I went into my subscription databases and found a cell phone number for Brian Sturlese, but not for Rory Scanlon or Nabiyev. Mr. Contreras repeated the conversation with Brian Sturlese.
Sturlese was surlier than Bagby, and not as smooth: he paused too long between his lines. “I don’t believe you. Warshawski went on the warpath because she said there never was a diary.”
“Yeah, what she said, and what she knew, they’re two different things,” Mr. Contreras growled. “I’m giving you a chance, but I’m gonna let the cops take over if you don’t show up with Bernie. And if she has so much as a scratch on her, I got the whole machinists’ local gonna make you sorry you ever left your ma’s womb.”
“Now what?” the old man fretted when he’d hung up.
“Now we need to get you out of here in case they think they can break in and beat you up.”
He didn’t like it: he was more than a match for a cement mixer half his age and twice his bulk, he knew tricks that the Sturlese boys never heard of. I let him rattle on, bravado, while we went back down to his place to pack an overnight bag. I also took a large bottle of Coke from his fridge. I don’t normally like sugary drinks, but the Coke would settle my stomach and the sugar might give me an illusion of energy.
Before we left the building, I gathered up copies of Mr. Villard’s Wrigley Field photos, then went to check on Jake. He was deeply asleep, his wide, humorous mouth slack. I wanted to get into bed with him, I wanted to move into the safe world of music and walk away from kidnappers, crimes, fraud, assault, but I went to the kitchen to change the note I’d left him:
Bernie’s been kidnapped. I don’t know when or how I’ll be back and won’t be easily reached, but I’ll try to get you a message before the end of the day. Conrad Rawlings will know where I am if you get worried. I love you.
I wanted to ask him to play the CD of my mother’s singing at my funeral, but he would know to do that. I jotted down Conrad’s cell phone and lumbered back down to collect my neighbor. The Subaru had become a liability; too many of the wrong people knew my Mustang was a total loss and it would have been easy to spot Luke’s car in the parking lot by my office. My neighbor and I took a cab to the nearest rental place, where he got us a beige Taurus, one of a hundred thousand on the roads at any given moment. We got them to supply an in-car charger for my phone—my own car charger had vanished with the Mustang’s wheels last week.
We stopped at the apartment to pick up the dogs and headed south. We were passing the Jackson Park boat harbor when my cell phone rang. Caller ID blocked. I pulled over to the curb and handed the phone to Mr. Contreras.
“How do we know you’re telling the truth?” the caller demanded without preamble. “We need to see a sample before we do a deal.”
Want me to post it on Facebook? I quickly wrote. My neighbor nodded and repeated the question.
“Salvatore Contreras, right?” the caller said. “You’re Warshawski’s neighbor, right? You get a sample up in ten minutes.”
Mr. Contreras looked at me in alarm. I jotted a couple of suggestions.
“Screw that,” my neighbor sputtered. “I gotta dig up the paper and get me to a copy shop to scan it and everything. It’ll take me pretty darn near all day.”
The caller said he’d have two hours and cut Mr. Contreras off mid-protest.
I texted Conrad, told him I was pretty sure the Sturlese brothers were the ones who’d been in the tunnel last night. He wrote back,
The SA doesn’t think your hunches are enough to base a warrant on. Get me something concrete.
Put a trace on my cell, I wrote, they’re calling me with threats.
Where are you right now??
South Shore but I’m on the move.
RIGGING THE GAME
The Previns lived in one of South Shore’s elegant old condos on Sixty-seventh Street, right on the corner. We found a space on the street without any trouble—the hard part was keeping the dogs in the car: they smelled the lake and were desperate for exercise.
Ira and Eunice owned the penthouse, with Joel on the sixth floor. At least he’d been able to put eleven stories between himself and his parents.
It was seven in the morning now, but I didn’t imagine Joel was an early riser. In fact, I had to lean on the buzzer to his apartment for three minutes before I roused him.
“V. I. Warshawski,” I said into the security phone. “We have to talk.”
“Go to hell.” He hung up.
Other residents were walking their dogs or leaving for work; we had a very short wait before someone came out and obligingly held the door for us. Elderly man, white woman, we might not live in the building but we must be harmless.
I put a finger on Joel’s front doorbell and held it down until he opened the door, his face the color and texture of putty. He was wearing silk pajama bottoms and a T-shirt.
“I’m calling the cops. You can’t harass me in my own home.”