No—he’d gone into the lobby and found Elena and Cerise sitting there on Elena’s duffel bag. They’d come with their tale of Cerise’s baby, hoping they could use me to screw a little money from the insurance company. Then they’d seen Michael, put some heat on him. They’d seen him hanging around the Indiana Arms before the fire, had to be. He had the connection to Roland Montgomery. He’d be the one the pals would turn to when they wanted a building torched. Why the pals were involved I couldn’t say, except that they did favors for Boots in exchange for contracts. And Michael did favors for the pals because they were all good old boys from the neighborhood.
So Elena recognized him when he came into the lobby after Boots’s party. She told him she loved boys with gorgeous eyes and she wouldn’t tell anyone she’d recognized him if he’d just help her out, give her a little something so she could buy a drink.
He gave them the bracelet, that was the payoff, but the next day he hunted out Cerise and took her to the Rapelec site, got her shot full of heroin, left her to die. No, that wasn’t quite it. He’d gotten the heroin to someone— maybe to the pals or to their night manager. August Cray! The registered agent for Farmworks was also the night manager at the Rapelec site.
Anyway, Michael thought he could get the bracelet back but Cerise didn’t have it. That was why Bobby’s unit was there so fast once the night watchman had spotted her—he had to be the first person to see her. Another police officer might be able to identify the bracelet if she had it on her.
But then? It didn’t explain everything, but it made a certain amount of horrible sense. He needed to find Elena to get her quiet, too, but she’d skipped. When I told her about Cerise she’d hunted him out someplace and he’d said enough to make her know he’d killed Cerise. She’d run for cover. So his whole story about her trying to turn tricks in Uptown, that was made up. Bobby never asked him to find her. That was why Furey had made such a big deal out of my not calling to ask him.
My legs were cotton. They kept bending when I tried walking on them. I had to get to the Streeter Brothers fast—I couldn’t leave Elena out on the loose for Furey to find and pick off at will.
I forced myself to wobble over to the phone. When I dialed their number I reached their answering machine. I left a message, trying to sound urgent without being hysterical, and gave them Lotty’s number to use in the morning.
When I hung up I tried Murray again; he was still out prowling someplace. I checked the street from my window. The man with the dog had disappeared. A few other people were strolling along the block, coming back from their workouts or heading for dinner. I didn’t believe any of them were emissaries of Ralph MacDonald with orders to garrote me on sight, but I still waited behind the blinds until I saw Lotty’s new Camry screech to a halt in front of my building.
Before going downstairs I called Mr. Contreras to let him know his vigilance wouldn’t be required.
He was a tad miffed that I would sleep at Lotty’s but not with him. “Anyway, just because you’re not home don’t mean someone won’t try to sneak in to hit you on the head when you get back. I think me and princess’ll keep up our patrol anyway.”
Calling to tell him my plans was the farthest I could stretch my humanitarian impulses—I couldn’t summon the courtesy to thank him for immolating himself so unnecessarily. It’s true he’d saved my life last winter, but it didn’t make me any more eager to include him in my work. I trotted downstairs, waved cursorily at the dog and Mr. Contreras when they popped their heads into the hall, and got quickly into the car. I hate feeling scared—it makes me run when I’d much rather be walking.
“So you’ve ruined that Chevy of yours with your reckless driving?” was Lotty’s greeting.
I opened my mouth to retort, then shut it as Lotty made a rakish U in front of a Sun-Times delivery van. The driver braked so hard that a bundle of papers flew onto the side-walk. Lotty ignored his mad honking and cursing with an imperiousness worthy of her ancestors—she once told me they’d been advisers to the Hapsburgs.
Lotty drives as if she were responsible for an ambulance during the Blitz—she sees the roads filled with enemy aircraft that she’s either dodging or beating to a likely target. She insists on buying standard transmissions because that’s what she grew up with, but strips the gears so mercilessly that this was her third car in eight years. Like all rotten drivers, she thinks she’s the only person who has a legitimate right to the road. By the time we’d gone the two miles to her apartment, I was thinking I should have stayed home and taken my chances with Ralph MacDonald.
When we stopped the Camry hiccoughed softly—it knew better than to complain too loudly to her. I followed her meekly into her building, up to the second floor, where a brilliant display of color always knocks me back on my heels when I haven’t been there for a time. Lotty dresses in severely tailored clothes—dark skirts, crisp white shirts or sober black knits. It’s in her home that her intense personality emerges in rich reds and oranges.