“What are you thinking?” Bernie demanded.
“Mr. Villard’s house was burgled and some of his Cubs memorabilia were taken. I was going to say, maybe the thieves were looking for these pictures. Well, not these specifically, but the break-in happened soon after the story ran about Boom-Boom being at Wrigley. Maybe I’m wrong—maybe the break-in was random and not connected to Boom-Boom or Stella’s quest for exoneration.”
“These pictures prove the diary!” Bernie cried, cheeks flaming.
“This conversation proves that you cannot have more than one glass of wine, Bernadine,” Pierre said. “You are behaving as if you were with your teammates, not at a dinner party. You and I, we are going up to our room and let these people have some peace and quiet.”
He took my hand and kissed it. “Tomorrow, Bernadine and I will see the sights of Chicago, including a chance to watch the Blackhawks skate against St. Louis. You must come, too. The Blackhawks, they will be thrilled to have Boom-Boom’s cousin in the house. And these gentlemen?”
Mr. Contreras was torn, but decided he needed a night at home. Jake seemed thankful to plead a rehearsal, but I accepted happily.
HIGH AND INSIDE
Between the wine, my cold and my lingering injuries, I was ready for bed within minutes of getting home. It was a luxury to stretch out in Jake’s clean sheets, not to have my brain on partial alert for Bernie sliding out of the building.
Jake had recently been selected to play the Martinsson Double Bass Concerto with the Chicago Symphony and wanted to practice fingering. I fell asleep to the soft rumbling of his playing and for once managed a full night with no intrusions from Guzzos or mobsters or tar pits.
I woke to yet another cold cloudy day in the city that spring forgot, but finally felt well enough to run the lakefront with the dogs. My muscles were loose, I was moving easily, I was happy.
At the Fullerton Avenue beach, I returned phone calls while the dogs swam after their tennis balls. I was just finishing a conversation with one of Darraugh Graham’s financial officers when Vince Bagby phoned.
“How’s the nose?”
“Almost well enough to smell the peonies you sent.”
“And the girl you’re looking after?”
“Back in Canada with her parents. Why?” I kept my voice friendly, but I didn’t trust him with the truth.
“I’m a friendly guy, Warshawski, who’s trying to make conversation. I’d be glad to show you face-to-face—you free for dinner?”
“Not until after I find Sebastian Mesaline, and even then, no guarantees.” I found myself checking the gun in my tuck holster.
“Come on, Warshawski, you can’t be interested in a wussy kid like him.”
“I’ve never met him,” I said. “Tell me what’s so wussy about him.”
Mitch and Peppy, sensing my attention was elsewhere, started wandering up the beach. I whistled to them sharply.
“You have to do that into the mike? You damn near broke my eardrums.”
“What’s so wussy about Mesaline?” I repeated.
“Word on the street. When you meet him, you can let me know. I hope it happens soon—I’m going to hold you to that dinner date.”
I pocketed my phone while I went after the dogs. Why had Bagby called? To see how much I knew or because he actually had taken a liking to me? I guess there was no reason it couldn’t be both; he was a friendly guy, as he himself agreed: he got along with everyone, from the security manager at the Guisar dock to me.
Mitch was cleaning up after the Canada geese. I brought him to heel and jogged the rest of the way to the car.
It was interesting that Bagby knew about Sebastian Mesaline. I’d never mentioned Sebastian around him, but Bagby also knew Jerry Fugher, Nabiyev and, presumably, the Sturlese brothers, the people on the Virejas Tower project, perhaps even the contractor who had placed Sebastian there.
“Too wide a field to analyze,” I told the dogs, unlocking the Subaru. “But Bagby is definitely playing with a very rough crowd.”
They showed their agreement by shaking hard and covering me with wet sand. I guess that was a good thing—it meant less sand for me to vacuum out of the Subaru before I returned it to Luke.
Back home, I changed into office clothes and brought espressos over to Jake’s. He was still asleep, but when I sat cross-legged on the bed, he stuck a hand out from under the covers for one of the cups.
“Trucker who might have Mob ties invited me to dinner,” I said.