.
Ethan smiled faintly.
—So, if we're going to talk about scams, technically, you tried to scam me first.
—No, no, no. Don't do that —Frank said, waving a hand in front of his face—. Don't use cop logic on me. That's a dirty tactic.
Frank snapped his fingers, satisfied.
—Now just pay me. Two hundred and fifty-eight dollars total. You can give me two-fifty. The other eight dollars are on me.
Ethan looked at the outstretched hand, then looked at Frank.
—Are you asking me for money in the middle of a missing child investigation?
—I am not asking for money —Frank said, offended—. I am demanding economic compensation for breach of trust, manipulation, and betrayal.
Ethan looked at him for a second, then put away his notebook with deliberate calm.
—Frank, I'm going to pretend this conversation never happened.
Frank narrowed his eyes, pointing at him as if he had just caught a criminal confessing.
—That is exactly what a guilty man would say.
—And you sound exactly like someone who's two sentences away from being arrested for obstruction.
Frank's hand, still extended while waiting for money, immediately lowered.
—Okay, okay… no need to get authoritarian —he muttered, taking half a step back—. I was only trying to open a dialogue about economic justice.
Since he could no longer keep deceiving Ethan and sacrificing himself at Ethan's expense, he might as well recover the money from last time. That would make up for part of his losses.
He knew Frank was shameless.
Nearby, Eddie witnessed the scene and looked at Frank with a mocking expression.
—Hurry up and give me the money.
Frank was insensitive enough not to care about anyone's gaze.
He shook his extended hand several times.
—Two hundred and fifty-eight dollars total. You can give me two-fifty. The other eight dollars are on me.
Ethan smiled faintly, decided it wasn't worth arguing any further, and turned around.
—Take care, Frank.
—Don't tell me to take care! —Frank shouted from inside—. Pay me!
Ethan stepped out onto the porch and closed the door behind him, leaving Frank's protests muffled on the other side of the wood.
—This isn't over! —came the voice from inside the house—. Frank Gallagher does not forget a debt!
Ethan went down the steps with a calm smile while the curses kept echoing from inside. For some reason, walking out of a house with Frank yelling at his back felt almost like a natural farewell in the South Side.
Ring, ring, ring.
His phone rang. He took it out and saw, coincidentally, that it was a call from Fiona.