When people say they see red, it’s because a mist of blood covers the eyes and coats everything they look at. I returned the paper to my briefcase. I took just enough time to wash the sand out of my hair, then flung on the first clothes I picked up from the chair in my bedroom. I was so angry on the drive downtown, it was a miracle I didn’t smash into anyone else.
I found a meter around the corner from the Star’s building on Kinzie and Canal. One of Global’s economizing measures had been to close down the Star’s beaux arts building in the Loop and to move the reporting and editorial staff out to the press building along the Chicago River. Given the four-hundred-million-dollar price tag for Global’s corporate headquarters on Wacker, I suppose every penny saved on investigative journalism was essential; through my haze of anger I felt a brief twinge of sympathy for Murray, moved into this dingy building in the shadow of the rail yards and expressways.
The twinge was fleeting, but it helped keep the fury out of my voice when I demanded a meeting with him. When the security guard asked for my name and business, I said I was one of Murray’s street sources, and that I preferred not to give my name.
The guard told me to wait; “Mr. Ryerson” would be right out. He waved a vague arm toward a long bench near the front door, but it was covered with dust. I paced up and down the sidewalk outside the front door until Murray showed.
He was startled to see me, but he tried for a light touch. “The mighty goddess is coming down from Mount Olympus to meet and greet the mortals?”
“If I were a goddess, you would be watching your family jewels fry on the sidewalk in front of your eyes.” I pulled the paper out of my briefcase. “Your report of your conversation with Petra didn’t cross a line, it drove right over a median strip into oncoming traffic.”
Murray flushed. “I thought you didn’t do bodyguard or babysitting work. You Petra’s publicist? She have to clear everything she says in public with you first?”
“What happens in that damned ‘huddle’ in the morning?” I said. “Did Harold Weekes call you and say, ‘Global’s official line is to make it sound as if Sophy Durango and Julia Salanter’s daughters brought Miles Wuchnik to the cemetery, therefore, if you write anything connected with the Malina Foundation, ignore all other issues and twist the story to be about Malina girls in the cemetery?’ ”
“The story isn’t about the book group. It’s about girls who want to be vampires—that brings people to TV and even to the printed word.”
“And that’s a reason to lie?”
“You are on Mount Olympus.” Murray was now as angry as I was. “What ‘lies’ are you talking about?”
“Those girls were not with Miles Wuchnik when he died.”
“What? They were in the south of France? I thought they were prancing right in front of him.”
“But they didn’t know he was there,” I shouted.
“Sez you! And since when do I take your word, oh, Queen of Crime, instead of checking it out?”
A trio of Star employees came outside to smoke. They moved a few feet up the sidewalk from us but stayed in earshot, making no secret of their interest. Murray and I were both too angry to care.
“Oh. You’ve checked it out, and Wuchnik’s ghost came back and said, ‘Yes, I brought Nia and Arielle and their girlfriends to Mount Moriah with me?’ Were they also the ones who tossed his apartment?”
“Tossed his apartment?” Murray echoed. “When did that happen?”
The anger had gone out of his face, but I was still furious. “Don’t ask me—check it out for yourself.”
I turned to leave, but Murray grabbed my arm. “Warshawski, you can’t go marching out of here in the middle of this conversation. When did it happen?”
“Why would you believe my answer if I gave it? You’ve accused me of lying, you’ve put my cousin’s job at risk by implying that she knows Malina is harboring illegal immigrants—”
Murray put both hands on my shoulders. “Vic. Come inside and talk to me before we need a federal mediator.”
Still smoldering, I followed him into the old press building and up a flight of metal stairs to the newsroom. The trio of smokers seemed to sigh with disappointment as we left.
Back when the old presses ran here, they took up the equivalent of two stories. Global had gutted the building, saving one of the presses as a sort of museum piece. They’d installed two floors of offices and cubicles, but they’d left an opening at the north end, with a catwalk where you could look down at the heirloom press.
To do the company justice, despite the building’s seedy exterior, they hadn’t stinted on the interior. Not that they’d spent the bucks they’d given to furnishing Global One, where all the TV operations were housed, but the computers and the networking system were modern, sleek, and fast.