I saw that I’d added some razor-edged teeth to my earlier cartoon of a rabbit. Bugs Bunny’s evil twin, ready to eviscerate someone’s viscera. “Mr. Breen says that Princess Fitora has defense applications.”
Liu sucked in a breath. “If the old man is going to talk out of school, he has a heck of a nerve—never mind, forgot what I was about to say.”
“To chew you out for dropping the ball on Martin’s disappearance,” I finished for him. “He told me his daughter is in Mexico; a drug dealer who’s connected to my inquiries was down there four days ago. Did you see any signs that Alison might be—”
“Drugs? Alison? No way. And don’t you dare suggest that to Cordell—you’d be in court so fast your body would be a mile behind your feet. What’s Martin’s connection to drugs?”
“I didn’t say he was connected to drugs; I said that there’s a dealer connected to my inquiry into him. No one is telling me anything, Mr. Liu; I have to ask whatever questions I can to get a handle on this investigation, even if they annoy you or Mr. Breen.”
“If you have any evidence that Martin is a drug user—”
“You’re sure that Alison Breen doesn’t do drugs, but after spending almost two years as Martin Binder’s supervisor, you don’t know whether he does? Something isn’t computing here.”
Liu paused, then said stiffly, “I’m sure Martin never came to work high, but he’s a very guarded young man. He could conceal a drug problem pretty easily.”
“You’re a bright computer wizard, Mr. Liu, but you’re also a skilled corporate ball player. I’m sure as soon as we’re done, you’ll be shooting an e-mail to Cordell Breen, suggesting he alert the FBI to Martin’s possible habit.”
I added a machine gun to my razor-toothed rabbit. “If it turns out you’ve slandered Martin, I won’t threaten to take you to court so fast your clothes will leave your body, but I might find another way of reminding you that everyone in this country has a right to privacy. And a right to be thought innocent until proven guilty. We may wake up tomorrow to find the Bill of Rights applies only to the one percent, but until that happens, Martin gets the same benefit of the doubt as Alison.”
“You’re right, of course,” Liu said quietly. “I’m sorry, but I’ve known Alison since she was twelve. I only met Martin two years ago. Of course I’m biased, more by my long relationship with her than by her family’s money.”
I sort of apologized—I didn’t trust his judgment about Alison any more than I did about Martin, but I couldn’t afford to cut off communication lines to Metargon. When he hung up, I clicked on my e-mail. Sure enough, Liu had sent me a head shot, in which Martin looked sober, even anxious. His face had matured but he hadn’t filled out much from the skinny kid at the science fair with his grandfather. Jari Liu had included a second, informal shot of Martin demonstrating something to his other team members. With his high cheekbones and dark curly hair, he looked exotic, like a Cossack, perhaps, certainly erotically appealing. Maybe Alison Breen had tucked him into her suitcase and carried him to Mexico City with her.
I printed out a dozen copies of both pictures. I’d start tomorrow at the commuter bus stop near Martin’s home, go to the Skokie Swift, see what else I could see.
I turned my attention back to Darraugh Graham’s assignment. I was in the middle of a complicated conversation with a uranium mine manager when Jeanine Susskind called on my other line. Martin Binder’s friend’s mother, I remembered, missing a couple of sentences from my Canadian contact.
I called Jeanine back as soon as I finished with the miner.
“We found that book that Martin gave Voss to return; you wanted to know the title—it was The Secret Diary of a Cold War Conscientious Objector: Arnold Zachny and the American View. We owed five dollars in fines on it and they tried to make me pay for the damage that Martin had done to the book. Never have a teenager, Ms. Warshawski.”
I could safely promise everyone that there was little likelihood of my taking on that particular challenge. When Jeanine hung up, I looked up the title. I could see why Voss had found the cover startling; it showed the Statue of Liberty, her mouth taped shut and a hammer and sickle plunged into her heart.
I dimly remembered the American View, one of the few national publications produced in Chicago. Like The Atlantic, it had been a monthly with a mildly liberal opinion page, publishing short fiction and essays on people or current events. My parents didn’t subscribe to magazines, but I used to read the View sometimes in the law school library when I was working on my JD.