I nodded; I’d been turning the question over in my own mind. “Miles Wuchnik was a blackmailer. He had some kind of device for listening in on people’s calls; he might even have loaded something in the girls’ cell phones so that their texts would pop up on his own phone. The technology exists; I just don’t know how to use it.
“The bigger question to me is how he learned enough about Salanter or Arielle to eavesdrop on her in the first place. But I’m beginning to see that his eavesdropping might have led him to the cemetery—he would have known that the girls were going to hold their ritual there. And the biggest question of all is which of his victims was so threatened that he or she needed Wuchnik dead. I hope Carmilla’s protection extends to Julia and Chaim—I don’t want to think either of them was responsible.”
“Maybe I’ll borrow Nia’s Carmilla amulet while she’s in Israel.” Diane smiled weakly. “When will you tell the police?”
“Probably tomorrow.” I got up. “Unless I learn something at my next meeting that will let me keep the girls out of the picture altogether. Are you staying in Chicago when Nia flies out? I’ll call you in the morning, give you enough advance notice that Dr. Durango’s PR team can be ready, if worse comes to worst.”
The housekeeper walked me to the door. “I’ve worked for Sophy ever since Nia was two, when her husband was first diagnosed with lymphoma. She—you know the saying, that no man is a hero to his valet? I’ve seen Sophy in situations that would tax any of us to the limit, but I’ve never seen her take it out on me, students, or staff. She really is a great candidate for any office in this country. I don’t want this murder to derail her. And maybe, like Nia said, that’s heartless, but what if the killer did all this just to embarrass her, to guarantee that that right-wing creep Kendrick gets to the Senate?”
Her words echoed some conspiracy fears of my own; they shaped my conversation with my ex-husband, when he finally descended from his forty-eighth-floor office to Crawford, Mead’s reception area. After our barbed banter about who got to bill whom, he took me to the same conference room where we’d spoken last week.
He looked at his Journe watch: I’m important, don’t forget it. “I’ve got fifteen minutes, Vic, then I’m due at the Pottawatomie Club.”
I was supposed to be impressed: the Pottawatomie is one of a handful of social clubs around the country where who gets to do what to America is decided. “I’ve eaten there, Dick—I don’t think you’ll regret skipping the appetizer.”
“Was there some reason you wanted to see me other than to taunt me?” Dick demanded.
I helped myself to the red grapefruit juice on the drinks cart. “You know, this is the only place in town I ever see this juice, and it’s the perfect hot-weather refresher. You told me last week that Crawford, Mead doesn’t take political positions, but of course everyone knows that Eloise Napier is one of Helen Kendrick’s lawyers.”
“You know I can’t comment on our client list.”
“I’m not asking you to, I’m telling you. When Eloise Napier flaunts Kendrick’s jewel-crusted gold corncob flag, I know that she, if not the firm itself, is working for Helen Kendrick. So I’m picturing a dinner party in Lake Bluff with the Reapers, I think that’s what they’re called, the people who bundle together quarter-million contributions to the Kendrick campaign.”
“Gleaners,” Dick corrected me without thinking, then glared when he realized I’d gotten him to betray his involvement in the campaign.
“Right. So we’re at a dinner party with the Gleaners. Sewall Ashford and his mom are there, among others, and so is Kendrick’s lawyer, Napier. Or was it you?”
I paused, but Dick wasn’t going to betray himself any further.
“And word comes in that Leydon Ashford, the dirty laundry or the blazing light of the family, depending on your viewpoint, is acting as a lawyer for a guy in Ruhetal’s forensic wing. Sewall and his mom want it stopped, and Eloise tells them she has a PI she uses for odd jobs, and what could be odder than this one? So she says she’ll send her PI out to Ruhetal to find out what Leydon’s up to and he’ll make her stop.”
Dick shrugged. “Could be. We do a lot of things for our clients that they don’t cover in Introduction to Client Relations courses.”
“So when Miles Wuchnik was found dead, Eloise must have raised those perfectly painted eyebrows of hers. Despite her pretense of not knowing what Wuchnik had been doing for months and months.”
“Vic, that smacks of cattiness.” Dick pretended to be shocked.
“You’re right: meow. Now, here’s an interesting thing that Eloise may or may not have shared with her managing partner. Wuchnik’s contact at the hospital was killed this past Tuesday. Suffocated in the front seat of a shiny new Camaro that he’d plunked down fifteen thousand for in cash. Yesterday, the dead man’s girlfriend phoned Crawford, Mead. Whatever she learned from that phone call made her flee the country. I’m assuming she wasn’t seeking green-card advice.”