“Something about of course he’d listen to the other person’s side of the story. Then this morning he told me someone would be coming to see him. He asked me to help him out to the garden and then to leave him on his own. I brought out a tray with coffee and cups and the little cookies he likes, but I went inside, only I stood with the door open, so I could hear him if he needed me. I could only see his back, or the back of the chair where he sat, but not the driveway, or anyone who might be sitting with him.”
She took me through the kitchen to an enclosed porch that opened onto the garden. I saw what she meant: only one chair and a bit of the wrought-iron table where Villard had been sitting could be seen from here. The scene looked peaceful, no overturned chairs or coffee cups, none of the blood that Adelaide had gotten on her clothes. I started down the steps so I could see the rest of the setup, but an officer held up a hand, warning us to stay inside.
I went back to Adelaide, who was twisting her hands over and over. “The police, they act like I knew these people, like I could have stopped them, but it happened so fast, I couldn’t see them, just heard their voices.”
“How many were there?” I asked.
“I think it was two, I think they were both men, but I can’t be sure. Anyway, one of them talked to Mr. Villard, and Mr. Villard, he played this recording you gave him, and the one man tried to laugh, but the other—he—I couldn’t believe it—he shot Mr. Villard, then the two of them ran around to the front. I could hear the car taking off, but I was in the garden helping my gentleman and calling for help and calling you.”
As if on cue, a plainclothesman came into the sunporch. “Who are you?” he demanded of me.
“V. I. Warshawski. A private investigator.”
“Let’s see some ID.”
I hate being cooperative, but the law has so much enforcement going for it these days I didn’t want to protest enough to be detained for questioning—I didn’t have time today for heroics. I showed my licenses, driver’s, investigator’s, gun permit.
“You follow the sirens?” he asked.
“You mean, am I cruising the streets, hoping for clients? No, Officer. Mr. Villard was sharing some of his old photos of Wrigley Field with me.”
“You the woman who climbed the fence next door? That how you always arrive at your contacts’ houses?”
“When the cops are blocking access I have to get to my clients as efficiently as possible.”
“And how do you know this gal?” He jerked a thumb toward Adelaide.
I was white, so I was the woman who climbed the fence. Adelaide was dark, which made her a gal. Was that a step up or down from being a girl?
“This woman is a professional caregiver whom I’ve talked to when I’ve met with Mr. Villard. Did anyone get a look at the car that the shooters drove?”
“We’re taking care of canvassing the neighbors and asking questions. We’re looking for this woman’s contacts.”
“Mr. Villard made an appointment with someone for coffee this morning. Rather than wasting your time harassing people who never heard of him, you might check his phone records, see who he called last night at—what time was it?” I asked Adelaide.
“It would have been around ten o’clock, right before I came to help him get ready for bed.”
“It’s a good story,” the detective said, “and the two of you have had plenty of time to rehearse it.”
Instead of answering him, I called Murray Ryerson, who fortunately picked up. I cut short his sarcastic greetings. “A situation in Evanston. Stan Villard, used to be head of media relations for the Cubs, has been shot, taken off to the hospital. Evanston cops are trying to frame his caregiver, but smart money is wondering where Boris Nabiyev or Vince Bagby were when the shots were fired. Also, call Freeman Carter for me, in case we get too crowded here.”
The detective took the phone from me. “Call is over.” He pressed the off button.
“Murray Ryerson is a reporter with Global Entertainment,” I said. “He’ll get the rest of the details from his connections at the state’s attorney’s office. And my lawyer will be ready to help Ms.—” I realized I didn’t know Adelaide’s last name.
“Trimm,” she said.
“Right. Ms. Trimm, as well as me.”
The detective stared at me, then called over to one of his patrol officers to come get some names from me.
“This gal seems to know a hell of a lot about what was happening here. Take down her details, and get the names of the people she thought we should be talking to. And then get the Trimm woman’s personal phone book and see where her friends and relations were this morning.”
Being confrontational had transformed me from a woman into a gal. Interesting.
“You’ll want to check Mr. Villard’s phone,” I prompted, as the officer came over. “He set up this meeting around ten last night; see whom he called.”
“The day I need a private dick to tell me my job is not coming anytime soon,” the detective said. “You can leave when you’ve given your details to my officer, but you stay close, real close.”