I didn’t try to argue, just said I needed to use the washroom. While they stood guard at the entrance they’d unlocked, I picked the lock at the far end and slipped out, back hugging the wall, until I’d rounded a bend in the stadium wall. I went out through the first open aisle door, staggered down the seats and shuffled along the perimeter of the field to the exit. At least it was still so dark that they didn’t see me until I actually opened the door beneath the ivy. I heard them shout, but I hobbled over to Clark without stopping to look.
I didn’t contact Conrad until I was clear of the park, but as soon as I was sure I wasn’t being followed I texted a full report of my night. Terrified, I finished. They have Bernie and I don’t know where they’re taking her. Check Sturlese Cement, check Virejas Tower and Bagby’s truck yard.
Conrad wrote back at once: he’d sent a team into Wrigley as soon as he got my first message—he’d taken an hour off for sleep—but they hadn’t checked the locked doors. And now where was I and what evidence did I have that would allow him to apply for a warrant to any of the three places I’d mentioned?
My phone died as I was dictating a response. Squad cars were passing me, lights flashing, presumably on their way to Wrigley to arrest me. I turned down Racine, my legs quivering, waves of nausea overtaking me. My body wanted to go to bed.
“Permission denied,” I said out loud in my sternest voice. “They have Bernie and you must find her.”
A woman out walking her dog in the early dawn turned to stare, called the dog to heel and scuttled into her building. I sounded as crazy as I smelled and looked.
My legs were two numb trees plodding down the street, untethered from my mind, which floated between Racine Avenue and the tunnel. We’ll get little missy to tell us where she lives. The thug’s words floated back into my memory.
Don’t hold out, Bernie, don’t hold back. I prayed that she had blurted out my address as fast as possible, but what they might be doing to her—I would not think about it. Could not. I couldn’t fix it by taking time for fear. Focus on what you can do, move your damned legs.
The building floated up in front of me, no one casing the front, good or not good? How could I tell? No one in the back, don’t be holding out on them, Bernie.
My front door didn’t show any signs of forcible entry. Maybe I should have checked the back as well, but the thought of going down all those stairs and coming up to the kitchen entrance was more than I could bear.
Once again I stripped before going inside, once again left a heap of foul-smelling clothes outside my door, took just enough time in the bathroom to scrub sewage and asbestos from my hair and skin. Hurry, hurry. Two pairs of jeans destroyed, I had one left, not quite clean, but it would do. I’d sacrificed both pairs of running shoes, time to move on to my work boots. I plugged my phone into the charger. Reloaded the clip for my gun, stuck two spares in my fanny pack. While the coffee machine heated, I went downstairs to rouse my neighbor.
Once Mr. Contreras grasped the crisis, he stopped fussing over my own corpse-like appearance. He sent me out back with the dogs while he dressed, and was huffing up the stairs to my place in pretty quick order. I typed up some talking points for him, which he studied and practiced a few times.
When Mr. Contreras thought he was ready, I dialed Vincent Bagby: I’d captured his number when he’d called yesterday morning to ask me to dinner. Bagby answered his cell phone on the fourth ring.
“You missed me so much you had to get me out of bed, Warshawski?” My ID showed up on his screen as well.
“This ain’t Warshawski,” Mr. Contreras said. “I’m her neighbor and a good friend. Vic’s been in an accident, they ain’t sure she’ll make it.”
“Where is she?” Bagby demanded. “Was she shot?”
I grimaced: Lucky guess or did he know?
“Cops don’t want nobody knowing where she is, case they try to finish her off. But she talked to me before they put her under. Said you was looking for some special papers Annie Guzzo hid underneath Wrigley Field all those years back. I’ll give ’em to you once I see the girl Bernie is safe.”
“I don’t know what papers you’re talking about, or who the girl Bernie is.”
He knows, I quickly wrote. He gave us a ride after we were attacked by the Dragons.
“You got Alzheimer’s already at your age?” Mr. Contreras said. “You forgot you give her a ride when her and Vic was beat up last week? I see Bernie walk into her pa’s arms and I give you the papers.”
“Was that her name? I didn’t know, and I don’t know about the papers. Don’t play games with me, old man; I’m not even sure I believe Vic was hurt last night.”
“Maybe you know what I’m talking about, maybe you don’t. You tell your friend Rory Scanlon what I said, maybe he’ll take it more serious. You know the Coast Guard station out by Calumet Park? You, or him, or the Sturlese boys, they bring Bernadine Fouchard out there in two hours and I’ll get them the papers they’re so hot after.”
“How come you have Warshawski’s phone?” Bagby demanded.
“She gave it to me.”
I made the kill sign and Mr. Contreras hung up.
“Sure hope this works, doll.”
“Sure hope it does, too,” I agreed grimly.