He escorted me out the back door of the school to my borrowed wheels. “You get in trouble, girl, come back here. No one to look after you but those two dogs and an old man.” He laughed again. “Probably only got six to seven years on Contreras, but I fight regularly and he don’t: INS, city cops, they’re around here all the time. FBI wants to join in, won’t bother me.”
When I put the Jaguar in gear and drove off, my shoulder moved only a little better, but my spirits were easier. The voice of believable authority — it worked on me, too.
CHAPTER 31
Superhero
While I was still in the clear-I hoped-I went to a place called TechSurround to send Whitby’s pocket organizer to the forensic lab I use. You can do everything at TechSurround, from photocopying to sending mail; I used their computer to type up a letter to the lab, explaining where the wallet had been, said that I wanted to see any papers Whitby might have kept in it, told them to make it a top priority job, and put the whole thing in a bubble-pack envelope.
I was about to stick the envelope into a FedEx packet, but today was Saturday; the lab wouldn’t get it until Monday. I didn’t want to use my cell phone, in case someone was actively tracing me, but the one thing TechSurround lacked was a pay phone. I risked turning on my mobile for a minute to phone the messenger service I use, arranging for a pickup at TechSurround-I planned to be here for a bit, checking messages.
I logged onto one of their computers and looked at both my phone log and my e-mails, which depressed me, since there was nothing from Morrell and a slew of messages from Murray Ryerson. Catherine Bayard had been shot, this was big news in Chicago, he had scooped the city because of me, so I got dinner at the Filigree-especially since DuPage had first tried to pretend she’d been shot by a fleeing Arab-but why the hell hadn’t
I mentioned terrorists? And did I know police from three jurisdictions wanted to talk to me? Make it four, if you counted New Solway’s finest! I sent him back a brief message saying it was nice to be wanted, I knew nothing about terrorists, I’d slept through the day in a motel, and I’d get back to him after all the fine men and women in blue had mauled me. I also typed a quick message to Morrell, shutting my eyes, trying to remember what he looked like, what he sounded like, but gray mist swirled behind my eyes when I said his name. “Morrell, where are you?” I whispered, but I exed that out. “I’ve had twenty-four unusual hours, upside down in a pond and squeezing out through mansion windows. Wherever you are, I hope you’re warm, safe and well fed. I love you.” Maybe.
Before leaving the machine, I pulled up my phone log, which only confirmed what Murray had said: DuPage sheriff Rick Salvi wanted me ASAP, in which he was joined by the Chicago police-which I couldn’t figure out-and Derek Hatfield from the FBI, who would appreciate my calling at my earliest convenience. Behind the bureaucratic formula, I could hear Derek’s baritone rumble with menace.
There were also two messages from Geraldine Graham. I hadn’t expected to hear from her again after Darraugh’s furious phone call, but I should have realized that his mother would want the inside story on what happened last night at her beloved Larchmont. She’d probably watched the helicopters and emergency vehicles from her living room. Darraugh had also called. I would get to the Grahams in due course, but I couldn’t feel excited by yelps from the rich and powerful right now. The only message I was really glad to get was one from Lotty, asking if I was all right and to please call.
As soon as the messenger service took my packet for Cheviot Labs, I got ten dollars in quarters from the cashier, and found a pay phone in a Laundromat up the street.
I didn’t think Benjamin Sadawi merited massive surveillance. I didn’t think I did. But we were living in paranoid times. Everyone in law enforcement was on edge, not just the hormone-crazed youngsters who’d fired at Catherine Bayard last night, but everyone.
My first call was to my lawyer. Just in case worst came to worst, I wanted Freeman Carter to know what was going on with me. To my amazement, I actually found him at home.
“Freeman! I’m glad you’re in-I thought you’d be in Paris or Cancun or whatever your usual weekend spot is these days.”
“Believe me, Vic, when I heard your name on the news, followed by the magic phrase `Arab terrorist,’ I tried to book a seat on the first flight out. Why can’t you get into trouble during normal business hours? And without pulling Homeland Security’s chains?”