“I know you’re really tired, but could you answer one question for me before you go to bed?” I was unfolding the sofa bed while Mr. Contreras brought in clean sheets. “What were you wanting to tell me when you phoned me last week?”
He’d forgotten about it in the stress of his journey. That phone call to me was what made BB and Eleanor decide to send him to military camp, but it had lost its importance to him. He blinked his eyes anxiously, then suddenly remembered.
“You know that man who got pulled out of Lake Michigan? I’m pretty sure he came out to see BB. With Mr. Trant, you know.”
“Teddy Trant from Global? Are you sure?”
“Come on, doll. Boy’s asleep on his feet. This will wait until tomorrow.”
“You’re right. Sorry, I wasn’t thinking,” I said, but Robbie, taking off his military shirt with a sigh of relief and putting on one of Mr. Contreras’s violently striped pajama tops, said, “Of course I recognize Mr. Trant, and I’m pretty sure it was the guy I saw on television with him. He was really, really angry, but I couldn’t hear what he said and, well, they kind of locked me in the nursery with Rosario and Utah. On account of Mom said I was—a little snoop—who’d go telling tales out of school. But I woke up in the middle of the night because they were standing under my window and Mr. Trant was saying that should solve the problem for the time being if only Abigail—Mrs. Trant, you know—didn’t start getting helpful ideas again.”
“Okay, Victoria. Boy’s going to bed now. No more detecting tonight.”
“Ms. Warshawski, thank you for letting me stay here, and you too, sir, only I’m sorry I don’t know your name, and I’m sorry about the dogs, about making them leave. Maybe—maybe tomorrow I won’t be so chicken around them.”
I squeezed his shoulder. “Get a good sleep. Like the man said, tomorrow is another day.”
It was only as I started back up the stairs that I remembered my fears about BB bugging my apartment. I hoped I was wrong, but my stomach turned cold as I imagined what Baladine might do next.
33 Thrown in the Tank
Lemour arrested me as I unlocked my front door Friday afternoon. He flung me against the stone railing and yanked my purse from my shoulder. A Du Page County deputy sheriff who was with him tried to calm him down and was thrust roughly aside.
When Lemour had the cuffs locked, he flashed a warrant under my nose for the arrest of one Victoria Iphigenia Warshawski, acting upon information and belief that she did unlawfully and without the permission of the parents seize and hold against his will Robert Durant Baladine, a minor child not her own.
Mr. Contreras erupted with the dogs. Mitch broke away from him and launched himself at Lemour. The detective punched his head. Mitch yelped and huddled on the ground. Lemour started to kick him, but I threw myself between his foot and the dog. We went over in a heap of leash, detective and me, with Peppy joining in to mew worriedly at her son.
“That’s it, Warshki,” Lemour panted from the pavement. “I’m adding resisting arrest to the kidnapping charge. You’ll be lucky if you’re home in time for Christmas. And I’ll have this dog put to sleep for assaulting me.”
Homebound commuters began to crowd around to see what the show was. One young woman said she thought it took a lot of nerve to beat a dog and then threaten to put it to sleep.
“He’s obviously perfectly friendly and he’s on a leash, aren’t you, good doggy.” She scratched his ears, carefully avoiding looking at me.
“Shut the hell up unless you want to be arrested for interfering with the police,” Lemour said savagely.
She backed away as the sheriff’s deputy once more muttered an ineffectual intervention.
My hands were cuffed behind me. I’d fallen hard on my side and lay there on the walk, the wind knocked out of me, my right cheek smarting from grazing the concrete. Mitch climbed to his feet and shook himself like a boxer who’s taken a bad blow but is ready to go back in the ring. Peppy licked him anxiously. He’s a big ugly dog, half black Lab, half golden Peppy, and I’ve never been crazy about him, but right now his attempts to grin, wag his tail, show there were no hard feelings, made my eyes smart.
I rolled forward onto my knees. Mr. Contreras anxiously helped me up, keeping one eye on Lemour, who was brushing concrete crumbs from his suit, his face patchy–red with rage. When he got to his feet the dogs started toward him.