The bailiff who searched me at the entrance remembered me. She was inclined to chaff me about my bedraggled appearance, but at least she didn’t try to stop me as a dangerous abettor of criminals. I stopped in the ladies’ room to wash the mud from my legs. Nothing could be done about the dress at this point, other than burning it, but with a little makeup and my hair combed, I at least didn’t look like someone who’d broken out of custody.
I went up to the third floor and looked sternly at the receptionist. “My name’s Warshawski; I’m a detective,” I said harshly. “I want to talk to Hugh McInerney about the Cleghorn case.”
Police and sheriff’s deputies are a dime a dozen at the criminal courts. I figured they didn’t flash a badge every time they wanted to see someone, so why should I? The receptionist responded to my bullying tone by quickly punching numbers on the house phone. Even though she was a patronage employee, like everyone else in the building, it didn’t help to get a black mark with a detective.
State’s attorneys are young men and women en route to big law firms or good political appointments. You never see any old people on the left side of the bench—I don’t know where they ship the ones who don’t move on naturally. Hugh McInerney looked to be in his late twenties. He was tall, with thick blond hair and the kind of trim muscularity that comes from a lot of racquetball.
“What can I do for you, Detective?” His deep voice, matching his build, was tailor-made for the courtroom.
“Nancy Cleghorn,” I said briskly. “Can we talk in private?”
He led me through the inner door to a conference room, with the bare walls and scuffed furniture I remembered from my own county days. He left me alone for a minute to get his file on Nancy.
“You know she’s dead,” I said when he got back.
“I saw it in the morning paper. I’ve been kind of waiting for you guys to get here.”
“You didn’t think of using some initiative and calling us yourself?” I raised my eyebrows haughtily.
He hunched a shoulder. “I didn’t have anything concrete to tell you. She came to see me Tuesday because she thought someone was following her.”
“She have any idea who?”
He shook his head. “Believe me, Detective, if I’d had a name in here, I’d have been on the phone first thing this morning.”
“You didn’t think about Steve Dresberg?”
He shifted uncomfortably. “I—uh, I talked to Dresberg’s attorney, Leon Haas. He—uh, he thought Dresberg was pretty happy with the situation down there these days.”
“Yeah, he should be,” I said nastily. “He made you guys look like cole slaw in court, didn’t he, on that incinerator deal. You ask Haas how Dresberg felt about the recycling plant Cleghorn was working on? If he issued death threats over an incinerator, I’m not sure he’d jump for joy over a recycling center. Or did you decide that Cleghorn was imagining things, Mr. McInerney?”
“Hey, Detective—lay off. We’re on the same side on this. You find who killed the Cleghorn woman and I’ll prosecute hell out of him. I promise you that. I don’t think it was Steve Dresberg, but hey, I’ll call Haas and feel him out.”
I grinned savagely and stood up. “Better leave that for the police, Mr. McInerney. Let them investigate and find someone for you to prosecute hell out of.”
I strode arrogantly from the office, but once I got on the elevator my shoulders sagged. I didn’t want to mess with Steve Dresberg. If half the things they said about him were true, he could get you into the Chicago River faster than you could change your socks. But he hadn’t done anything to Nancy or Caroline over the incinerator. Or maybe he figured the first time around you got a warning; the second time meant sudden death. I soberly merged the Chevy with the rush-hour jam on the Kennedy and headed for home.
14
Muddy Waters
When I got home Mr. Contreras was in front of the building with the dog. She was gnawing on a large stick while he cleaned debris from the little patch of front yard. Peppy jumped up when she saw me, but sank back down when she realized I didn’t have my running clothes on.
Mr. Contreras sketched a wave. “Hiya, doll. You get caught in the rain this morning?” He straightened and looked at me. “My, my, you’re certainly a sight. Look like you’ve been wading through a mud puddle that came up to your waist.”
“Yeah. I’ve been down in the South Chicago swamp. It kind of stays with you.”
“Oh yeah? Didn’t even know there was a South Chicago swamp.”
“Well, there is,” I said shortly, pushing the dog away impatiently.
He looked at me closely. “You need a bath. Hot bath and a drink, doll. You go on up and rest. I’ll look after her royal highness here. She don’t need to go to the lake every day of her life, you know.”