—And the clothes? Any personal items? —Gradishar pressed, not taking a single step back—
The forensic examiner shook her head.
—Nothing, Sergeant. The body was completely naked when we recovered it. The killer may have removed them… or someone else took them afterward. Vagrants, onlookers. At this point, it is impossible to know for certain.
Gradishar clicked her tongue, frustrated.
—Too clean…
A detective wearing latex gloves stepped forward, gesturing toward the taped-off perimeter.
—Whoever did this knew exactly what they were doing. No prints, no fibers, no visible traces. Not even clear drag marks.
—Damn it… —Gradishar growled, rubbing the back of her neck—
Hank watched the scene from a few steps away, his hands in his coat pockets. He lifted his eyes to Gradishar and gave a barely perceptible smile.
—Or maybe they weren't trying to hide, —he said—. Maybe they wanted to send a message.
Gradishar looked at him.
—To whom?
—Fitori's associates, —Hank replied—. Someone went out of their way to make sure his killer would never talk again.
The silence that followed was thick, uncomfortable. The lake lay still, reflecting the red and blue lights of the patrol cars.
Gradishar clenched her jaw.
—Then this ends here.
—That's right, —Hank nodded—. There's no point pushing a case that's already closed itself.
Little by little, members of the Intelligence Unit began to withdraw. The forensic team took charge of the body, preparing it for transport. As far as they were concerned, the file was complete.
Ethan took one last look at the lake before turning away.
When Gradishar passed by Antonio, she dropped the order coldly.
—My office. Now.
The tone allowed no discussion.
Internal Affairs Office
Antonio, holding a folder, gently set it on Gradishar's desk. It was exactly what she had handed him that morning; now it was returning to its rightful owner.
Gradishar slammed the door shut, furious.
—Detective Dawson! —she roared—. What the hell happened? I thought we had a deal.
She stepped forward, her face flushed, her features twisted with anger.
—And what did you give me? Nothing. Absolutely nothing.
She slammed her palm on the desk.
—You couldn't deliver a single useful thing, and thanks to that, my superior called me in to chew me out.
She raised a finger, trembling with rage.
—He made it very clear that I am not to interfere with the Intelligence Unit again.
—You made me look like… like a damn fool.
Facing her outburst, Antonio looked at her coolly.
It wasn't until Gradishar shut her mouth and walked toward the window that he spoke, his voice low and quiet.
—I'm actually very curious why you came to me, —Antonio said calmly—. After all these years.
Gradishar looked up, uneasy.
—It seems you forgot about me completely, didn't you?
—Forget you? —Gradishar replied, waving a hand irritably—. Why would I remember you?
Antonio didn't answer right away. He stepped closer, forcing her to meet his gaze.
—You don't remember me, —he said at last— But I remember you.
Gradishar frowned.
—A few years ago, —Antonio continued—, you were new to Internal Affairs—you remember that—and you wanted to prove yourself.
He took another step, stopping directly in front of her.
—You investigated my partner. Sean Patterson.
The name fell between them like a heavy object.
—You may have even forgotten his name, —he added.
Gradishar opened her mouth, but no words came out. Her expression went blank—no clear memory, only an uneasy feeling.
—You investigated him for alleged issues with overtime pay, —Antonio went on—, and for some administrative paperwork he handled himself. He had already admitted he filled it out incorrectly —he emphasized—. Mistakes. Nothing more.
Antonio stopped. He didn't need to move any closer.
—But you kept pushing anyway. You wanted to make an example out of him.
The silence stretched. This time, it was Gradishar who seemed out of place, trying to piece together a past she no longer controlled.
Antonio stepped even closer, looking her straight in the eyes.
—Those kinds of things are minor administrative errors. But you tried to use them to make a name for yourself, turning my partner into a target.
—That's how you work. It's always been that way. And this time it's the same, isn't it? You want to step on Hank to move up, using him as a stepping stone.
—I don't know what you're talking about.
Gradishar adjusted her coat, hands on her hips, feigning calm.
—The harder the union representative defended my partner, the harsher you became, —Antonio continued.
Antonio clenched his fists; anger burned in his eyes.
—You cost him his pension and his job. A year later, he put a bullet in his head.
