He held up a hand as I started to protest. “I’m not saying she’s right and you’re wrong. I’m just saying we don’t have any basis to go collecting guys—or gals—who work for Kystarnik. And, believe me, I’d like to. These Eastern European thugs have added a whole new dimension to weapons and cruelty that our gangbangers never aspired to. As for Rodney Treffer . . . Guy took a beating the other night, and you called to report it, is that right?”
“No.” I looked at him steadily. “Guy had me cuffed and was kicking me in the stomach”—I lifted my sweater to show him my color-coded abdomen—“when he slipped and hit his head on the ice. A couple of Iraqi vets came along and made sure Rodney’s pals didn’t finish me off.”
Officer Milkova had come back into the room. She gasped at my bruises.
“You file a formal complaint?” Terry asked.
“Not yet,” I said, “but I’ll be happy to. The vets—a Marine sergeant and an Army systems pro—helped me persuade Treffer’s subordinates to explain the code Treffer was writing on the Body Artist. It’s irrelevant now, since the club’s been trashed, but Kystarnik may revive his code to use elsewhere. I’ve written it all out for you.”
When he’d read it on my computer screen, Terry nodded, and sent Milkova for a data stick so he could make a copy of it.
“You think this has something to do with the Guaman woman’s murder?” he asked.
“I don’t know. It’s all murky right now. Everything came together through the Body Artist, but until she shows up I don’t know how we’ll connect those dots.”
Milkova reappeared with a data stick. I copied the report, then got to my feet.
“The Vishneski kid, he’s still out?” Terry asked casually.
I didn’t think he needed to know that Chad had woken up long enough to ask for his “vest.”
“The Vishneskis say their neurosurgeon told your officer that he’s still critical. He hasn’t regained consciousness as far as I know.”
“As soon as he’s stable, he goes back to County. The fact that Anton Kystarnik used Club Gouge as a private mailbox has nothing to do with Guaman’s murder. Vishneski is still in the frame as far as we’re concerned.”
“Even though someone tried to smother him this morning?” I asked.
“Could be some completely different quarrel. Could be a friend of the dead woman, looking for revenge. You haven’t shown me another believable perp.”
“I’m working on it, Terry, and I’m pretty darned close right now.” I got to my feet. “By the way, someone using Kystarnik’s address plunked down twenty-three thousand in cash to cover Rodney’s hospital bill. What does that tell you?”
“That Treffer has richer friends than I do.”
44
A Molten House
I went with Officer Milkova to file a formal complaint against Rodney. I didn’t go into every detail of the evening, especially not the part in Anton’s—or Owen Widermayer’s—Mercedes, but Anton was crafty enough to file a complaint against me on Rodney’s behalf, so I covered as much as I could without getting Jepson in hot water on a weapons charge.
When we finished, I tried my cousin again but still could reach only her voice mail. A nagging fear that she might have been ambushed at my office made me take a detour there, but my half of the warehouse was empty and showed no signs that anyone had broken in. Before taking off again, I checked my messages. Rivka Darling had called, demanding a report on what I was doing to locate the Body Artist. My most important client, Darraugh Graham, wanted to see me at my earliest convenience. I called his assistant and said I’d be free the next afternoon.
Everything else could wait. I drove south to Pilsen to the Guaman home. Lights were on in the living room. When I rang the bell, Clara opened the door the length of the chain. When she saw me, she gasped and turned pale.
“What are you doing here?” she asked.
“I need to talk to your parents. It’s time we all came out from under the cloud of secrecy we’ve been under the past few weeks.”
She put her hand to her mouth and looked over her shoulder. I could hear the television, and Ernest laughing loudly at something he saw on it.
“Clara, I found Alexandra’s journal. What other secrets are you sitting on?”
“Allie’s journal? But—it was gone!”
“?Clara! ?Quién está? ” her grandmother called.
“Someone for Mom,” Clara said.
“So you went to Nadia’s apartment after she died,” I said. “When? Before or after the place was trashed?”
The grandmother appeared behind Clara. The two had a sharp exchange in Spanish, and then Clara opened the door. The grandmother looked at me puzzled, as if trying to place me.
“V. I. Warshawski,” I said. “I think I saw you with your grandson at the rehab center a couple of weeks ago.”
“You’re with the hospital?” she asked in English.
“No. I—”
“She was a friend of Nadia’s,” Clara interrupted quickly. “She wants to talk to Mom about Nadia’s apartment.”
The grandmother’s face clouded with sorrow. “Are you wanting to take over the lease for Nadia?” she asked.