“I told you yesterday that Nadia Guaman’s and Chad Vishneski’s computers were both missing. This makes me think that one or both of them knew something a third party wants to keep hidden. I just learned there’s a story about Vishneski’s beer cans: not only did someone mix Rohypnol in his beer, they wiped the cans clean and then placed his fingers on them to make prints once he’d passed out.”
“You’d be hard-pressed to argue fingerprint pressure in court,” Finchley said.
“That may be true, although Freeman Carter has persuaded juries of more implausible things. But I don’t think we’ll get to a courtroom. I started this investigation prejudiced against my client’s son, but the more I learn, the more I think he was framed, poor stressed-out vet. Someone’s covering their tracks exceptionally well, but somewhere, somehow, they’re sure to have slipped up. When I find whatever mistake the real perp made, I’m counting on you to release Chad Vishneski. Assuming he’s still alive.”
“Oh, damn you, anyway, Warshawski.”
He cut the connection. The dogs had moved down to the lagoon. I trailed after them, stopping where they’d been rolling. A dead raccoon. When I’d persuaded them to get back in the car, I was annoyed with myself for my stupidity in letting them run free. They stank, and it was too cold to ride the Tollway with the windows open.
I drove along Dundee Road until I came to a groomer’s. I had to wait almost an hour until they could fit in Mitch and Peppy, but the wait allowed me to catch up on the rest of my calls. Even the expense of two shampoos beat wrestling the dogs into my own bathtub at home.
22
The Road to Kufah
I stopped at my apartment just long enough to leave the dogs with Mr. Contreras. At my office, I found a little pot of tulips heavily wrapped in newspaper on the doorstep and a note from the client.
We got Chad moved to Beth Israel, and now Mona’s sitting with him. I like your doc. She said to bring along some of his music to play when we can’t be there, so Mona’s got his iPod running and I’ll play my clarinet for him tonight. I guess you know what you’re doing.
J.V.
The candy-cane-striped tulips made a bright circle of color on my desk. Heartened by the flowers, and the client’s goodwill, I wrote up my notes for the day. I synced my handheld with my machine so that the names I’d seen in Widermayer’s assistant’s spreadsheet got uploaded into my case file software. Ludwig Nastase, Michael Durante, Konstantin Feder. There’d been a woman as well, a Bettina Lyzhneska. A truly diverse, international crew, rounded out by Rodney Treffer.
I went back to Rodney’s cryptic jottings, wondering if any of the letters he’d written on the Body Artist corresponded to his teammates’ names. There’d been several I’s and O’s, along with C, L, and S. Except for Lyzhneska and Ludwig, I couldn’t see a match.
I wrestled with the numbers. I’ve never been a fan of codes and ciphers, and these looked so random that you probably needed a key to uncode them. Maybe they were page numbers, where you counted lines and letters, but you’d have to know the book first.
Still, I’d had a bit of a break today, getting Rodney’s last name. I did a little rooting around on him, and on Owen Widermayer as well. Rodney had been a cop with the Milwaukee PD. Now LifeStory claimed he was an independent security contractor. I remembered Olympia’s brittle laugh, her referring to him as her “insecurity.” He’d been divorced—twice—and both his ex-wives had entered orders of protection against him. Big surprise there.
Widermayer’s profile was blander. He lived in Winnetka, he was on the board of his temple, serving as their accountant. Other than that, I couldn’t get a client list out of my databases, but that didn’t really surprise me. I kind of thought Kystarnik might be Widermayer’s only client; looking after a mob thug could be a full-time job.
At six-thirty, I left for my meeting with Tim Radke. Plotzky’s, the bar he’d chosen, was on the western end of Division Street where Nelson Algren used to hang out. Algren probably wouldn’t recognize the street anymore. West of Ashland, the newest Yuppie invasion had turned the cold-water flats and honky-tonk joints into expensive lofts and restaurants with names like Suivi and Arrêt. Instead of a shot and a beer, you got martinis with funny names and weird ingredients.
Plotzky’s was one of the last surviving blue-collar joints. With an upscale sushi place on one side and a wine bar on the other, I didn’t give them much chance.
It was a few minutes before seven when I got there. A handful of men in their forties or fifties were sitting at the bar, their parkas unzipped to reveal dirty work clothes. Unlike my federal friends in Roehampton this afternoon, these men had earned their hard hats.
The Black Hawks pregame show was on the TV over the bar. No one was watching it. They were rehashing their own lives with each other and with the bartender, a middle-aged woman with bleached hair and thick pancake makeup. Like Sal at the Golden Glow, she kept an eye on the whole room while nodding empathically at the men talking to her.