I didn’t say anything. Bobby was leaving something out; I could hear it in the silences, in the awkward ways he was choosing his words.
“I got him out of Englewood as soon as I could, okay?” he said, close to shouting.
“Okay,” I said, very quiet. “I always thought it was the Second Area torture ring that did him in, but my phone call was so specific to South Chicago. Did my dad do something that bent Rory Scanlon out of shape?”
“Scanlon was helping your cousin get his career off the ground. He wouldn’t have done that if he’d had a beef with your dad, or vice versa,” Bobby said sharply.
“Scanlon does a lot of youth work,” I said. “He likes adolescent boys who are involved in sports.”
“A man can care about kids without there being anything dirty involved,” Bobby growled.
“Tony wouldn’t have stood for it,” I said. “It’s the only thing I can think of—Scanlon’s the one person I’ve been talking to who knew Tony from the neighborhood—you know Tony never served at the South Chicago district, but of course people in the neighborhood came to him, used him as a kind of unofficial ombudsman with the Department.”
“I called to see if you were all right, not to hear you digging up filth about a guy who has stayed in a neighborhood that most people with a choice ran away from. Including you.”
“Yeah, I’m the original turncoat. Everyone is reminding me of it. What about Elgin Grigsby?”
“Judge Grigsby?” Bobby sputtered. “Why not the governor? Why not the president? Why limit your accusations to local figures?”
My nose started to bleed again. I tilted my head back, advice from Lotty, and walked to the hallway refrigerator I share with Tessa for more ice.
“Or Ira Previn,” I said. “The priest at the local parish, he was cordial the first time I saw him, but now he’s eyeing me as if I were, I don’t know, Martina Luther. The guy who was found in the pet coke three days ago did odd jobs at the church, and he hung out with someone named Boris Nabiyev, who looks—”
“Vicki! What the hell are you doing in that rat burrow? How do you know Fugher hung out with Nabiyev?”
Bobby knew Fugher’s name, which was interesting: I hadn’t said it, but that meant it was a high-profile case. Or maybe it was the hideous and unusual circumstances of his death.
“I saw them together,” I said.
“Does Conrad Rawlings know that?” he demanded.
“I might not have mentioned it to him,” I said, annoyed that my voice sounded small.
“I’m hanging up. I’m hanging up so you can call the Fourth District and tell Lieutenant Rawlings. Nabiyev is one of the pieces of garbage the Russians tossed our way when the Iron Curtain rusted away. We’ve never been able to make anything stick against him, but I can name at least seven murders I am dead sure he committed. All of them as ugly or uglier as putting a man into a heap of coal dust to suffocate to death. You do not go near him. You stay far away from him and leave him to people who wear body armor and have thirteen thousand officers who will come to their aid if they’re in trouble.”
He hung up. I called Conrad, who started the conversation with a genial question about my health after last night’s attack. However, when he heard about Nabiyev, and that I hadn’t told him when I saw him earlier in the week, he shouted that if the Insane Dragons hadn’t already broken my nose he’d drive up to Humboldt Park and do it for me.
“I don’t know why you think you can say the first thing that comes into your head when you talk to me,” I said, “but threatening me or anyone with violence is vile. If you ever say anything like that to me again, we will never speak unless we are in court at the same time.”
He paused. “I’m sorry, Vic, but—crap! Nabiyev! He’s Uzbeki Mob, he’s—”
“No excuse for threatening me,” I snapped. “I didn’t know his name when you and I talked, nor that he was with the Mob—which I only just learned this second from Captain Mallory. Besides which, you were skating a pretty thin line with me, dragging me across town, treating me like a hostile witness, then dropping me twenty miles from home without a car but with a smart-assed comment. I’m tired of this behavior. It’s been eight years since you took a bullet that you wouldn’t have taken if you’d treated my investigation with respect. Get over it.”
He apologized stiffly. “Can you prove that Nabiyev was with Fugher?”
I texted him the photo I’d taken outside Wrigley Field.
“Before you hang up, how are you involved with him, anyway?” Conrad asked.
“I’m not. I’m looking for Fugher’s nephew, who’s been missing for over a week.”
And whose path very easily could have crossed Nabiyev’s, since both worked at the same job site.