Gradishar's hands began to tremble; she avoided Antonio's gaze.
—A wife lost her husband.
Antonio slammed the folder down on the desk.
—Children lost their father. All because you wanted to climb the ladder, bitch. You have no idea what good cops have given—or the sacrifices we've made—for this job!
Antonio pointed at Gradishar's nose and roared:
—You're nothing but a bitch who climbs by stepping on other people's heads!
—Whatever Hank's flaws may be, he's a thousand—ten thousand—times the cop you are. So go to hell, Erica.
Antonio turned, opened the door, and walked out.
Inside the office, Gradishar's face was red, her hands shaking uncontrollably.
—Ahhhh!
A scream of frustration tore through the door and echoed down the hallway.
Antonio's footsteps were light, almost carefree; there was a smile in his eyes.
After seeing that everything had been resolved without incident, Ethan and the others returned to the precinct.
With the matter closed, he gathered his things and got ready to head home.
—Ethan, wait a moment.
Hank stepped out of his office.
—Your days off have been approved. You've got three days. Enjoy them.
—Huh?
Ethan thought for a moment and raised a finger.
—Damn it, do you know how jealous I am of you? —Ruzek said, turning his head—
Hank looked at Ruzek.
—You want time off, too?
—No!
Ruzek shook his head quickly.
—I don't want to!
After Hank went back into his office, Ruzek added enviously:
—For this season, I recommend Chestnut Hill Ski Resort.
—Trust me, you can't go wrong.
—I agree.
Erin, on the other side, had been listening closely and nodded enthusiastically.
—Skiing, sauna, jacuzzi… my God, it's been ages since I've gone out to have fun.
The two recommendations piqued Ethan's interest.
—What kind of place is that?
Erin rolled her eyes.
—It's just a resort.
—Where is it? Is it far?
—About a three-hour drive, —Ruzek waved a hand—. It's close, and the natural scenery is incredible.
After doing a bit of research online, he discovered that Chestnut Mountain Resort was a tourist destination near a small town called Galena. The place had once been considered one of the most beautiful towns in the United States, so he booked a luxury cabin for two days.
O'Hare Airport was full of movement and overlapping voices. Screens flickered with schedules, and suitcases rolled across the floor. Nola's visit had been postponed for a long time, and now it had finally come together.
Ethan waited beside one of the columns, wearing a thick sweater and a dark beanie pulled low over his eyebrows. His hands were in his pockets, his gaze fixed on the passenger exit, scanning unfamiliar faces… until he saw her.
Nola appeared in the crowd as if no one else existed.
She wore a light-colored coat down to her knees, a scarf wrapped around her neck, and her hair loose and slightly tousled from the trip. Her eyes shone with an energy impossible to hide.
—Ethan!
She didn't walk. She ran.
Before he could fully react, Nola threw herself at him, wrapping her arms around his neck. The impact almost made him step back.
—Hey! —Ethan laughed, grabbing her around the waist to keep his balance—
—I told you I missed you, —she replied, not letting go—
Ethan shook his head, still smiling, as if he wasn't quite sure what to say. Nola didn't give him time.
She leaned in and kissed him without ceremony—quick, direct.
—You're still the same, —she said as she pulled back.
—Liar, —Ethan replied—
They pulled back just enough to look at each other. Nola looked him over from head to toe, evaluating him calmly.
—Look at you, —she said— You look more mature.
—Is that a criticism?
—No, —she denied—. It's an observation.
Ethan shrugged.
—The cold ages you.
Nola smirked and gave him a light shove with her shoulder.
—Come on. Before I freeze.
Ethan grabbed the keys and started walking with her, carrying her luggage, without saying anything else. There was no need.
They walked together toward the parking lot. The cold hit the moment they stepped outside; their breath turned visible immediately. Ethan pulled out the keys and pointed to a Subaru 4x4 parked nearby.
—Where are we going? I thought we'd be staying at your place, —Nola asked, rubbing her hands together.
—We're getting out of the city. Spa resort, mountains. I rented a cabin for both of us.
Nola's eyes lit up.
—A spa? You planned this?
—Surprised?
They got into the vehicle. The engine purred softly as the heater began to fill the interior. Nola settled into the seat, stretching her legs with a satisfied sigh.
