Even with stopping at my own place to walk the dogs and collect some wine, I managed to make it to Morrell’s by six o’clock. It felt luxurious to have a free evening ahead of me. Morrell had promised to make dinner. We’d lounge in front of a fire, not letting the break-in or Marcena’s injuries worry us. Maybe we’d even toast marshmallows.
My romantic fantasies crashed to the ground when I got to Morrell’s: his editor had flown in from New York to see Marcena. When Don Strzepek and Morrell had met in the Peace Corps, Marcena had been there also, a university student traveling around the world, seeking out danger spots with the idea of doing a book. Morrell apparently had called Don yesterday to tell him about Marcena’s injuries, and Don wanted to see her in person; he’d arrived ten minutes ago.
“I’m sorry I didn’t let you know, darling.” Morrell didn’t sound very penitent.
Don kissed my cheek. “You know what they say—forgiveness is easier to get than permission.”
I forced myself to laugh: Don and I had clashed a couple of years ago, and we still tread warily around each other.
He and Morrell were going to drive down to Cook County as soon as we’d eaten, although Morrell had been to the hospital this afternoon. Marcena still lay in a coma, but the doctors were encouraged by her vital signs and thought they might start waking her up over the weekend.
“Where are her parents?” Don asked.
“I’ve called,” Morrell said. “They’re in India, on vacation. Her father’s secretary promised to track them down—I’m sure they’ll be here as soon as they get the word.”
I was glad to know Marcena’s vital signs looked good. “No one bothered you while you were out?” I asked Morrell.
“Bothered you?” Don asked.
Morrell explained about the break-in and the theft of Marcena’s computer. “So it’s good you’re staying here, Strzepek, because we need someone able-bodied around the house.”
“Vic can fight twice her weight in charging rhinos,” Don said.
“When she’s fit—she’s taken a few knocks of her own lately.”
They joked about it some more—Don is a weedy guy, a heavy smoker, who doesn’t look as though he could fight his weight in pillows—then Morrell said seriously, “I do think someone was following me this afternoon. I had to take a cab to the hospital, of course, and the driver actually mentioned that the same green LeSabre had been behind us since we left Evanston.”
He gave a tight, unhappy smile. “Maybe I should have been paying attention myself, but when you’re not driving you forget about things like looking in the rearview mirror. Going home, I did keep watching, and I think someone was there, different car—couldn’t make out the model, maybe a Toyota, but once I went in my front door they took off.”
“But that doesn’t make sense,” I objected. “Unless—they could have a remote listening device, I suppose, so they know when you’re leaving, and what you’re saying when you’re here.”
He looked startled, then angry. “How dare they? And who the hell are ‘they,’ anyway?”
“I don’t know. Police? Carnifice Security, seeing whether we know where Billy is?” I lowered my voice to a murmur just in case. “Did you find out anything from the neighbors?”
“Ms. Jamison saw a strange man letting himself into the building when she was out with Tosca. That was around six this morning.” Tosca was Ms. Jamison’s Sealyham. “Well-dressed white man around thirty-five or forty, she just assumed he was a friend of mine because he had a key that worked in the lock.”
Morrell practically runs a B and B for his globe-trotting reporter friends—Marcena wasn’t the first person I’d shared his time and space with. Another reason to wonder about living together. Aside from the sin, of course, I thought, remembering Pastor Andrés’s stern warnings about Josie and Billy.
Morrell was still speculating on who could have gotten a front door key to his condo, but I interrupted to say it was too big a universe. “Your building manager, the Realtor, one of your old friends. Maybe even Don, here, if he has a pressed suit someplace in his wardrobe. Really, though, the guy probably had some kind of master device that Ms. Jamison didn’t see him use, a sophisticated electronic tumbler pick. That kind of device is out of my price range, but an outfit like Carnifice probably gives them away as door prizes at the company picnic. The FBI has them, or—well, any big operation. The real question is why they’re not doing anything except watching. Maybe they are waiting for us to find out what Marcena knew—maybe if we start acting, we’ll prove to them we learned what she knew and then they’ll move in for the kill.”
“Victoria, I can’t possibly follow that logic,” Morrell said. “Why don’t we forget about it while we eat.”