“According to Petra, there are seven groups. It would be a big financial burden to look after—what—a hundred or so kids?” I said. “Better to cut the head off the snake.”
We talked that idea back and forth without reaching a conclusion.
“Salanter’s from Vilna,” I said. “But the name sounds Polish or Russian to me.”
“Like Warshawski?” Max laughed softly in the dark. “You can’t tell country of origin that easily with Eastern European surnames, especially not Jewish ones. ‘Wuchnik’ doesn’t sound Jewish, however. The word means ‘archer,’ or ‘bowman.’ Which is ironic, when you think how he was killed, almost as if he’d taken an arrow in his chest. Are you thinking Wuchnik and Salanter knew each other in Europe?”
“His father or grandfather,” I admitted. “Wuchnik was only forty or so.”
“It’s possible,” Max grunted. “Anything is possible in that neck of the woods, but Salanter is a guy who faces forward, not backward. You don’t amass all that wealth by dwelling on past grievances. Look at how he brushes off Wade Lawlor’s attacks. I would be astounded if he had anything but a ‘publish and be damned’ attitude toward any bilge a private eye could turn up.”
“Not that you think I sink my net into bilge,” I said.
Max, whose courtesy is legendary, was embarrassed. He apologized but added, “I suppose I am worried about you digging up something Salanter would find painful. I don’t want him harmed—not because he’s rich and deserves more respect than the average person, but because, like Lotty and me, he lost his childhood and came here, like us, as a refugee.”
Lotty nodded, her expression bleak. Like Salanter, though, or Max himself, she faces forward, in this case to an early surgery call in the morning. She said she was shooing me out.
I got up but asked if she could check on Leydon before I left. Max and I carried coffee cups to the kitchen while Lotty went to her study to work her network at the University of Chicago hospitals.
She came into the kitchen, shaking her head. “Your friend is out of surgery, but it’s hard to say what the prognosis will be. Right now she’s in a medically induced coma. The good news is that she doesn’t need to be on a respirator; the bad news is that she bruised the brain badly—she hit her head on stone, I gather. The family have left a DNR order, claiming that the jump was proof that she wished to end her life. You don’t know if she left any written directives, do you?”
“She wasn’t thinking in such a linear way the last decade or so, but I don’t think she was trying to kill herself this afternoon. I think if she fell it was by accident, and it’s even possible she was pushed.”
“Pushed?” Max said. “What makes you say that?”
“Some German tourists went into the chapel. They heard her shouting with a man, and fled, not wanting to be part of someone else’s quarrel. And then there’s this business with her handbag.” I explained where the chapel dean had found Leydon’s bag, and how impossible I’d found it to throw it that far.
“She might have dropped it herself before climbing to the gallery,” Lotty objected.
“Yes, that’s always possible. Anything is possible, especially where Leydon is concerned,” I agreed.
Lotty caught sight of my dress for the first time and her eyes widened in dismay. “Victoria—I didn’t realize you’d come straight to us from the accident—you’re covered in blood. No wonder Chaim Salanter reacted to you so negatively. Go home, change, take a hot bath. But no more alcohol, do you hear?”
She held me tightly for a moment, then propelled me gently out her door. Max rode down with me in the elevator and escorted me to my car.
He held the door open for me with old-fashioned grace, and apologized again for his “bilge” comment. “You’ve had too stressful a day; I shouldn’t have added to it by insulting your profession. I know you work hard for those who are poor and needy. But don’t assume the rich don’t also sometimes need care.”
I was too tired to argue, and too grateful, anyway, for his concern. As I drove off, though, I argued with him in my head, the way one does. Salanter implied he could order the police to limit their investigation. He didn’t exactly threaten me, but he didn’t exactly not.
Petra was still with Mr. Contreras when I got home. I put my beautiful gold dress in a bag for the cleaners, although whether all the dry-cleaning fluids of Chicago could ever sweeten that little frock I didn’t know. Between that and my scarlet party gown, my involvement with the Salanters had already taken a terrible toll on my wardrobe.
When I’d showered and washed my hair, it took every ounce of will I could muster to avoid bed and go back down to check in with my cousin.