“It’s the age-old story, Mr. Durdon. Person X wants to see Person Y, but Y doesn’t reciprocate. X persists; Y gets an Order of Protection. Good night.”
Durdon stuck a hand in his pocket. I let go of Peppy to reach for my gun, but it turned out just to be his cell phone. He hit a speed dial number and communed with someone. After a moment, he held the phone out to me; I stretched a hand over the dogs for it.
“Ms. Warshawski?” The familiar warm baritone came on the line. “This is Cordell Breen. I’ve asked Durdon to drive you up to my home tonight. We need to talk.”
“Mr. Breen, I pay rent on an office so I can have my evenings at home the same way you do. I went out of my way to visit you at Metargon last week. It’s your turn to show some flexibility.”
“I’m going to use the same argument I did last week. Your place isn’t secure and mine is. I don’t want Homeland Security or my corporate rivals to listen in on me. Alison told me the hoops you jumped her through last night to get some privacy. I’m not going to a dead woman’s basement to talk. You can bring your neighbor; Durdon tells me he’s involved in your business.”
I gave in, only because I wanted to see the Lake Forest home anyway. I handed the phone back to Durdon.
“Want to come with me?” I asked Mr. Contreras. “See how the billionaires live?”
He was delighted and bustled back down the stairs to put the dogs inside his place. I told Durdon we’d meet him out front. I took my mother’s wineglass inside and ran water over my face, hoping it would jolt my brain awake: a long day and two glasses of wine are not the best preparation for a high-wire conversation. I changed Boom-Boom’s jersey for a red knit top, but kept on my worn jeans.
Durdon had arrived in a Maybach sedan. I’d never actually seen one, just heard about them in the way one hears about unicorns. They’re made by Mercedes for people who think a Mercedes is a down-market car. It’s only the pit dog in me that made me wish I’d kept on Boom-Boom’s sweaty jersey.
Durdon was a good driver, the car was well sprung and upholstered. I dozed against the leather headrest, mumbling assent to Mr. Contreras’s running commentary: he’d had a phone call from my cousin Petra. He moved from Petra’s Peace Corps saga to the annoying nature of people like Cordell Breen, who expects people like us to drop everything at his whim.
“You need a union, doll: the bosses never pushed us around when I was a machinist, because they knew there’d be heck to pay with the union if they carried on the way this Breen fella does.”
“Yep,” I agreed. “The detectives union, I like it. We need a strike fund. Any of your horses win today?”
Mr. Contreras sniffed. He bets at an offtrack place over on Belmont, but no matter how carefully he studies the form, he rarely brings home more than twenty dollars on his winning days—which are not as numerous as his losing ones.
We rolled off the Edens Expressway and turned up Green Bay Road. After about ten miles, Durdon swung the Maybach onto a side road. There were no streetlights, but in the headlights I saw we were on the edge of one of the steep ravines that lace this part of the lakefront. The road dead-ended at a set of gates, but Durdon barely slowed—Metargon’s electronics included some type of transmitter for the car that opened the gates while we were still fifteen yards from them.
We cruised up a long drive lined with faux gas lamps. The drive ended at a white-painted brick house. It was three stories high with double wings extending toward the lake. When Durdon stopped next to a porticoed entrance and opened my door, I could hear the lake breaking beyond us in the dark.
Durdon strode to the front door without bothering to see if we were following, so Mr. Contreras and I decided to check out the terrain. I knew I was being juvenile: I’ll show you who’s boss, when I’d already agreed to be here, but Durdon still should have treated us like guests, not servants.
We’d reached a paved terrace on the house’s north side before Durdon realized he’d lost us. When Mr. Contreras and I moved to the center of the terrace, security lights came on; it was easy enough for the driver to sprint over to us.
The lights were bright enough that I saw him for the first time. He was a squarely built man, somewhere in the forties. He might have been nice-looking, but a purple-yellow welt covering his left cheek made it hard to tell.
“Mr. Breen is waiting for you,” he said. “You can’t wander off wherever you want.”
Before I could fire off an appropriate reply, Alison opened one of the doors that led onto the terrace. “Vic! I just learned that Dad summoned you. It’s okay, Durdon, I’ll bring them in through the music room. We’ll let you know when Dad is ready for you to drive them back to the city.”