“I understand, I do, but this is nuts. Boom-Boom never dated Annie, not that I ever saw or heard, and even if he had, he wasn’t the jealous, threatening type.”
“As far as you know, and you don’t know what he did when he was out of your sight. Even if he was in love with Ms. Guzzo and wanted to marry her, you don’t respond to this,” Freeman reiterated.
“Has anyone seen this so-called diary? They didn’t show it on the news, you know—just flashed a copy of a typescript. I will put a sample of Annie Guzzo’s handwriting in a safe for now. If we ever get a chance to look at the actual document, I can get a forensic expert to—”
“It doesn’t matter,” Freeman said. “If Stella wants to pursue an exoneration claim, that’s between her and the state. If she wants to say that Boom-Boom was a Chihuahua dressed up in ice skates, and that your father doctored his team photo—let her. Ignore her, ignore her, ignore her. Can you do that?”
“I suppose,” I grumbled.
“I want the words spelled out, Warshawski. I know you.”
“I promise I will not talk to her, go to her house or pay attention to her slanders about my cousin or my parents.”
“Or about you,” Freeman ordered.
“Oh, I don’t care what she says about me,” I assured him. Which was mostly true.
Before Lotty and Max left, Lotty made me lock my gun back into my safe. “I wish you would get rid of it, Victoria,” she fretted. “You know I don’t like these weapons. I’ve taken bullets out of too many children to want people to carry them wantonly.”
I kissed her. “Lotty, I promise I am not going to use it wantonly. I will leave it locked away and will take it out only to go target shooting. Or if my life is in real peril, as opposed to psychically threatened.”
She didn’t like it. Max nodded at her, and she gave a reluctant assent, but her footsteps dragged as she followed him to the front door.
My phone continued to ring as calls started coming in from Asian outlets. I changed my message to refer callers to Freeman’s office and turned the voice mail to outgoing message only, then went with Jake to spend the night in his place.
“I wish we could get attention like that for High Plainsong,” Jake said. “Maybe if I murdered someone we’d find a new revenue stream.”
“Don’t tempt me, caro: I could send you out with a gun and an address,” I said.
We made love, but Jake got up again to work on a tricky passage in a piece the group had commissioned. When Jake is nervous or depressed, he plays for hours. When I’m nervous or depressed, I want to shoot people. I fell asleep with his bass making deep soothing noises from the living room.
In my dreams, my mother and Stella were singing Cherubini’s Medea together, not on an opera stage, but on the hockey rink at the old Stadium. Boom-Boom was sitting next to me in the front row. Annie appeared from nowhere, in the manner of dreams, and my cousin and I watched, paralyzed, while Stella stabbed her. When Gabriella tried to pull her away, Annie’s arm came off. The crowd roared its approval; hockey fans love blood. Stella and my aunt Marie pointed accusatory fingers at Gabriella, while in front of them Annie bled to death.
I woke with my heart racing, sweat drenching my T-shirt. By the time I’d calmed down, I was thoroughly awake. Jake was sleeping soundly next to me. It was five-fifteen; dawn was coming. I might as well get back to my own place and face the day.
While I waited for the espresso machine to heat, I turned on my laptop to look at the messages from my answering service. Forty-seven media queries had come in overnight, including four from Murray. I sent my service an e-mail, saying to tell everyone I had no comment and that I would not be returning press calls.
When I checked my e-mail, I found hundreds of messages. Seven from Murray, ranging from belligerent to begging (Come on, Warshawski, you know the rules of the game, don’t pull this kind of stunt on me . . . Please, Vic, we’ve been friends for so many years, don’t shoot the messenger). He was right, but I wasn’t feeling very forgiving yet.
I recognized some names from local news shows, but many of the addresses included country codes: Serbia, Russia, Kazakhstan—Boom-Boom would be pleased to know his fame lived on in the hockey world.
Pierre Fouchard had also left an e-mail. I see you’ve turned your phone over to the lawyers, but what is this filth they are spreading about Boom-Boom? I talked to Bernadine, but she can tell me nothing. Call me, Victoria: I can be in Chicago in two hours. Those of us who played with Boom-Boom know this is the worst of lies, so tell me what you need. Muscle? Love? Money? All at your disposal.
I reached him at the Canadiens front office.
“Victoria! These crapules, what are they trying to accomplish?”