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probably find him
attractive, with his short dark hair that was as boyishly rumpled
as his shirt, with his distracted air, piercing brown-green eyes,
skin that looked as if it had been dusted with gold.
    "Okay," he said, seeming to arrive at some
kind of decision. "Come into my office."
    Once inside, he grabbed a phone book that was
so big she would have had to hold it with two hands. He dropped it
on his cluttered desk and began tearing through the pages.
    "What's your price range?"
    She mumbled a figure she thought
adequate.
    "Not in this city," he said as if to further
underscore how little she was in touch with the real world.
    She knew that the building they were in
wasn't all that old, having opened in the early eighties, when Jane
Byrne was mayor. But for some reason his cramped office had the
feel of all old buildings—of being a little off-center, a little
warped by time, a place where eras collided. Chicago had witnessed
the rise and fall of Al Capone, who, when compared to the sick,
twisted Madonna Murderer, seemed almost a nice man just making a
living.
    While Ivy was dwelling on Chicago and how
much it had seen, Max Irving was barking into the telephone,
jotting down numbers and addresses on a yellow tablet. He hung up,
tore the top sheet from the tablet, and announced, "Found you a
couple of places. Rent by the week. You can have a pet, but it'll
cost extra."
    She put out her hand for the paper, but he
ignored it. "They're not far from here. I'll take you."
    "That's totally unnecessary."
    He still wouldn't give her the paper with the
addresses. Five minutes ago, he'd seemed eager to get her out of
his hair. He would have been ecstatic if she'd told him she was
leaving the country. Now he was going to help her find an
apartment. Why?
    "I'll fill you in on the case on the
way."
    She gathered up poor Jinx, who was still in a
highly sedated state from the drugs the vet had given Ivy.
    "Pretty mellow cat," he said, looking at Jinx
lolling in the corner of the cage.
    "Isn't that what they always say?" she asked.
"He seemed like a nice guy. Quiet. Kept to himself."
    At first she could see that he didn't know
she was kidding. Then he smiled even though it was fairly obvious
he didn't want to. "You Canadians think you're pretty damn funny,
don't you?"
    She shrugged. "Best comedians come from
Canada."
    He was thinking about arguing, but then she
saw defeat cross his features.
    She smiled back at him. Americans had a hard
edge. Interacting with them was like remembering how to ride a
bike. You might be a little wobbly at first, but you could pick it
up again pretty easily.
    Max gathered up the Sheppard case file in its
brand- new, stiff and slick manila folder, complete with eight-
by-ten color photos of the crime scene, then grabbed the Madonna
Murders file in its soft-sided, fingerprint- stained folder, wound
a huge rubber band around both, latching them together, then tucked
the whole mess under his arm.
    "No suitcase?" he asked Dunlap, looking
around the hallway, not seeing anything.
    "Left it at the front desk."
    "How long have you known Superintendent
Sinclair?" he asked as they walked down the hallway. He should have
offered to carry the animal crate, but he'd be damned if he was
going to trot around with a cat.
    "A long time," she said.
    An elusive answer. "Years?"
    "Yes."
    "Where'd you meet?"
    "I can't remember. It seems I've always known
him. Have you ever felt that way about someone?"
    Max didn't answer. Besides, it was a
rhetorical question.
    They passed the front desk where phones were
ringing, people were conversing, computers were humming. A
prostitute in handcuffs was led past them. A street person was
crying, begging to be allowed to go home and feed his cats.
    "In just a minute, Mr. Van Horn." The clerk
looked up at Max and his companion, and shot Max a questioning
look. Max just shrugged and rolled his eyes.
    "This yours?" Max asked, indicating a black,
canvas suitcase with a paper airline tag around the