I folded my clips into a tidy square, stuck them in my shoulder bag, and left. I couldn’t resist glancing back to see if he’d returned to his magazine, but he was still hiding behind the Sun-Times. I wished I had that much effect on Dick, or even on the goons staking out my apartment.
It was past five by the time I jogged back down Kinzie to the Impala. Too late to tackle Chamfers again. I sat in the car massaging the small of my back; it had kinked up during my research. Jason Felitti sat on the board of U.S. Met and—probably —had steered Du Page County funds there. Now, three years later, Mrs. Frizell had closed her account at the Bank of Lake View and opened one at U.S. Met.
“You only want there to be a connection,” I said sharply to the dashboard. “But it’s a pretty thin thread from Jason Felitti to Todd Pichea.” Although it did run through Richard Yarborough. Maybe Freeman was right—that I did harbor a grudge against Dick—for being a supersuccess while I still struggled to make ends meet. Or for preferring a younger, prettier woman to me?
I didn’t think I minded Teri: she was so much more suited to Dick’s combination of ambition and weakness than I was. But perhaps it did rankle that I had been the promising graduate, third in our class, with a dozen job offers, and now I couldn’t afford a new pair of running shoes. I’d made my own choices, but one’s resentments are seldom rationally grounded. At any rate, I didn’t want to risk proving Freeman right by starting a vendetta against Dick over the kind of business he did.
On that moral high note I started the car and joined the congealing traffic leaving the Loop. It wasn’t until I found myself driving past west side exits on the Stevenson that I figured out where I was going: Naperville, to the Felitti family home.
Chapter 26 - Drinking with the Idle Rich
Naperville, about thirty miles west of the Loop, is one of Chicago’s fastest-growing suburbs. It’s ringed by genteel tract houses on sizable lots—home to the middle managers of Chicago, and to a depressing amount of concrete. Mighty tollways crisscross the southwest suburbs, eating up farmland and leaving steep, jagged cols in their wake.
Inside the concrete stilts and the endless succession of malls, fast-food places, and car dealers sit the remains of the town. A hundred years ago it was a quiet farm community, without much connection to Chicago, beyond a river that carried freight between the city and the Mississippi. A number of people, rich either from the land or the water, built themselves solid Victorian homes there. One of those had belonged to Tiepolo Felitti.
I found the house on Madison Street easily enough, by stopping at the library and asking. Tiepolo was one of Naperville’s illustrious fathers; his home was a local landmark. It was a pale dove-blue, with a small plaque in front explaining its historical interest. Other than that it had no remarkable features. The small front porch held a bench swing, but the house lacked the leaded windows or stained glass that make some Victorian homes interesting. The front door itself was a slab of unadorned wood, painted white to match the rest of the trim.
The house stood on a minute lot typical of the inner town. I could see why Peter had moved to Oak Brook: it gave far more scope for opulence. Would Dick ever have fallen in love with Teri if her father had stayed in this unpretentious place?
“But if it hadn’t been Teri there would have been someone much like her,” I muttered aloud, moving to the doorbell.
“Did you say something?”
I jumped slightly at the voice. I hadn’t heard the man come up the walk behind me. His well-fed, close-shaved face seemed the embodiment of the Chicago politician. I’d somehow always thought of it as a Democratic look, but realized that was because I lacked suburban experience.
“Mr. Felitti?” I smiled in what I hoped was a pleasant way.
“In the flesh. And you’re a welcome surprise to find on my doorstep after a long, hard day.” He looked at his watch. “Been waiting long?”
“Nope. I was hoping to talk to you.”
“Well, come in, come in and tell me what you’re drinking. I’ll fix you up while I check on Mother.”
I hadn’t expected such exuberance. It made my job both harder and easier.
He held the door for me. Naperville apparently hadn’t yet grown to the point that he had to lock it. I felt a twinge of envy, mixed with anger that someone could live the happy, blissful life of not needing two or three dead bolts between himself and the rest of the world.
Jason led me down a long, unfurnished hall. The walls were papered in a faded gold print, apparently unchanged since the house was built. The room he brought me to showed the first signs of the family’s money. It was a study overlooking the small back garden, with a Persian rug in bold reds on the polished wood floor, another in pale-gold silk hanging on the wall, and what looked like a museum trove of small statues strewn among the books.
“Now, you’re not one of those modern girls who only drinks white wine, are you?”