“The first? Oh, I get you, your ex, you mean. Nope. It was the kid lives across the hall from me. Vinnie Buttone, who’s always giving you such a hard time.”
I sat back on my heels. Vinnie the Banker. That’s how I always thought of him. I just never bothered to wonder which bank. It had to be U.S. Metropolitan Bank and Trust. I whistled through my teeth. Vinnie was tied to Todd and Chrissie. So that connected them to the bank.
I’d have to call to confirm it, of course. But say I was right—U.S. Met was connected to Diamond Head, owned by Jason Felitti, who also sat on the Met board. I could feel the two halves of my brain trying to come together, trying to juggle Chrissie, Vinnie, and Mrs. Frizell with Diamond Head Motors. I couldn’t do it.
I pushed myself upright.
“Where’re you off to, doll? Want to talk to Vinnie? You think maybe he’s a con artist trying to steal their money?”
I laughed. Vinnie was such an uptight, tight-assed little goober, it was hard to see him as a criminal mastermind. Anyway, I wasn’t going to face him until I had some unassailable facts to dangle in front of him. I was sick of getting burned from charging in on people without the ammunition to make them talk.
I explained this to Mr. Contreras. “I’m heading up to O’Hare. I’ve got to get out of town.”
“Where’re you going? Back to Pittsburgh?”
“I don’t know. The Cubs are in Atlanta this weekend. Maybe I’ll just head south and see if I can get a ticket.”
He didn’t like it. He hated letting me out of his sight. But if I stayed in town there’d be at least one more dead body on the police records and maybe more.
Chapter 31 - Last Will and Testament
Fulton County Stadium was a big place compared with Wrigley Field, and not nearly as many fans came out to cheer on the Braves. I had no trouble getting a ticket on Sunday. The Cubs won—in itself a miracle. The boys were having trouble figuring out what game they were suiting up for this summer.
I made a dutiful pilgrimage to Martin Luther King’s birthplace and drank a Ramos gin fizz at Brennan’s. Just separating myself from Chicago for two nights was a help, but I couldn’t get over the dull ache from Lotty’s misery: being estranged from her is like missing a piece of my own body.
I caught a noon flight back to Chicago on Monday. During the el ride back into town I tried to marshal my thoughts back to the work that lay ahead.
I knocked on Mr. Contreras’s door to let him know I was home, but he was out—with his tomatoes, I saw from my kitchen window. I’d forgotten the emergency glazier, but my generous neighbour had swallowed his hurt feelings and let the man in, as a note taped to the new window informed me.
I fiddled with a leftover piece of putty. The only way I know to keep depression at bay is by working. I needed to visit the Bank of Lake View, to try to discover why Mrs. Frizell had moved her account from them. I also wanted to put a little pressure on Ben Loring at Paragon Steel. First, though, I tried the alarm people. I got them just before they closed, but was able to schedule an installation for the next morning.
It was far too late now to go to the bank, but Ben Loring would doubtless still be wrestling away with Paragon Steel’s controls in Lincolnwood. I dialed their number and got put through to Sukey’s deep, sweet voice. I realized I hadn’t learned her last name.
“This is V.I. Warshawski. I was by Friday afternoon to talk to Ben Loring and his pals.”
“Oh, yes, Ms. Warshawski. I remember clearly.”
“I had another question for him. Something I learned after I left.”
“I’m sorry, but he specifically said he didn’t want to talk to you if you called.” Her rich voice conveyed personal regret. Someone ought to be auditioning her for the stage.
“Well, I won’t try to muscle my way past you. But could you tell him I now know that someone at Diamond Head is shipping out spools of Paragon copper wire in the middle of the night? Ask him if he thinks that’s curious, or just a normal part of their business.”
She put me on hold. Five minutes later Ben Loring was rasping at me, demanding to know what the fuck I was talking about, who was I working for, what the hell did I want.
“To share information with you. Are you surprised to hear it?”
He brushed that aside. “How do you know? You got pictures? Proof of any kind?”
“I saw them with my own eyes. I was clinging to one of your spools while it hung from a gantry. In fact, it probably saved my life. So really, I’m calling out of gratitude.”
“Don’t play the cute fool with me, Warshawski—you don’t strike me as the type. Give me some details. And tell me why you’re calling.”