“My husband wasn’t a hockey fan, but he liked young Warshawski. Anyway, he came home Tuesday night—yesterday morning that would be—and told me some uppity white girl was telling him to look after the boy’s apartment. That was you.” She nodded again. I didn’t say anything.
“Now Henry did not need anybody telling him how to do his job.” She gave an angry half sob and controlled herself again. “But you told him special not to let anyone into your cousin’s apartment. So you must have known something was going on. Is that right?”
I looked at her steadily and shook my head. “The day man, Hinckley, had let someone into the apartment without my knowing about it ahead of time. There were things there that some crazy fan would find valuable—his hockey stick, stuff like that—and legal documents I didn’t want anyone else going through.”
“You didn’t know someone was going to break in like that?”
“No, Mrs. Kelvin. If I’d had any suspicion of such a thing I would have taken greater precautions.”
She compressed her lips. “You say you had no suspicion. Yet you took it upon yourself to tell my husband how to do his job.”
“I didn’t know your husband, Mrs. Kelvin. I’d never met him. So I couldn’t see whether he was the kind of person who took his work seriously. I wasn’t trying to tell him how to do his job, just trying to safeguard the interests my cousin left to my charge.”
“Well, he told me, he said, ‘I don’t know who that girl’—that’s you—‘thinks is going to try to get into that place. But I got my eye on it.’ So he plays the hero, and he gets killed. But you say you weren’t expecting anything special.”
“I’m sorry,” I said.
“Sorry doesn’t bring the dead back to life.”
After she left I sat for a long time without doing anything. I did feel in a way as though I had sent the old man to his death. He got my goat Tuesday, acting like I was a talking elevator door or something. But he’d taken what I said seriously—more seriously than I had. He must have kept a close watch on the twenty-second floor from his TV console and seen someone go into my cousin’s place. Then he’d gone up after him. The rest was unpleasantly clear.
It was true I’d had no reason to think anyone would be going into Boom Boom’s apartment, let alone be so desperate to find something he’d kill for it. Yet it had happened, and I felt responsible. It seemed to me I had a murdered man’s death to investigate.
Paige Carrington’s answering service took my phone call. I didn’t leave a message but looked up the address for the Windy City Balletworks: 5400 N. Clark. I stopped on the way for a sandwich and a Coke.
The Balletworks occupied an old warehouse between a Korean restaurant and a package goods store. The warehouse was dingy on the outside but had been refinished within. An empty hallway with a clapboard box office was lined with pictures of the Windy City ballerinas in various roles. The company did some standard pieces, including a lot of Balanchine, but it also experimented with its own choreography. Paige was on the wall as a cowgirl in Rodeo, as Bianca in Taming of the Shrew, and in her own light comic role in Clark Street Fantasy. I’d seen that piece twice.
The auditorium was to the left. A little sign outside it announced that a rehearsal was in progress. I slipped in quietly and joined a handful of people seated in the house. Onstage someone was clapping her hands and calling for quiet.
“We’ll take it from the scherzo entrance again. Karl, you’re coming in a second behind the beat. And, Paige, you want to stay downstage until the grand jete. Places, please.”
The dancers wore a motley collection of garments, their legs covered with heavy warmers to prevent muscle cramps. Paige had on a bronze leotard with matching leg warmers. Her dark hair was pulled back from her face in a ponytail. She looked about sixteen from where I sat.
Someone operated a fancy tape deck in front of the stage. The music began. The piece was a jarring modern one and the choreography matched it, a dance on the depravity of modern urban life. Karl, entering on time in what was apparently the scherzo movement—hard to tell amidst all the wailing and jangling—seemed to be dying of a heroin overdose. Paige arrived on the scene seconds ahead of the narc squad, watched him die, and departed. I didn’t pick all that up right away, but I got to see the thing six times before the director was satisfied with it.
A little after five the director dismissed the troupe, reminding them that they had a rehearsal at ten in the morning and a performance at eight the next night. I moved up front with the other members of the audience. We followed the dancers backstage; no one questioned our right to be there.
Following the sound of voices, I stuck my head into a dressing room. A young woman pulling a leotard from her freckled body asked me what I wanted. I told her I was looking for Paige.
“Oh, Paige … She’s in the soloists’ dressing-room—three doors down on your left.”