Chicago’s V. I. Warshawski confronts crooked politicians and buried family secrets in this gritty  mystery from  New York Times bestselling author Sara Paretsky.   No one would accuse V. I. Warshawski of backing down from a fight, but she’d happily avoid tangling with Chicago political bosses. Yet that’s what she ends up doing when she responds to a plea for help from an old high school flame, Frank Guzzo.   Frank’s mother Stella was convicted of killing his kid sister, but now that she’s out of prison, she’s looking for exoneration. Even though the Warshawskis and Stella never got along, V. I. agrees to make a few inquiries after she sees how hard life has been on Frank and her other childhood friends.   Only, that small favor leads her straight into the vipers’ nest of Illinois politics—and soon her main question isn’t about Stella’s case but whether or not she’ll make it out of this investigation alive... A  Washington Post  Best Mystery of 2015 Praise for Brush Back “Truthfully drawn and mercilessly insightful.”— The New York Times Book Review   “[An] unquenchable need to know whodunit.”— Chicago Tribune   “Paretsky’s plotting is always ingenious.”— Los Angeles Times “An old-school crime-writing pro.”— The Boston Globe “One of the most-loved characters in crime fiction.”— Booklist  (starred review) More Praise for Sara Paretsky and the V. I. Warshawski series “Sara Paretsky’s Chicago private eye, V. I. Warshawski, is one tough cookie.”— The New York Times Book Review “One of our genre’s crucial, solid-gold, best-ever series. Paretsky is a genius.”—Lee Child “V.I. Warshawski is one of my all-time favorite investigators.”—Lisa Gardner “For me, the most remarkable of the moderns is Sara Paretsky.”—P.D. James “No one, male or female, writes better P.I. books than Paretsky.”— The Denver Post “Paretsky's books are beautifully paced and plotted, and the dialogue is fresh and smart...V.I. Warshawski is the most engaging woman in detective fiction.”— Newsweek Sara Paretsky is the New York Times bestselling author of the renowned V.I. Warshawski novels. Her many awards include the Cartier Diamond Dagger Lifetime Achievement Award from the British Crime Writers' Association and the 2011 Mystery Writers of America's Grand Master Award. She lives in Chicago. I didn’t recognize him at first. He came into my office unannounced, a jowly man whose hairline had receded to a fringe of dark curls. Too much sun had baked his skin the color of brick, although maybe it had been too much beer, judging by those ill-named love handles poking over the sides of his jeans. The seams in the faded corduroy jacket strained when he moved his arms; he must not often dress for business. “Hey, girl, you doing okay for yourself up here, aren’t you?” I stared at him, astonished and annoyed by the familiarity. “Tori Warshawski, don’t you know me? I guess Red U turned you into a snob after all.” Tori. The only people who called me that had been my father and my cousin Boom-Boom, both of them dead a lot of years now. And Boom-Boom’s boyhood friends—who were also the only people who still thought the University of Chicago was a leftist hideout. “It’s not Frank Guzzo, is it?” I finally said. When I’d known him thirty years and forty pounds ago, he’d had a full head of red-gold hair, but I could still see something of him around the eyes and mouth. “All of him.” He patted his abdomen. “You look good, Tori, I’ll give you that. You didn’t turn into some yoga nut or a vegan or something?” “Nope. I play a little basketball, but mostly I run the lakefront. You still playing baseball?” “With this body? Slow-pitch sometimes with the geriatric league. But my boy, Frankie Junior, Tori, I got my fingers crossed, but I think he’s the real deal.” “How old is he?” I asked, more out of politeness than interest: Frank always thought someone or something was going to be the real deal that made his fortune for him. “He’s fifteen now, made varsity at Saint Eloy’s, even though he’s only a freshman. He’s got a real arm. Maybe he’ll be another Boom-Boom.” Meaning, he could be the next person to make it out of the ’hood into some version of the American dream. There were so few of us who escaped South Chicago’s gravitational pull that the neighborhood could recite our names. I’d managed, by dint of my mother’s wishes, and my scholarships to the University of Chicago. My cousin Boom-Boom had done it through sports. He’d had seven brilliant seasons with the Blackhawks until he injured his ankle too badly for the surgeons to glue him back in any shape to skate. And then he’d been murdered, shoved off a pier in the Port of Chicago, right under the screw of the Bertha Krupnik. When Boom-Boom and Frank hung out together, Frank hoped he’d be a real deal, too, in baseball. We all did—he was the best shortstop in the city’s Catholic league. By the time I started law school, though, Frank was driving a truck for Bagb