Twenty-five minutes later, Camille pulled around the corner and onto the street in front of Sam's Bronzeville home.

"Well, well, well," she said aloud.

A large tan SUV filled the no-parking zone in front of Sam's building. Two men in hiking boots, cargo pants, and sunglasses stood between the vehicle and the apartment. Both were white and stood casually, as if trying to appear inconspicuous in a black neighborhood. Looking ahead, Camille saw another vehicle like the first. It was parked just around the corner, and two more white men hovered about. All clearly were armed, but none was doing a very good job of blending in. No crowd had yet gathered, but several neighbors were watching.

She parked the SUV on the far side of the street four doors down.

Camille was on pure adrenalin by then, but took a breath to think. These men knew about Sam, and they knew about his apartment. Did they know about her? She didn't think so. In her fleeting time there, Sam had introduced her to only one person, his landlord, Mr. Buc, who ran a shop around the corner.

"Time to get ballsy," she decided. Picking up her phone, she took a couple of quick and surreptitious photos of the two men and the vehicle parked around the corner and texted them to Philly. Then she got out of the vehicle, locked up, and headed toward Sam's apartment like she belonged there.

Pretending to stop and check her calls, she clicked several pictures of the SUV in front of the apartment, careful to get clear shots of the plate numbers of that vehicle, as she had the other. These she texted to Philly as she walked, ignoring the two men standing outside Sam's building. One appeared as if he might stop her when she turned toward the entrance, but he hesitated.

The man's indecision confirmed her earlier impulse. They're winging this.

Someone had propped open the building's outer door. As she climbed the stairs, thoughts of how she might deal with intruders within raced through her mind. The only clear and effective tactic would be to begin talking and then to call the police. As she reached the landing, she saw that Sam's apartment door, one of two on the second floor, was open.

A sudden, flaring anger seized her at that moment, the type that almost never beset her. Who do these fucking assholes think they are?

The young woman was tall and strong and had studied martial arts since she was a kid, and, stepping through the door, a now fuming Camille didn't break stride as she snatched up Sam's old rotary phone, took three long steps, and smashed it upside the head of a lean young man standing in front of the computer keyboard at which she'd earlier been working.

The man, who'd fumbled to speak at the realization a living Fury was coming toward him, made not a sound before dropping in a heap.

She looked around; they were alone. Out of habit, the detective rolled the man, frisked him, and rapidly went through his pockets. Nothing, not even a wallet. The bloke was young and healthy but didn't have the same bulky, defined musculature of the men outside. Evidently this was some sort of technician.

A few seconds was all the detective needed to formulate a plan. There were four armed men outside, and she needed to move.

She jerked down a small canvas bag from a nearby shelf, emptied the contents, and grabbed Sam's tablet, spare phones, and the stash of cash he'd pointed out to her when they'd arrived. All these went into the bag. Reaching under the desk, she seized the CPU of the computer Philly had arranged to be installed for Sam. That too disappeared into the bag. As neatly as she could, she gathered all the papers on which she had been working and folded them away with the rest.

A loose ceiling panel on the landing outside the front door gave way and provided a quick place to stash the bag and its contents. Back in the apartment, the technician was still breathing but hadn't moved. She glanced outside the window. The two men closest to the building's front gate had come together and were talking. One of the incompetents looked repeatedly up toward the apartment.

Camille dialed 9-1-1 and reported an assault and break in. Sticking her phone back into her pocket, she paused only briefly before opening the window facing the street. It looked as if one of the men was preparing to come upstairs. She wouldn't try to fake a Chicago accent, and she'd been called "boujie" too many times in her life to think she could blend into a working-class or poor neighborhood. But she'd worked patrol for five years in some of the rougher neighborhoods of New York City and knew the kinds of things that people said to attract attention.

She leaned out the window and looked directly at the two men below, one of whom had turned toward the front door.

"Hey, officer," she said in her loudest voice. "Why are you parked outside my friend's apartment?"

Both looked up, and the man moving toward the door stopped.

Yup, winging it, she thought.

