The rain had been falling on Chicago for eleven days straight. It fell on the meatpacking district like a judgment, washing the blood from the gutters and carrying it toward the Branch Canal, where it mixed with everything else and disappeared.
I stood in my father's office behind the slaughterhouse on Western Avenue and looked at the hole in the wall. Not a bullet hole — he hadn't been shot, not really. A hole behind the false panel where he kept the books that didn't go in the books. I'd found it three hours after the police finished with the place, long after Detective Marlowe had put on his act about how sorry he was and how we'd...
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