Finchley laughed. “So your skin is thin in places. Wuchnik’s homicide isn’t at the top of our pile here—no physical evidence at the scene, nothing in his private life to indicate someone with a grievance. His ex married a guy in pharmaceuticals and is living way better than Wuchnik ever hoped to. He hadn’t dated anyone for about fifteen months and we couldn’t find anyone with a grudge.”
“I had dinner last night with Chaim Salanter.” I decided I had to sacrifice a polar bear: I turned on my engine so I could run the air-conditioning.
“I ate with my wife and little girl at Navy Pier. Which one of us do you think was happier?”
“I’m sure you were, Terry. Salanter wanted to hire me not to investigate Wuchnik’s death. It didn’t occur to me to ask if he was making the same offer to all the other PI’s in the Chicago area, but I suppose a guy that rich can pay everyone off and not notice it.”
“If you are implying that I can be—”
“Scout’s honor, I am not trying to ride you. I told Salanter last night you were an inspired investigator, and an incorruptible one, and both those things are true. But guys like Salanter don’t deal at the Area detective level—they go to the mayor’s office.”
Terry was silent for a beat or two. “That explains—the directive we got on the murder. Not to stand down, just to acknowledge, well, what I told you at the outset. No physical evidence, et cetera. Do you have any idea why Salanter cares?”
“None at all, although it stands out a mile that he thought Wuchnik was investigating him. Do you have a list of what the guy was working on? You weren’t the people who made off with his computer, were you?”
“No. We dropped the ball there.” Terry was bitter, with himself for not getting out to Berwyn. “Thanks, anyway, for the call, Vexatious—can I call you Vexie for short?”
“Only if I’m not there in person to tie your tongue into a bow.”
“I’ll call Berwyn. You might not want to be sitting in front of Wuchnik’s place when they arrive. You can’t keep being spotted around the guy when the police show up. Sooner or later some dumb cop is going to get suspicious.”
He hung up before I could thank him.
18.
THE WRITING ON THE WALL
I HAD THOUGHT ABOUT CANVASSING THE NEIGHBORS, TO SEE if anyone had spotted someone carting off computers and flash drives from Wuchnik’s home in the last two days, but Terry’s warning was very much to the point. I joined the long, slow crawl back to the city, getting off the Ike at Ashland Avenue to avoid congestion on the Kennedy, only to get stuck in a backup of similar-minded people.
At Chicago Avenue, I abruptly turned west again. Wuchnik hadn’t walked from Berwyn to Mount Moriah cemetery. If his killer hadn’t driven him, his car might still be somewhere in the neighborhood.
I pulled out my Monitor Project report on him. Wuchnik had driven a Hyundai Tucson and he probably hadn’t parked far from the cemetery, as heavy as Saturday night’s rain had been. I made a slow circuit of Mount Moriah, but it wasn’t until I widened my search that I found the car. It was parked nearer to the Dudek apartment than to the cemetery.
The streets here were crowded with people returning from work, mothers laden with children and groceries, kids skateboarding, kids throwing balls in the street, and everyone texting like mad no matter what they were doing.
It had been a long time since I’d broken into a car, but I was relying on people’s focus on their handhelds to keep them from noticing anything I might do. However, when I got to the car, I saw I didn’t need a cover: someone once more had been ahead of me. The rear window was smashed and the locks were popped.
I looked at the mess, depressed. Except for the broken glass, and the empty pizza boxes that showed how much Wuchnik lived behind the wheel, the car was empty. No files, no car fax, not even a GPS tracker.
“This your car, miss?”
A couple of boys on skateboards had stopped near me.
“Friend of mine. He sent me down here to collect his papers, but someone got into his car ahead of me. I don’t suppose you saw anything, did you?”
“No, miss. It must’ve happened in the night, ’cause it was okay last night, but it was all busted up this morning.”
So if I’d just come here yesterday—although yesterday, I’d been pretty tied up, come to think of it. The boys were rocking back and forth on their skateboards, ready to take flight. I thanked them for stopping.
The second boy said, “Whoever broke in, they dropped one of his papers. It was half under the car when we come down this morning. You want it, miss?”
“Absolutely!”
They skated off toward one of the three-flats up the street. I poked around in the detritus while I waited and found several credit-card slips, which I tucked into my briefcase. The boys returned quickly, holding a grimy spiral notebook, one wider than it was long.
“What’s your friend’s name, miss?” the first one asked as I stuck out a hand.
“Miles Wuchnik.”
They studied the notebook and whispered to each other. “It’s just got an address.”
“On Grove Avenue in Berwyn?” I asked.