"I don't know why you keep harassing us. We haven't done anything. The next time you come here, you had better have a warrant. I just called my lawyer, cause your partner up here forced his way in and assaulted me."

Her words had the desired effect. The men downstairs remained frozen, like two deer in the headlights, not knowing what to do next, whether to advance or to withdraw. The number of people on the street tripled within the first minute of her speaking, and 30 seconds after, the first phones came up to videotape the events. She pulled out her own phone and took several more pictures of the men. Those she texted to Philly.

On her phone were a long line of texts from the woman, each more panicked than the one before.

Camille wrote her back. "Someone took Sam. Call Tommy." It was the first time she outwardly had acknowledged that truth, and a fearful tremble ran through her.

Outside, a city police car pulled up, and the technician was beginning to move as she left the apartment and walked downstairs. By the time she reached the ground level, at least 40 people were standing in the street, and two officers were speaking with the two nearest white men.

She walked up confidently and spoke politely, her badge and credentials already in her hand.

"Excuse me officer," she began as she raised her credentials, "I was the one who called 9-1-1. I'm a New York City Police officer here visiting a friend. When I came back to my friend's apartment a few minutes ago, there was a strange man there, and he attempted to assault me." She cringed not at all at the half-truth.

"The man upstairs is a federal agent," said the nearest intruder, a tall and thickset man with brown hair and sullen eyes. His statement was directed half to Camille and half to the responding patrolman, Officer Kruze.

"So, you have a warrant, then?" she responded politely. She turned to the officer. "I have permission to be in Mr. Babington's apartment. You can ask his landlord, Mr. Buc."

The officer glanced quickly at Camille, up toward Sam's apartment, and back toward Camille again just as swiftly. There was recognition in the young officer's eyes. Sam had a colorful and complex relationship with the Chicago police, and the New York detective hoped that fact would help more than hinder.

She toyed for the briefest of moments with telling the young patrolman about Sam's disappearance but balked. There was no way of knowing how her accusing federal agents of kidnapping a citizen might play out. (If indeed these men truly were federal agents. They so far had produced no warrant or credentials.) Her best bet was to get the man upstairs locked up and hope the scrutiny of a police investigation would lead to his identity, the identities of his fellows, and, ultimately, to their employers. Truth be told, she didn't have any sort of plan and was winging it as much as the intruders were.

The hiking-boot shod intruder further confirmed her assessment when he next opened his mouth. Ignoring Camille, the man addressed the patrol officer in a patronizing tone. "Look, this is part of a sensitive investigation."

That should end well, thought Camille, turning from the intruder. "Officer Kruze, I'd like to file a complaint. And, if we're all professionals, we can sort this all out down at your precinct ... can't we?"

Camille's last words had been in the most helpful tone she could muster, but an uncomfortable look flashed across the face of the hiking-boot man at her mention of the police station. The man looked around, as if seeking some way to extricate himself.

By that time, four additional CPD units had arrived. Among them was a sergeant named Merced, who took Officer Kruze aside to speak. While she waited, Camille remained politely quiet and did everything she could to burn the image of the hiking-boot duo onto her mind.

"So, I understand there's some sort of jurisdictional problem," said the CPD sergeant when she returned a minute later.

Camille handed the woman her open credentials. "I'm just here on vacation. There was a man upstairs who broke into my friend's place and tried to assault me. I don't know who this man is," she said, pointing to hiking-boot suspect number one.

The sergeant looked at Camille's badge and credentials and handed them back. "Kruze, run upstairs and see who's up there." She turned to the alleged federal agent. "Sir, can I see your credentials?"

The officer's words clearly were not a request, and the man handed them over without a word.

"Special Agent Coopersmith, from Homeland Security," the sergeant said as she handed the credentials back. No sooner did she say those words than the technician emerged from the building's front door with Officer Kruze. The left side of the young man's face was swollen and already beginning to change color.

"That's the man who took a swing at me, sergeant," offered Camille. "He didn't present any credentials or show me a warrant."

"Hey, Kruze, bring him over here." The young sergeant looked the technician up and down, a slight smile playing on her lips. "Lemme see your credentials, son."

