The heavy glass exit doors swung open, and cold morning air rushed into the hallway as the officers steered them both toward the elevators.

I walked past the empty reception desk and went out to my truck without taking off my coat.

The drive didn’t take long, just twenty minutes down through the oak trees to the back lane behind the Highland Park restaurant.

Rebecca was sitting on a green wooden crate by the grease trap in her worn black work shoes, holding a sweater tight around her chest.

I brought the truck to a stop beside the kitchen doors and stepped down into the alley.