The car moved smoothly down the freeway, the city lights falling away behind them in a blurred trail. Ethan drove with one hand on the wheel, the other resting near the gearshift, relaxed.
Nola leaned back in the passenger seat, barefoot, legs tucked up, watching Ethan's profile as if she were rediscovering him.
—How are things in Banshee? —he asked, eyes still on the road.
—You know… the usual, —she replied—. Boring, by Banshee standards. The casino's been doing well. Your friend Job has helped us a lot with security and surveillance systems. Honestly, bringing him in was the right call. So… thanks for that.
Ethan smiled faintly.
—Glad to hear it. After all, I'm a partner too, —he said casually—. I have to look after my investments… and my girl.
Nola let out a short laugh and turned her face toward him.
—Wow, —she said, heavy with sarcasm—. You've gotten romantic.
—Chicago's been good for me, —he replied with a shrug.
—Uh-huh… —Nola looked him up and down— And how's your life here? What's it like being a detective?
—It's good. Can't complain, —Ethan answered— You know, catching bad guys has always been my weakness.
Nola pursed her lips, as if calculating something.
—And have you met anyone? —she asked, in a tone too casual to really be casual.
Ethan raised an eyebrow and glanced at her for a second before returning his eyes to the road.
—Why? Jealous?
—Oh, come on, —she said, lifting her hands— You know I play the long game. I don't mind if you have a little fling here.
Ethan let out a low chuckle.
—Wow… that's the sexiest thing anyone's said to me in a long time.
—Come on, —Nola insisted—. Tell me her name. She probably works with you.
—Yeah, —he admitted—. She works with me. Her name's Erin Lindsay. She's a great detective.
Without Ethan noticing, Nola already had her phone in her hand. As soon as she heard the name, she started searching. She'd never been shy.
She preferred to face things head-on. She knew Ethan would end up going back to Banshee sooner or later, and she also knew that if anyone could stand by him without fearing his darkness, it was her.
So it didn't bother her if he got distracted in the meantime.
—Mmm… —she murmured, looking at the screen— She's cute. Totally your type.
—Wow, —Ethan turned his head for a moment—. That was fast.
—What can I say? —she replied, smiling—. I like to know the competition.
Ethan shook his head, amused.
—Forget it. This weekend it's just you and me.
—Ha. —Nola turned off the phone and set it on the console— Fine. I won't bug you about her… besides, I want you to only see me these days. So forget the blonde.
Ethan twisted the radio knob slightly, and the silence was replaced by the first notes of classic rock—a clean guitar followed by an unmistakable melody. Paul McCartney's voice filled the car.
Nola smiled without looking at him.
—Of course… McCartney. —She shook her head— I should've guessed.
—What's wrong with him? —Ethan said—
—Nothing.
Ethan let out a low laugh and kept driving. Nola rested her elbow on the window, letting a hint of cold air slip in.
The distance between Chicago and Galena was over two hundred kilometers.
More than three hours later, Ethan drove calmly into town as the last light of sunset slid across the windshield. Nola was awake, her feet up on the dashboard, classic rock playing softly in the background.
—Not bad at all, —she commented, looking out the window—
—Technically it's a small town, —Ethan replied—. But compared to Banshee, this is practically a metropolis.
Galena appeared before them with unexpected charm. Clean streets, well-preserved old buildings, brick façades, antique shops and tourist stores lined up as if time had stopped.
—But something doesn't feel right, —Nola said—. Like it's trying too hard to seem calm.
—That's never a good sign, —Ethan murmured.
They passed a small but crowded restaurant. Through the window, a warm, elegant interior could be seen—dark wood, yellow lights.
Ethan slowed down.
—I'm hungry.
—That's not news, —Nola shot back— You've been growling for the last twenty kilometers.
Ethan laughed and looked for parking. He finally found a spot on a corner and parked the car.
When they got out, the cold air hit their faces. Ethan locked the car, spinning the keys in his hand.
—Let's go in.
When he opened the glass door, the restaurant wrapped around them with noise and movement. Waitresses in blue shirts and black aprons moved back and forth with steaming coffee pots. The place was full, but cozy.
