CHAPTER EIGHT
Halfway to Aaron Polanski’s office, my cell phone rang. We were in the middle of downtown traffic at the intersection of Rhodes and Wilmot when it rang. It was snowing slightly. The white fluff somehow made the stabbing flare of red brake lights around us glow almost like momentary flashes of red neon wonder.
Traffic, at this time of night, was almost at a standstill. Cars and buses surrounded us. But we hadn’t glimpsed a gray Porsche Turbo.
Not yet.
“It’s our man,” I said, checking the caller ID before flipping the phone open and raising it to my ear. “Good evening, Counselor. We’re on our way to your office to see you.”
“Detective, I can’t get in contact with my brother Hiram. I go over to his house and I find yellow tape everywhere and a patrol car parked in front of
