“I’m in South Chicago. I want to talk to the minister again, and also to Sandra Czernin. Maybe Josie Dorrado told April where she and Billy were running to.”
“Vic, you’ll look after yourself, won’t you? You won’t take stupid risks? You’re not in top physical shape, and—I’m useless right now.”
The last sentence came out with unaccustomed bitterness. Morrell had not uttered one complaint about his disability since he’d come home. He worked doggedly on his physical therapy, put as much energy as he had into his book and looking after his contacts, but, for the first time, I saw how hard it was for him to feel unable to help me if I got into trouble.
I promised to call him if I was going to be a minute later than seven-thirty. When I’d hung up, I frowned at the phone. Something had clicked at the back of my mind when I answered Morrell’s call. Before I could ferret around for it, the phone rang again.
It was Conrad, wanting to know if Morrell would have ditched Marcena’s computer to keep the cops from looking at it. “He says his place was busted, but how can I know he’s telling the truth? I sent my detective up just in case, but anyone can throw their papers around.”
I burst out laughing, which miffed Conrad. “Morrell just asked me the very same question about you. Now at least I know you’re both telling the truth.”
Conrad laughed reluctantly, but added what Morrell and I had already been discussing, that someone thought Marcena’s notes mattered. Which meant Morrell shouldn’t hang out alone anywhere because whoever had come into his place after the computer might think Marcena had confided in him.
A shiver ran through my body. When we’d finished, I called Morrell again and told him if he was home alone, to put on a chain bolt. “And look out where you park; don’t come into your condo through the alley for a while, okay?”
“I’m not going to start living in fear, V. I. It’s mentally exhausting. I’ll take sensible precautions, but I’m not going to find a concrete bunker to hide in.”
“Morrell, I saw Marcena and Bron. Whoever attacked them has a very ugly imagination, and a disposition to match. Don’t be an idiot!”
“Oh, Christ, Vic, don’t you go telling me not to be an idiot when you’re down there on the South Side where it all happened. If you’re attacked again—”
He broke off, unwilling to complete the sentence. We both hung up without saying anything else.
32
Time to Nail the Pastor to the Cross
The construction crew had made good progress on the four little houses where the pastor was working. One seemed finished, while the second, where I’d found Andrés two weeks ago, now had a bright red front door. The remaining two were still skeletons of poured concrete with a few boards outlining their ultimate shape.
As I’d driven across the South Side, I’d kept worrying about the break-in at Morrell’s. I’d tried to imagine what Marcena knew that someone wanted to keep quiet. I had warned Morrell to use caution in case her assailants came after him, but someplace between Torrence, where I’d turned north, and Eighty-ninth, which led me east to the construction area, I’d realized that people might think I knew Marcena’s secrets also. After all, both of us were sleeping at Morrell’s, and I’d introduced her to Bron. I saw again her swollen, bleeding body, and started looking nervously in my rearview mirror every few seconds. My gold Mustang would be very easy to track.
When I got to the jobsite, I drove on without slowing and parked two blocks away. The deserted streets would make tailing hard if someone was tailing me. By the time I got to the little houses, I was confident I was alone.
I put on my hard hat and walked through the red door without knocking. The familiar sounds of saws, hammers, and shouted Spanish echoed around the empty rooms. Drywall was complete in the entryway, but the stairwell was still naked. I asked the first man I saw for Andrés; he jerked a thumb over his shoulder.
I went down a minute hall and found Andrés in what was going to be the kitchen. He was trying to work wires through a large section of flex pipe, shouting in Spanish through an opening in the floor to a man feeding wiring in from below. He didn’t look up when I came into the room.
I waited until he was finished wrestling before I spoke. “Pastor Andrés, we need to talk.”
“You came to Sunday’s service, Miss Detective. Have you come here today to make a commitment to Jesus? I am happy to stop for such an event.”
I squatted next to him on the raw floorboards. “Bron Czernin was killed late Monday night.”
“I am always sad at the needless death of one of God’s children.” Andrés’s voice was calm, but his eyes were wary. “Especially when he has died without turning to Jesus.”
“I don’t think his priest will deny him a Christian burial.”