“Does that mean you won’t talk about Paragon?” I kept the grin plastered to my face.
‘“Fraid so. I expected this interview to be about personal matters and I’m all set to talk about those.” He made an ostentatious business of looking at his watch.
“Okay. If we have to talk about people and not about money, how about the guy who got killed down by Diamond Head last week? Can’t get much more personal than death, can you?”
“What?” He’d been tilting his head back to drain the last few drops from the glass. His hand shook and the gin splashed his shirt front. “Nobody told me anyone died down there. What are you talking about?”
“Mitch Kruger, Mr. Felitti. Name ring a bell?”
He stared at me aggressively. “Should it?”
“I don’t know. You keep telling me you don’t take much part in the business side down there. But what about the personal, since that’s your forte? Do you direct them to hire investigators? Beat up doctors? Dump old men into the San?” I guess I was too tired for finesse.
“Who are you, anyway?” he demanded. “You’re not with Chicago Life, that’s for damn sure.”
“What about the attack on Dr. Herschel? Did Chamfers organize that? Did you know about it in advance?”
“I never heard of Dr. whoever, and I’m getting damned sure I never heard of you. What’s your name?”
“V. I. Warshawski. Does that ring any bells?”
His face reddened. “I thought you were the girl from the magazine, Maggie. She was coming out this afternoon. I’d sure as hell never let you in my house if I’d known who you were.”
“It’s a help, Mr. Felitti, that you know who I am. Because that means that Chamfers has discussed me with you. And that means you are just a bit involved with what your company does. All I want is to talk to Chamfers— about Mitch Kruger. Since you’re a director, you could make it so easy for me.”
“But I don’t want to make it easy for you. Get the hell out of my house—before I call the cops and make you leave.”
At least he had stopped laughing, an enormous relief. I finished the whisky.
“I’m going,” I said, getting up. “Oh, there was one last question. About U.S. Met. What did you have to offer an old lady that would make her close her account in her neighborhood bank and move it to Met? You guys are notorious for not paying interest on your accounts, but you must have told her something.”
“You’re off your rocker. I’m not going to call the cops—I’m going to get the boys from Elgin to come with a straitjacket. I don’t know anything about U.S. Met and I don’t know why you come busting into my house asking about it.”
“You’re a director, Mr. Felitti,” I said reproachfully. “I’m sure their insurance company would like to think you knew what the bank was up to. You know, for directors’ and officers’ liability claims.”
The red in his face had subsided. “You’re talking to the wrong person. I’m not clever enough to think of bank marketing plans. Ask anyone. But not on my premises.”
I didn’t think I was going to make any progress by staying. I put my empty glass on the desk.
“But you know who I am,” I repeated. “And that means that Chamfers was concerned enough to call you. And that means my suspicions that Mitch Kruger knew something about Diamond Head are correct. At least I know now where to focus my energies. Thanks for the whisky, Mr. Felitti.”
“I don’t know who you are; I never heard your name before,” he made a last-ditch attempt at bluster. “I just know it was supposed to be a girl named Maggie here, and your name isn’t Maggie.”
“Nice try, Mr. Felitti. But you and I both know you’re lying.”
As I sashayed down the hall in front of him the doorbell rang. A petite young woman with a mound of frizzy black hair was standing on the step.
“Maggie from Chicago Life?” I asked.
“Yeah.” She grinned. “Mr. Felitti here? I think he’s expecting me.”
“Right behind me.” I fished a card from the side of my handbag and handed it to her. “I’m a private investigator. If he says something interesting about Diamond Head, give me a call. And watch out for his laugh—it’s a killer.”
Getting the last word brings a certain emotional satisfaction, but it doesn’t help an investigation. I drove aimlessly around Naperville, looking for a place to have a soft drink before going back to Chicago. I didn’t see anything that looked like a coffee shop. At last I pulled off at the park that borders the river. I walked past parties of women with small children, necking teenagers, and the assorted homeward-bound commuter until I found an empty rustic bridge.