And why should I, for even less money than the cops? I imagined the conversation with my accountant. Because my professional pride was wounded: I’d been watching when the factory went up in flames. What should I have seen if I’d been paying closer attention?
Of course, Cheviot had just the expert I needed; he’d get her to give me a call to set up an appointment. Just so I knew, the company billed her time at two hundred dollars an hour. That was good to know: it was good to know I was sinking thousands of dollars into an investigation I hadn’t been hired to take on while I abandoned the business that made money for me.
If I didn’t finish three background checks for Darraugh Graham, my most important client, I’d be living on cat food in an alley pretty soon, and not the good stuff, either. I tapped my teeth with my pencil, trying to figure out how to juggle it all, then remembered Amy Blount. She’d earned a Ph.D. in economic history a year or so ago; while she looked for a full-time academic appointment, she sometimes did research projects for me, among other odd jobs she found. Fortunately enough, she was free, and willing, to pull things together in my office for a few days. We agreed to meet at nine in the morning to go over my caseload.
I walked aimlessly around the big room. Who had been gunning for Marcena, and why? Was it because of her that Bron had been killed or because of Bron that she’d been attacked? When we were talking to Conrad, Morrell had said she’d had a couple of meetings with Buffalo Bill Bysen since our initial prayer meeting two weeks ago. She’d presumably used her father’s imaginary war experience as her entrée, but maybe they’d touched on something relevant. Buffalo Bill had crashed my apartment, and the Mt. Ararat church service; I could drive out to Rolling Meadows and tackle him unawares.
It was an appealing thought, but I didn’t have enough information to put any questions to him. Fly the Flag was connected to By-Smart because they were manufacturing for the behemoth, first flags and now sheets. I wondered if Buffalo Bill paid enough attention to small details to look at sheets or if that was something that Jacqui handled. I could talk to Jacqui, anyway.
Billy the Kid was connected to Bron and Marcena because he had given Bron his cell phone, and Morrell’s flask, which Marcena was using, had been in Billy’s car. Billy was connected to Fly the Flag because he was dating Josie. Had run away with Josie. I hoped. I hoped she was with him and not—I shut my mind: I didn’t want to imagine the horrible alternatives.
Where were those two kids? Maybe Josie had confided in April. I picked up my phone to call Sandra Czernin and then decided it would be easier to talk to her in person, especially if I wanted to speak to her daughter. I owed her a courtesy visit, anyway, since I’d been the person who found her dead husband. And I wanted to talk to Pastor Andrés. It was time for him to answer a few direct questions. Like, was that chavo connected to the fire? And where did he hang out? I’d round out my afternoon in South Chicago with a visit to Patrick Grobian—Billy had had a meeting with the warehouse manager sometime just before he disappeared.
I put my labeled files into a drawer and collected what I needed for an afternoon in the cold. I was wearing a parka, bulkier and much less chic than my navy coat, but maybe better for standing on a street corner on a cold day. This time, I remembered gloves, or, rather, mittens: my fingers were still so sore and swollen from Tuesday night’s escapade that I couldn’t work my gloves over them. If I needed to use my gun, I’d be in trouble. I took it with me, though: whoever had attacked Bron and Marcena had a scary imagination. Binoculars, phone book, peanut butter sandwiches, a flask of coffee. What else did I need? A new battery for my flashlight, which Mr. Contreras had left in my car, and my picklocks.
I’d told Morrell I’d be doing desk work today; I thought about calling to say I’d changed my mind, but I didn’t want to go into a long discussion of what I felt fit enough to do. If I were truthful, I’d have to admit that twenty-four hours in the hospital hadn’t been enough for me to feel fully recuperated. And if I were smart, I’d go home and rest until I did feel fit enough again. I hoped this didn’t mean I was dishonest and stupid.
“It’s a long and dusty road. / It’s a hard and heavy load,” I sang to myself as I picked up the southbound expressway. I was getting very tired of this route, the leaden sky, the dirty buildings, the endless traffic, and then, after the eastbound cutoff from the Ryan, the ruined neighborhood that used to be my home.