I nodded thoughtfully; that hadn’t occurred to me. “Yes, the women out in Burbank think that Xavier Jurgens is selling drugs that he steals from the hospital. Maybe Wuchnik found out about it, and either tried to muscle in on the deal or blackmailed Xavier, until Xavier had had enough and lured him to the cemetery.”
It made sense; proving it would be another story. “And in a way, it’s disappointing if that’s the end of the story. I was kind of hoping it had something to do with Lawlor, or Helen Kendrick, or even my ex’s law firm. Just out of spite, I suppose. I don’t think Xavier could make enough out of filched hospital supplies to put fifteen thousand down on a new car. That kind of money sounds more like recreational drugs, unless he had help.”
I stopped, thinking about Vernon Mulliner’s finances. “Mulliner’s brokerage account appeared out of nowhere seven years ago, when he started at Ruhetal,” I told Mr. Contreras. “I suppose he could be ordering large quantities of hallucinogens; Xavier could be selling them and getting a cut. If Miles found out, he’d have put the bite on Mulliner.
“But that’s not what took Wuchnik out to Ruhetal in the first place. If there were allegations of drug fraud, the state attorney general would know about it. She has a team of investigators on her payroll; she wouldn’t pick a bottom feeder like Wuchnik to investigate.”
Mr. Contreras picked up the mileage log the boys had found next to Wuchnik’s car. “What’s this here?”
“It’s Wuchnik’s mileage log for his visits to his clients. You can see how many miles he logged for different trips, so that pretty well tells when he went out to Ruhetal, or down to Danville. What I don’t have is a way to crack his client code system. All his electronics are missing—computer, phone, the works. I’d had high hopes for this log when the kids handed it to me, but it’s just one more frustrating dead end!”
I slapped the book back on the table. “And even if Wuchnik found out about a drug deal once he got out to Ruhetal, who sent him there to begin with? If it was Ormond or Napier, at my ex’s firm, who was their client? And come to that, why would attorneys from Crawford, Mead hook up with a two-bit guy like Wuchnik, when they can afford the cream of the investigative universe?”
“Meaning you, doll? Not that you’d take a job for your ex.”
I kissed his cheek. “Crawford, Mead usually go for the big-name firms, Baladine, Tintrey, one of them. How did they find Miles?”
“Maybe they figured a big company would have too many ears listening in on their private business,” my neighbor suggested shrewdly. “They wanted a solo op, and if you’re right that he was putting the bite on them, they picked the wrong guy.”
I whisked my coffee pot off the stove seconds before it exploded again. I really needed one of those fancy electric espresso makers, where you didn’t have to mop off your stove every time you forgot you’d started to make coffee. Maybe for my birthday, next week, if I solved Wuchnik’s murder by then. And if anyone paid me for doing so. The good machines cost more than a thousand dollars.
My cell phone rang as I was divvying the fresh coffee between Mr. Contreras’s and my cups. I didn’t recognize the number, but a strange male voice said, “Ms. Warshawski? This is Gabriel Eycks. Julia Salanter needs to see you. Please come to Schiller Street at once.”
Gabriel Eycks—Gabe, the Salanters’ houseman.
“I’m tied up right now, Mr. Eycks. If Ms. Salanter wants to make an appointment, I’ll be glad to see her at my office.”
“We have an emergency here, Ms. Warshawski. Arielle has disappeared, and Julia hopes you or your cousin know where she is.”
31.
WHERE, OH, WHERE DID THE DAUGHTER GO?
AS I DROVE, GABE DIRECTED ME TO THE MANSION’S GARAGE entrance. This was behind the house, via an alley that could be entered only through a locked gate. The garage was underground; Gabe was standing inside it between a Land Rover and a Mercedes sedan. He told me to leave the car where it was, not to bother parking properly, and led me up a back stairwell to the side room where I’d first met Julia Salanter last week.
Julia was walking back and forth in a short circuit, clutching her hands. Her face seemed to be all eyes and mouth, two dark pools over a skull-like rictus. She started talking as soon as she saw us, without preamble.
“Chaim is flying home, but he won’t get here before five. She isn’t with Petra, is she? I tried reaching Petra, but she wasn’t answering her phone. Sonia Appelzeller—your cousin’s supervisor at Malina—Sonia says Petra doesn’t come in on Wednesdays until afternoon. I need to reach her now!”
“I stopped at my cousin’s apartment on my way here. She was sleeping and hadn’t heard her phone ring, but she hasn’t seen or heard from your daughter since the attack on the Malina Building last week.”