Inside the club, the music had cut out completely.
The usual murmur gave way to a heavy silence. Everyone stood frozen, eyes fixed on the police officers who had just burst into the place.
Neon lights flickered weakly, washing the room in purples and reds. The smell of alcohol, sweat, and cheap perfume hung thick in the air.
Not far from them, a middle-aged bald man stood out without trying. He was wearing a hideous, tight-fitting red two-piece suit, glossy to the point of vulgarity.
Ethan stepped forward.
—Everyone stay calm. We're looking for Adam Mazur —he announced in a firm voice that cut through the silence—. If you're here, come out now and we'll end this quickly.
For a second, no one moved.
The man in the red suit blinked, his smile tightening just a fraction.
Then, when he saw the rest of the team coming in through the main door, panic set in. He shoved the women aside, spun on his heels, and bolted. He stumbled through the tables, knocking over a chair, ignoring the shouts behind him.
The silence shattered instantly.
—There he is! —Antonio shouted as he recognized him.
In a few quick moves, Antonio grabbed the bald man by his clothes and slammed him hard against the bar.
—Where do you think you're going, old friend? —Antonio said, a crooked smile on his face.
Pafff!
Mazur's head smashed violently against the bar, and a second later his body bounced awkwardly onto the floor.
—Please… let me go. I didn't… I didn't do anything —Mazur babbled, his voice breaking.
Antonio seized his arm and twisted it behind his back, forcing him upright.
The bald man clenched his teeth and screamed, his voice thick with pain:
—Let me go, Antonio! I didn't do anything—
Hank stepped closer and asked in a low, heavy voice:
—Where's Nadia?
—Who? —Mazur turned his head, feigning confusion—. I've never heard that name.
—Really?
Antonio didn't answer. He grabbed him with both hands and lifted him off the floor with calculated slowness, wrenching the arm farther back. The shoulder popped; another inch and it would have come out of its socket. Mazur gasped, breath shredded.
—Think carefully —Antonio said softly, dangerously—. This is your last chance.
—Fuck, stop! —Mazur screamed, pain cracking his voice.
With his free hand, Mazur pounded the bar over and over in desperation until he broke.
—All right! All right! —he spat—. Number eight… room eight.
Antonio eased the pressure just enough for him to breathe and looked him straight in the eyes, without a trace of mercy.
—See? That wasn't so hard, was it? —Antonio said, giving him two hard slaps on the back—. Why do you always have to suffer a little before you confess?
—Ethan, Rusek, go find the girl.
Hank raised a hand and jerked his thumb backward.
—Copy that.
Ethan shoved the handcuffed man onto a nearby couch and motioned for Rusek to follow him. He pulled back the curtain, and the narrow hallway flooded with an intense red light.
Rooms lined both sides of the corridor, cramped and poorly lit. Most of the doors were open; as they moved forward, Ethan couldn't help hearing muffled moans and low laughter leaking through the cracks.
Ethan advanced, eyes scanning the numbers carved into the doors, Rusek trailing behind him with obvious discomfort.
—What, you've never been in a place like this? Why are you so nervous? —Ethan asked, glancing around.
—No.
Rusek shook his head.
—You're serious? …It's just sex, get over it —Ethan said, almost amused.
He gave Rusek a reassuring pat on the arm and kept walking, ignoring his unease.
When he reached room number eight, he stopped. He hesitated for a few seconds, weighing the situation. He could have kicked the door in, but he didn't want to scare the girl or give her a chance to run. Carefully, he turned the knob and opened the door.
The inside was a stark contrast to the hallway. Several oil paintings—cheap copies with questionable taste—hung on the walls. The unmistakable scent of massage oil lingered in the air.
On the massage table, a large, hairy man lay face down, completely relaxed. On top of him, a long-haired woman, her skin gleaming with oil, worked her hands in slow, firm motions, focused on her task and oblivious to the intruders.
—Chicago Police… hands where I can see them.
Ethan's voice echoed through the room, shattering the slow rhythm of the massage. The reaction was immediate.
The woman jumped as if shocked, ducking sharply behind the table.
—Ah! —she cried, choking back the scream.
