“Where is she, Miller?” I demanded.

My fingers tightened around the leather passenger grip.

“Try the commissioner’s safehouse on Blue Island Avenue,” he said.

“The old brick brownstone near the rail yards.”

“If you get there fast enough, you might find something left.”

The line went dead.

I threw the phone onto the dashboard and looked at Luca.

“Change of plans,” I said.

“Blue Island,” Luca muttered, shifting the SUV into reverse.

The tires spun wildly in the deep snow before grabbing the asphalt.

We surged forward into the white-out.

The wind battered the windshield, throwing thick sheets of snow against the glass.

The streetlights of the Gold Coast faded into a dull, yellow blur behind us.

The drive took twenty minutes through the deserted, freezing streets.

Luca parked two blocks away from the Blue Island address.

The safehouse was a narrow brick building wedged between two empty warehouses.

No lights showed through the boarded-up windows.

I checked my Beretta, pulling the slide back to chamber a round.

Luca did the same with his weapon.

“We go through the back,” I whispered.