Ethan spotted a table in the corner, with a clear view of the whole room.
A blonde waitress approached with a wide smile.
—What can I get you?
—Any recommendations? —Ethan asked—
—If you're hungry, the eggs with bacon and hash browns are the most popular. And the pancakes with maple syrup are also a big hit around here, —she said with a quick smile.
She lowered her voice, playful.
—Then bring us that… and two coffees, —Nola cut in—
—Right away.
As the waitress walked off, Nola looked at him with a half-smile.
—A little more and she'd throw herself at you. You can stop flirting for one day.
—It's not intentional, —Ethan replied—
—Sure.
The coffee arrived quickly. The aroma was strong, pleasant.
—I was just being nice. Next time you talk, —Ethan said after the first sip—
The plates began arriving one after another. It wasn't hard to see why the place was full: the food was good.
While Ethan ate, Nola kept watching a customer who had just come in. A Black man, leather jacket, calm movements. He sat in the opposite corner, with a full view of the place.
—That guy, —she murmured—. Don't you think he's strange?
Ethan looked up just enough to meet his eyes. The man held the gaze a second too long, then lifted a newspaper and pretended to read.
—Small tourist towns, —Ethan said quietly—. They always attract weird people.
—I guess you're right.
They finished eating. Ethan lifted his empty cup.
—Another coffee, please?
The waitress returned, smiling.
—This one's on the house.
She poured the last of the pot and set the cup down. Nola noticed something: a small folded note under the plate.
—If I were jealous, I'd smash that bitch's face, —she whispered.
Ethan smiled, crumpling the note without reading it.
He took a big sip.
His expression changed instantly.
—What the hell…?
A strange, metallic smell ruined the taste. He swallowed on reflex and felt something solid slide down his throat.
—Shit.
—What happened? —Nola asked.
—There was something in the coffee… I swallowed it.
He stood up abruptly and went to the counter.
—Excuse me, —he said, holding himself back— I think there was something strange in the coffee.
The waiter looked at the empty pot. His smile took a second too long to return.
—I don't know what you're talking about.
Ethan held his gaze. A bitter taste rose in his throat, along with sudden nausea.
—Maybe it was my imagination, —he murmured, looking away— The coffee tasted… off.
Nola was already putting on her coat.
—Let's go, —she said quietly—. It was probably nothing, maybe old coffee residue.
The waiter shrugged.
—If you want another cup…
—No, thanks, —Ethan cut in.
They paid quickly. Outside, the cold hit them hard as they pushed through the door and walked away without looking back.
Just after crossing the threshold, Ethan stopped.
—I don't like this, —Nola murmured.
The man in the leather jacket was gone. At the end of the street, they saw him disappear into an alley. A bus passed slowly behind them.
—Maybe it was just paranoia.
But then he saw it. Reflected in a shop window: a green Volvo, moving slowly.
—Ethan… —Nola whispered.
—I see it.
He stopped dead.
—Stay behind me.
—Not a chance.
A sharp sound cut through the air.
Puff.
The Volvo's windshield exploded with blood.
—Get down! —Ethan shouted.
Another shot. A small crater appeared in the brick wall.
He dove behind a steel trash bin, pulling out his Glock.
—What the hell… —he whispered—
Pedestrians scattered, not understanding what was happening. In the reflection of a storefront, Ethan caught the glint—metal, unmistakable. A rifle.
He lifted his head for just a second. On the rooftop, a silhouette stood out against the gray sky. Someone wanted them dead.
Mexican traffickers? Some Chicago mobster? Or any of the enemies he'd piled up over the years? The possibilities crashed into each other as his mind raced.
—Do you see him? —Nola asked.
—Yeah… clock tower, about two hundred meters.
The figure jumped, closing in on the shooter. Overlapping shadows.
Ethan shifted position and peeked out slightly.
His pupils constricted.
The Black man from the restaurant stood behind the railing. He grabbed the sniper's head… and with a brutal twist, snapped his neck.
The body fell without a sound.
The man looked up. His eyes met Ethan's.
First, surprise. Then a knowing smile, as he mimed a gun with his fingers.
Nola tightened her grip on Ethan's arm.
—What the hell is going on?
—I don't know, —he replied, without looking away—