A 147 bus was just closing its doors as I reached the top of the stairs. The driver, a rare humanitarian, opened them again when he saw me running for the curb. Art had said two-thirty instead of two—I just wanted to make sure he didn’t show up early with some kind of armed escort. I hardly knew young Art and I sure didn’t trust him—he might have lied to me about fooling his father. Or maybe Big Art didn’t trust his kid, either, and discounted the story. Just in case, I wanted to get there ahead of a trap.
I rode down to Jackson and walked the three blocks east to the fountain. In the summer Buckingham Fountain is the showpiece of the lakefront. Then it’s shrouded by trees and crowded with tourists. In the winter, with the foliage dead and the water turned off, it makes a good spot to talk. Few people visit it, and those who do can be seen a good way off.
Today Grant Park was desolate under the dull winter sky. Empty potato-chip bags and whiskey bottles mixed in with the dead leaves provided the only signs of human presence in the area. I retreated to the rose garden on the fountain’s south side and perched on the base of one of the statues at its comers. I stuck the Smith & Wesson in my jacket pocket with my thumb resting on the safety.
A light drizzle kept up intermittently during the afternoon. Despite the relative warmth of the winter air, I was chilled through from sitting still in the damp. I hadn’t worn gloves so that I could handle the gun more readily, but by the time Jurshak showed up my fingers were so numb, I’m not sure I could have fired.
Around a quarter to three a limo stopped on Lake Shore Drive to deposit the alderman and a companion. The limo moved on up the drive to Monroe, where it circled and came to a halt about a quarter mile from the fountain. When I was sure no one was getting out to take a bead, I scrambled down from my perch and made my way back to the park.
Jurshak was looking around, trying to find his son. He paid only passing attention to me until he realized I was planning to talk to him.
“Art won’t be able to make it, Mr. Jurshak—he sent me instead. I’m V. I. Warshawski. I think you’ve heard my name from your wife. Or from Gustav Humboldt.”
Jurshak was wearing a black cashmere coat that buttoned up to his chin. With his face set off by the black collar, I could see an overwhelming resemblance to Caroline—the same high round cheeks, short nose, long upper lip. Even his eyes were the same gentian, a bit faded with age, but that true blue that you rarely see. In fact, he looked more obviously like her than he did young Art.
“What have you done with my son? Where are you holding him?” he demanded in a forceful, husky voice.
I shook my head. “He came to me on Saturday afraid for his life—said you’d told his mother he was as good as dead for letting me get that report you filed for Xerxes with Mariners Rest. He’s someplace safe. I don’t want to talk to you about your son, but your daughter. You may want to ask your friend to step aside while we speak.”
“What are you talking about? Art’s my only child! I demand that you take me to him at once, or I’ll get the police along quicker than you can blink.” His mouth set in the angry stubborn line I’d seen on Caroline’s face a thousand times.
Art had been a power in Chicago since before I’d started college. Even without his clique controlling the City Council, there were plenty of police who owed Jurshak favors and would be happy to run me in if he wanted them to.
“Think back a quarter century,” I said softly, trying not to let anger turn my voice ragged. “Your sister’s daughters. Those luxurious afternoons when your niece danced for you while your brother-in-law was away at work. You can’t have forgotten how important you were in the lives of those two girls.”
His expression, as mobile as Caroline’s, changed from rage to fear. The wind had whipped color into his cheeks, but beneath the red his face looked gray.
“Take a walk, Manny,” he said to the stocky man at his side. “Go wait in the car. I’ll be over in a couple of minutes.”
“If she’s threatening you, Art, I oughta stay.”
Jurshak shook his head. “Just some old family problems. I thought this was going to be business when I asked you and the boys to come along. Go ahead—one of us oughta stay warm.”
The stocky man looked at me narrowly. He apparently decided the bulge in my pocket must be gloves or a notebook and headed back to the limo.
“Okay, Warshawski, what do you want?” Jurshak hissed.
“A whole bunch of answers. In exchange for answers I will not let the fact that you are a child molester with a daughter who is also your great-niece get into the papers.”
“You can’t prove anything.” He sounded mean, but he didn’t try moving away.
“Screw that,” I said impatiently. “Ed and Martha told me the whole story the other night. And your daughter looks so much like you, it’d be an easy make. Murray Ryerson at the Herald-Star would be on it in a minute if I asked him, or Edie Gibson at the Trib.”
I moved to one of the metal benches at the edge of the paving around the fountain. “We’ve got a lot to say. So you might as well make yourself comfortable.”