The man twisted in alarm, lifting his head. When he saw the police badge at Ethan's waist, his face drained of color.
—I'm getting a legal massage! —he blurted out immediately, tripping over his words—. Totally legal!
—I believe you, but we're not here for you —Ethan replied calmly.
Without giving him another thought, he turned his head slightly and made a lazy shooing motion with his hand, as if brushing away a fly.
—You have five seconds to put your pants on and get out of here —he said, his tone calm but firm—. Or you can explain to your wife why you got arrested in a strip club. How does that sound?
—I… —the man stammered, swallowing hard.
The black-haired woman, still hiding behind the massage table, opened her mouth to speak, but Ethan cut her off before she could say a word.
—Are you Nadia?
She nodded silently and rose cautiously, briefly exposing her bare backside before straightening completely.
—You're not in trouble. We just want to talk to you —Ethan continued without looking away—.
He pointed to the clothes scattered beside the massage table, since she was still in her underwear.
—Get dressed. Quickly.
Nervous tension filled the room as both of them dressed in a hurry. The man pulled on his pants with trembling hands and, once finished, looked at Ethan with clear unease.
—Get lost.
—Thank you —he replied, almost in a whisper.
He nodded gratefully and headed for the door. Before he could leave, Ethan grabbed him firmly by the shoulder and escorted him out of the room.
—Rusek, you take care of her. When she's done getting dressed, I'll see you outside.
Ethan made a brief hand gesture and turned to leave.
—Got it, no problem —Rusek replied confidently.
He had barely taken a few steps when a sharp scream rang out.
—Ahhh! Shit! Hey—hey, wait! Don't run!
Ethan dropped everything and sprinted back down the hallway, just in time to see the girl bolt out of the room.
—Move, after her!
But when he finally burst inside, the sight made him stop short. Rusek was sprawled on the floor, curled in on himself, clutching his groin. He writhed in pain, rolling from side to side, muffled groans spilling from his throat.
Ethan stared at him for a second, incredulous, then shook his head.
—Idiot.
Ethan muttered a curse under his breath and activated the radar. A single dot was moving fast through the adjacent rooms. Following the direction Rusek pointed to, he shoved open a concealed door beside him.
Behind it was a small storage area. The door slammed shut with a dull thud, and on the radar screen the dot slid rapidly toward the edge. Ethan reacted instantly and took off running, closing the distance fast.
He burst through a side door without slowing and emerged into a narrow, dimly lit alley.
Nadia was running full speed. Dressed in red, she moved in desperate strides; her long black hair streamed behind her as she ran barefoot, splashing through the filthy runoff covering the ground.
If this kept up, she was going to get away. Ethan drew his 9mm and aimed.
Bang!
The sharp crack echoed through the alley, amplified by the tight walls. Two or three meters in front of Nadia, the bullet struck a puddle, sending up a splash that briefly formed a shimmering rainbow before vanishing.
—That was a warning shot. Next one goes into your left knee —he said firmly as he walked toward her.
Nadia froze, one foot planted in the filthy water, the other suspended midair. She struggled to keep her balance; sweat beaded on her forehead, her posture reminiscent of a wounded swan.
—You can put your foot down.
Nadia lowered it and caught her breath.
—We just wanted to talk to you… —Ethan said, raising one hand in a conciliatory gesture— but assaulting a police officer is a crime. You're under arrest.
The woman took a step back, eyes wide. He advanced calmly, pulling the handcuffs from his belt; the metal chimed softly as they clinked together.
—Don't make this harder than it needs to be —he added.
He moved to her side, alert for any sudden movement, and motioned for her to place her hands behind her back. The cuffs closed with a solid click around her wrists.
—I don't… I don't know anything.
Ethan grabbed her arm and shoved her back toward the club.
—Then why did you run? Innocent people don't run.
With no other options, Nadia chose to cooperate and began walking without resistance, head down, shoulders tense.
Rusek, leaning against the hallway wall, let out a breath of relief when he saw Ethan bringing the girl back.
When he looked at Nadia, his glare could have strangled her.
Ethan barely suppressed a smile.
—You want me to call an ambulance?