Coopersmith intervened. "Sergeant, as I was telling your colleague, this is a highly sensitive federal investigation. We really don't have time for ...."

"I have plenty of time, Agent Coopersmith," interjected the sergeant with the first hint of annoyance in her voice. "And I'm still going to need to see your credentials, young man."

The technician moved to speak, but Coopersmith cut him off. "Don't say anything." Clearly, Coopersmith had thought flashing a badge and acting tough would get him out of the area quickly. Now that he'd gone down that road, and it hadn't worked, he was running out of options.

It was increasingly clear that these men weren't federal agents of any kind. A real federal officer simply would've called his supervisor to let him or her sort matters with local authorities. It also had become obvious as Camille listened to the conversation between the sergeant and the faux agent that Coopersmith didn't want to go to the local precinct house.

His fake credentials will only hold up to so much scrutiny, she thought.

Camille took a slight step backwards and realized her back was against the tan SUV in which the men had arrived. Most of the police were busy moving spectators across the street, and the remaining officers were gathered in a scrum around Sergeant Merced and Coopersmith—if that truly was his name. Coopersmith was raising his voice, and the sergeant was politely asking to see his credentials again.

No one was watching Camille.

The young detective glanced at the vehicle, and for the first time, realized the rear passenger window was open. Inside was a black go-bag with its top partly undone.

In a flash of inspiration, she reached into her left rear pocket and recovered Sam's phone; there was still nearly a full charge on it. Turning off the ringer, she took a quick look around and deftly dropped the phone through the top of the go-bag into an empty gap usually reserved for a hydration bladder. She heard the light zip of the phone dropping to the bottom of the bag and, glancing around, realized no one had seen her plant the item.

By that time, a CPD lieutenant had shown up, an older man with a thick jaw and a silver crewcut. He approached, listened to Coopersmith, and then went aside with Merced for a few minutes. Sergeant Merced soon after walked back to the group. Coopersmith had a slight smirk on his face.

"Just wait here for a second," the sergeant told the faux agent.

The lieutenant had walked off a few paces and was speaking on his phone, quietly, but with great animation. After three or four minutes had passed, he returned to the group, where he again spoke quietly. Afterward, Coopersmith flashed a wolfish grin, and Merced turned and walked over to Camille, who deduced Coopersmith's friends around the corner must have made some phone calls.

"This all seems like it's on the up-and-up. Do you still want to press charges?" the sergeant asked.

Camille feigned thought for a few moments. "I'm new around here. If I file a complaint, will it go anywhere?"

Merced rocked her head back and forth slightly. "It's your right," she said finally.

Camille forced a chuckle. The lieutenant had walked up behind Sergeant Merced and stood listening.

"Meh. He fucked up and got the worst of it," said the New York officer. "It isn't the first time somebody's got rough with me. He comes over here and apologizes, and I'm willing to forget the whole business."

Merced was visibly relieved. The lieutenant turned and barked at Coopersmith and the technician. "Get over here." The lieutenant's voice was much louder than it needed to be. He stuck his finger in the middle of Coopersmith's chest and announced nobody was leaving until they both apologized to Camille. The lieutenant's annoyance was palpable.

The fake federal agent looked as if he wanted to bite someone, but he and the technician both apologized grudgingly and promptly departed. The CPD officers left as quickly as they'd come.

As soon as they'd departed, Camille dashed upstairs and grabbed her bags. Out of habit, she checked the apartment to make sure everything was turned off. Attempting to lock the door behind her, she realized the frame around the lock had been split. Instead, she managed only to secure the deadbolt. She recovered the bag with the money and electronics, returned the ceiling panel to its place, and ran down the stairs and out of the building to Sam's SUV.

Along the way, she thought about Sam and felt a choking in her throat. She had no idea where her new friend was, but she was going to find him. When she got in the vehicle, she pulled out her phone. There were several more panicked text-messages from Philly, the last of which read simply, "I can't raise Tommy."

Shit, she thought, fear spreading through her. No. One thing at a time.

After a steadying breath, she dialed Philly. "Okay," she said when the line connected, "where is Sam's phone right now?"