“Qué?” Se?ora Mercedes demanded of Sherree. “Qué dicen?”
Sherree refused to look up from the dolls, who she’d brought to the tacqueria and were now climbing on top of each other in a fearful tangle of arms.
“The lady thinks they were not with the law, but perhaps men who had an evil intention toward Nicola and her family,” Morrell said in Spanish.
That was as far as we could take matters. Se?ora Mercedes had seen Se?or Baladine drive her daughter home, perhaps four times during the years she worked for him, but he always stayed in the car, she had no way of recognizing his face. If he had been at her home the day before Nicola died, she didn’t know. I would have to dig up photos of Baladine and Trant to see if Se?ora Mercedes recognized either of them.
We left the tacqueria with copious thanks for the se?ora’s time. Morrell bought Sherree a frozen mango on a stick from one of the pushcarts we passed on the way back to their apartment. On the L north, Morrell and I went over the conversation from as many angles as we could but couldn’t squeeze any more out of it.
As for Nicola’s body, that, too, remained a mystery. Morrell said he’d talked to Vishnikov, who hadn’t been able to track it down. Vishnikov had also reported on Frenada’s autopsy: the man had died by drowning—the water in his lungs made that clear.
“Frenada was out at the Baladine estate the night before he died,” I said. “Robbie Baladine saw him there. I’d love to know whether the water in his lungs came from a swimming pool or Lake Michigan.”
Morrell pursed his mouth in a soundless whistle. “I’ll ask Vishnikov. I don’t know if it’s too late or not—the morgue released the body to Frenada’s sister yesterday afternoon. Now, since I’ve been a good collaborator, taken you where you wanted to go, found out what news there was to learn about Lucian Frenada, will you do something for me?”
“If it’s in my power, sure.”
“Join me for a Fourth of July picnic tomorrow. I’ll supply the food. We can use the private beach up the street from me—I know one of the families who lives there.”
I laughed. “That task sounds well within my capabilities. Thank you.”
I was still smiling when I got home and walked into Lemour’s arms. It was a long time before I smiled that freely again.
34 Fourth of July Picnic
I spent Friday night at the Rogers Park police station. When we got there I was fingerprinted and searched. Strip–searched while Lemour looked on. His eyes were glistening, his lips white with spittle. All I could do was hold myself aloof. The dissociation that all prisoners practice. I would become expert at it in the weeks ahead.
The police have rules governing interrogation, but if they breach them it’s hard to do anything about it—especially on a Friday night before a holiday with your lawyer who–knows–where. I tried to insist on my right to phone counsel, but Lemour and the charge officer ignored me.
I was put in an interrogation room where I sat for hours, without water, while Lemour screamed meaningless questions at me. When would I confess to cocaine possession? How had I gotten hold of Robbie Baladine? Alternating questions and punches. Every now and then he would leave and a uniformed man would come in and say, Tell him what he wants to know, honey; it will only get worse.
At first I kept repeating that I would answer questions only in the presence of my attorney. I kept praying for Freeman’s appearance. Had Mr. Contreras understood my plea to call him?
After a time I stopped speaking altogether. Lemour’s fury mounted, until a final blow knocked me to the floor. I’m not sure what happened next—the charge sergeant pulled Lemour out of the room and came back for me.
“You sleep it off,” he advised. “It’ll look better in the morning.”
“What will?” I muttered through bruised lips. “The charge of police brutality against Lemour?”
The sergeant took me to the station lockup, where half a dozen other women were waiting. One of them looked at me with shock that was half admiration. “What’d you do to Lemour, girl, refuse to pay him his shakedown? I seen him go insane more than once but never nothing like he did to you tonight.”
I tried to say something, but my mouth was too swollen for me to speak. She banged on the cage demanding water. By and by a matron brought a paper cup of tepid tap water. I swallowed as best I could and sat down, gingerly rubbing my sore head and shoulders. I tried to thank my benefactor, but only parodies of words came from my bruised mouth.