—No! No, that won't be necessary, Detective.
Rusek shook his head quickly. He didn't want anyone to know—if word got out that a girl had nailed him in the groin, he'd be the laughingstock of the entire precinct.
He'd deal with it himself after his shift.
Ethan and Antonio exchanged a grin and, between the two of them, helped Rusek back to his feet. With Antonio's support, he limped toward the door.
—Do you have clothes? —Ethan asked.
He glanced at Nadia walking beside him. Her body was still slick with oil, and the thin linen dress clung to her skin, outlining every curve. It was quite a sight—but there was no need to humiliate her.
—Yes… in the closet —she replied, averting her gaze, aware of how she looked.
Ethan opened the closet and found a small travel bag. He pulled out a coat and draped it over her shoulders.
—Thank you.
Nadia sniffed and forced a small smile.
—Let's go.
Ethan gripped her firmly by the shoulders and led her out. Outside, chaos ruled: Hank had called for backup, and patrol officers were already spread throughout the club.
Back at the precinct, Ethan handed Nadia over to Erin first. Then he stopped at a nearby store and bought a large bag of ice; he couldn't help but feel sorry for Rusek.
In the locker room, Rusek was lying stretched out on a bench, wearing only his boxers. Ethan tossed him the bag.
—Aren't you worried a female officer might walk in?
—Thank God —Rusek groaned, settling the ice in place—. Right now, I don't care about anything… I think I'm actually going to see a doctor. My testicles are starting to swell.
—Oh, shut up —Ethan cut him off—. I don't need the details.
Rusek gasped a few times before adding:
—Seriously, man… Wendy and I want kids. If something goes wrong, I swear I'll break that woman's neck—
—Wendy?
—Sss! —Rusek grimaced into a painful smile—. Yeah. She's my fiancée.
They were interrupted a moment later.
—Let's check on this idiot —Antonio commented as he walked in—. Want a souvenir photo?
—Please, no —Rusek begged—. I've suffered enough.
—Consider it a lesson —Ethan said—. Never underestimate women, especially pretty ones. Trust me, I know a couple who could take you down.
Rusek said nothing. He squeezed his eyes shut, focusing on enduring the pain, and clumsily pressed the ice pack tighter, as if it were the only thing holding him together.
Antonio glanced at Ethan.
—Come on. We'll be questioning Nadia soon.
They left the locker room and headed upstairs together. Hank was in the observation room and, when he saw them come in, he asked:
—How's Rusek?
—He'll live… —Antonio replied with a shrug.
Hank shook his head and turned his attention to the interrogation room.
Nadia had already showered at Erin's place. Without makeup, her face looked younger; the dark circles under her eyes gave her a tired look and, at the same time, made her seem almost innocent.
—Nadia DeCotis.
Erin sat across from her, separated only by the metal table. She rested her forearms on its surface and studied her carefully before speaking.
—Tell me about Dean Masters. What do you know about him?
Nadia held her gaze for only a moment. Then she leaned back in her chair, crossed her arms, and adopted an indifferent expression.
—I don't know anyone by that name.
The tone was cold, almost automatic, though the slight tremor of her knee under the table betrayed the nerves she was trying to hide.
—Oh… are you sure? Because we know you were his favorite girl, weren't you?
—I only saw him two or three times.
Erin offered a faint smile, as if that answer confirmed something she already expected.
Nadia glanced at her sideways. Though she was slouched and pretending not to care, her body language made it clear she was terrified.
Erin kept her voice calm and continued pressing patiently, letting the silence do part of the work.
Still, the girl offered nothing useful. Nadia was playing games—dodging every question, shutting down with irony and empty answers that went nowhere.
On the other side of the glass, Ethan watched with growing impatience. For his taste, Erin was being too soft. Her approach was conservative; he could see it in her eyes—he knew she felt compassion for the girl.
—I'll talk to her.
—Go ahead.
Hank nodded.
When the interrogation room door opened, Erin was still trying to get Nadia to cooperate, but she wouldn't budge. Noticing someone enter, Nadia turned her head, a flash of panic in her eyes.
Bang!
