“By which time she’ll be dead and it won’t matter what he does with her estate,” I said savagely.
The attorney raised supercilious eyebrows. “If you find any grounds for questioning Mr. Pichea’s probity, you can come back to see me. But I’m going to have to report your inquiries to him; as the guardian, he needs to know who shows an interest in his ward’s affairs.”
I felt my eyeballs bulging with frustration, but forced an affable smile to my lips. “I’d be glad for Pichea to know I’m interested. In fact, you can tell him I’ll be sticking to him like his underwear. There’s always the faint chance that will keep him honest.”
To make my morning as useless as possible I stopped across the street at the city’s Department of Human Services to find out why they’d labeled Mrs. Frizell’s dogs a menace to her health. The bureaucrats there weren’t as hostile as the ones at the probate court; they were merely lethargic. When I identified myself as a lawyer with an interest in Mrs. Frizell’s affairs, they dug up the report that had been filed with emergency services when the paramedics picked her up last Monday. Apparently Mr. Contreras hadn’t scrubbed down the front hall well enough: one of the paramedics had trod in “fecal matter,” as the report identified it, on her way out the door.
“That was just because Mrs. Frizell had been lying unconscious for twenty-four hours. She couldn’t let the dogs out. The rest of the house was clean.”
“The rest of the house was filthy, according to our report,” the woman behind the counter said.
I flushed. “So she hadn’t vacuumed lately. The dogs hadn’t relieved themselves except by the door. She was very conscientious about letting them out.”
“Our report says otherwise.”
We batted it back and forth for a while, but I couldn’t budge her. Helplessness was making me feel savage, but screaming obscenities would only hurt my cause. I finally got the woman to give me the name of the public servant who’d made up the report, but by now there wasn’t any point in seeking him out.
As I hiked across the Loop to my office I wondered whether I could file a multimillion-dollar suit against Pichea and the city on Mrs. Frizell’s behalf. The problem was, I didn’t have standing. My best bet would be to find out something really disgusting about Todd and Chrissie. Other than their personalities, that is—something that would disgust a judge and jury.
Tom Czarnik was waiting for me in the lobby of the Pulteney Building. He hadn’t shaved today. With his bristly chin and angry red eyes he looked like an extra from Mutiny on the Bounty.
“Was you in here on Sunday?” he demanded.
I smiled. “I pay my rent. I can come and go when I please without your permission.”
“Someone left the stairwell door unlocked. I knew it had to be you.”
“You track my footsteps through the layers of dust? Maybe I’ll take you on; I could use a sharp-eyed assistant.” I turned toward the elevator. “Machine working today? Or do I use the stairs again?”
“I’m warning you, Warshawski. You interfere with the safety of the building and I’ll report you to the owners.”
I pushed the elevator call button. “You get rid of a paying tenant and they’re more likely to lynch you.” Half the offices in the Pulteney were empty these days—people who could afford the rents were moving north to newer buildings.
The elevator creaked to the ground floor and I climbed in. The squeak of the shutting doors drowned Czarnik’s farewell curse. When we clanked to a halt on the fourth floor I discovered his rather childish revenge: he’d used his master key to open my door, and propped it wide with an iron weight.
When I checked with my answering service I found Murray had returned my call. Max Loewenthal had also phoned, asking if I’d stop at his house for drinks tonight. His son and Or‘ Nivitsky were leaving for Europe in the morning. And I had a message from a company in Schaumburg wanting to know who was slipping their production secrets to a competitor.
I called Max to accept with pleasure. The serenity of his Evanston home would make a welcome relief from the places and people I’d been seeing lately. I phoned the Schaumburg outfit and arranged to see their operations vice president at two. And I caught Murray at his desk. He agreed to meet me for a sandwich at a place near the paper, but he wasn’t enthusiastic about my story.
Lucy Moynihan, who owns and runs Carl’s, plucked us from the line at the door and ushered us to one of the tables she saves for her regulars. She grew up in Detroit and is an unregenerate Tiger fan, so I had to wait for her and Murray to finish dissecting yesterday’s game before I could tell him about Mrs. Frizell and her dogs.