Ethan slammed the folder onto the table, making it shake and unintentionally echoing the earlier gunshot. He then pulled out photos from the shooting at Dean's house—one clearly showing a gunshot wound to Dean's face—and laid them side by side in front of her.
—Sit up straight. You're not at home.
—Now tell us what you know about Dean Masters —Erin continued, never breaking eye contact—. Where did he get his money? Who were his partners? Who wanted him dead?
She paused briefly and lowered her voice.
—Come on, Nadia. We just want to help you.
Faced with the cold-eyed man, Nadia shivered. She straightened quickly. From her expression, Erin deduced she was going through withdrawal—she wouldn't stop trembling or licking her lips.
—What are you using?
—Cocaine? Heroin? Fentanyl?
—I don't know what you're talking about.
Nadia hunched slightly in her chair, scanning the room before speaking.
—Just tell us what you know about Masters…
Erin's lips curved into a faint, calculated smile.
—In exchange, we'll get you something for those symptoms.
Nadia's eyes lit up with a flicker of anxious hope. Then she glanced at Ethan, interest and caution mixed together.
—Just tell us what you know —Erin pressed.
Nadia hesitated for a second.
—Dean never told me anything. He was almost always alone… but I heard a name. He said it a few times when he was on the phone. There was a guy named Noel Harris. He has a shop on Polk Street. He was Dean's friend… his supplier.
—Good. That wasn't so hard, was it? —Ethan said, closing the folder—. Lind, take care of her.
Erin didn't reply. She simply nodded, already standing, while Nadia lowered her gaze, knowing the game was over.
With the lead finally in hand, Ethan and Hank wasted no time. They left immediately and headed for the address she'd given.
Not long after they set off, Hank's phone rang. He answered without a word and didn't hang up until they pulled over.
—Halstead's in trouble —Hank said, shaking his head before letting out a sigh.
—What? What do you mean? —Ethan asked, frowning.
Wasn't that guy supposed to be recovering from his injuries? What kind of mess had he gotten into now?
—His ex-girlfriend's brother was murdered a few years ago. The case was never solved, and the killer was never found. Since then, Halstead's been harassing the main suspect.
Hank slapped the steering wheel, exhausted.
—The guy's family sued him and got a restraining order.
He paused before adding:
—The chief called me a few minutes ago. He wants me to keep an eye on Halstead and make sure he stops bothering the family, or they'll press charges—and that could end his career.
They got out of the car and started walking. Still confused, Ethan asked:
—What happened?
Hank spoke as they moved.
—He was just a kid. He was raped and murdered in the woods behind his house. The main suspect was a neighbor from the same block, but we could never prove it.
—A pedophile?
—Halstead couldn't let it go, and we tried to help him. But the other side stayed well protected. There's no evidence, and on top of that, the suspect is a minor, so… there wasn't much we could do without solid proof.
Ethan frowned but said nothing more until they reached their destination.
Hank looked up at the sign and placed his hand on the glass door handle. Ignoring the Closed sign hanging there, he opened it and went inside.
The shop, dedicated to sports collectibles, was packed with cards, trinkets, and clothing. The décor was peculiar, with a discreet touch of luxury that contrasted with the apparent clutter.
—Anyone here? —Hank called out.
He stepped up to the counter and pressed the call button.
—Ring, ring.
—Mr. Harris?
He tried several times, but there was no response.
Ethan turned and scanned the shop. Behind a display case, a pair of leather shoes stood neatly aligned on the floor.
—Damn…
Ethan hissed under his breath and drew his pistol. Seeing that, Hank pulled his Glock just as quickly, and both men advanced slowly toward the back of the shop.
Checking the radar, only their own blips appeared; no one else was nearby.
Ethan lowered his weapon and approached the shoes.
—Looks like someone got to him first…
The owner of the shoes lay sprawled in a pool of blood. From his appearance, there was no doubt he was the man they were looking for; the dull tone of his skin showed he'd been dead for some time.
Hank holstered his Glock and spoke in a grim voice:
—That's probably why Masters was so scared. He came here, saw his partner dead, and thought he was next.
—Yeah —Ethan muttered— I'd be just as paranoid after doing that much coke and finding my friend dead.
Hank shrugged and pressed the intercom.
—This is Sergeant Hank Voight, badge number 32419. A crime scene has been located. Have patrol units take over.
After giving the address, he hung up.
—Check the security cameras and see if there's anything that gives us a clue about who killed him or why.
Ethan nodded and pulled a pair of disposable gloves from his pocket.
Scanning the room, he spotted the security cameras and headed straight for the front desk. The computers weren't locked, so he quickly accessed the surveillance system.
He rewound the footage one day back, hit pause, then resumed playback.
Seconds later, three hooded men shoved open the glass door and entered the store. They were completely covered, leaving no visible features that could identify them.
Two of them went straight to the counter. Harris, who had been sitting exactly where Ethan now stood, reacted instantly and tried to get up to run. He didn't get far. The intruders anticipated the move and raised their guns at the same time, aiming precisely and forcing him to freeze.
At the same time, the man who stayed by the door flipped the sign to "Open."
Ethan hit the space bar, finally catching a lead. He pulled out his phone and snapped a photo of the screen.
Although the men were well covered and wearing gloves, when they raised their weapons the color of their skin was visible. All three were African American—not a particularly useful lead, but at least they weren't completely in the dark.
The video continued. Harris was forced at gunpoint to the back of the store by two of them. He was saying something, almost begging, but his words were lost; seconds later, he was shot without hesitation.
Some time later, two of the three hooded men left the place the same way they had entered.
The recording advanced to the moment Ethan and Hank walked into the store. During that entire span, no one else appeared.
Ethan stopped the video and began checking the drawers behind the counter. He didn't find much: a few worthless items and two small bags of cocaine.
He carefully pocketed the powder; it might be useful later.
Then he went back over to Hank.
—Three Black men. They came in and left fast. There's nothing else —he said—. What about you?
Hank was rummaging through the trash can.
He muttered:
—Hold on a second.
A moment later, he walked over to a table and dropped several green scraps of paper onto it.
Hank studied the scattered pieces for a few seconds before speaking.
—I think I know why they wanted Masters dead —he said at last—. And it has nothing to do with the stolen paintings.
—What do you mean? —Ethan asked.
—Look at this.
Hank picked up several of the paper scraps from the trash. He tried tearing them between his fingers; they barely gave, with an unusual resistance.
—Do you know why money doesn't fall apart in the washing machine? —Hank continued.
He pulled a twenty-dollar bill from his pocket and tore it slightly, just enough to show the fibers.
—Because it's not ordinary paper —Hank went on—. It's made from an exact blend of cotton and linen fibers. That's why it doesn't disintegrate, and why it's more durable.
He pointed to a stack of jeans piled in a corner of the store.
—Same material as that.
Ethan rubbed the bill and the paper scraps between his palms. The texture was almost identical: firm, flexible, precisely made.
—This is very good work. I can barely tell the difference —he murmured.
—Exactly —Hank nodded—. This guy knew what he was doing. Most people wouldn't even know where to start.
Then he gestured toward the body lying on the floor.
—Looks like Masters and Harris were a team. Harris handled the raw material—the paper —Hank said, scanning the room— and Masters did the rest: the plates, the engravings, the fine line work. With his talent, making a few undetectable plates wouldn't have been hard.
—Damn, looks like we stumbled onto a counterfeiting ring… —he continued without hesitation— but look around. What's missing?
Ethan looked around, trying to follow Hank's train of thought, until it clicked.
—The plates are gone —he said quietly—. And the molds. The negatives too.
Hank nodded slowly.
—Exactly. They knew what to look for.
He stepped closer to Harris's body and examined the wound—clean, quick.
—They made him talk first. Then they killed him.
At last, the puzzle was starting to come together.
—We must have missed something at Masters's house.
—I'll stay here. Call Olinsky and Antonio and have them go back and recheck Masters's place. I'm sure we'll find something.
Hank slapped the table.
—Got it.
Ethan pulled out his phone and left immediately. Twenty minutes later, he took a taxi to Masters's house.
Since it was still a crime scene, the area remained taped off. He lifted the police tape and went inside; the bloodstains from the night before were still visible on the living room floor.