The dogs were pacing restlessly, a sign that they badly needed a walk. I carefully rewrapped the silk dress and pushed the trunk back into the closet. I promised the dogs I’d be with them as soon as I checked my appointments on my Palm Pilot. I had a one o’clock with one of my few really important clients—translate that to read big retainer, big billing, prompt payment. Thanks to Lemour and the ruckus he’d stirred up, it was after eleven now. I barely had time to run the dogs and get something to eat. Since my refrigerator held only an orange besides the stale bread, I leashed up the dogs and went out with my backpack to forage for food.
A cool spring had given way overnight to the oppressive mugginess of midsummer. There aren’t any parks close to our building, but I couldn’t make the dogs do three miles to the lake and back in air that covered us like a sock. By the time we reached the grocery store, even Mitch had stopped pulling at the leash and was glad to rest in the shade of the building. I pulled a collapsible drinking bowl out of my pack and bought a bottle of water for them before buying my own food, along with a cappuccino from the coffee bar across the street.
As we ambled home in the heat, I kept wondering about the woman in the road. In the dark street I couldn’t tell what had happened to her, but that humerus sticking up like a branch from a swamp told some terrible tale of violence. The tall stolid detective had let out that the woman was sent to Beth Israel. That was fortunate, because Max Loewenthal, the executive director, was the lover of one of my oldest friends. With dogs in one hand and coffee in the other, I couldn’t very well whip out my cell phone to call the hospital. I urged the dogs to a trot, bribing them with some bread.
As we rounded the corner at Racine, a brown Chevy bristling with antennas slowed down. Detective Lemour rolled down his window and called out “Warshki.” I kept going.
He turned on his loudspeaker and broadcast to the neighborhood that those dogs better not be let off their leash. “You think you’re smart, Warshki, flaunting your friends in the PD, but I’m going to be on you like your underwear this summer. If you so much as run a stop sign I’ll be there, so watch your step.”
A woman with a toddler in tow looked from me to the police car, while two kids on the other side of the street stared, slack–jawed. I stopped and blew Lemour a kiss. His face darkened with fury, but his partner seemed to restrain him; he took off with a great screeching of rubber.
Why did the cops care so much about the injured woman? Maybe it was only Lemour who cared, but his threat made me almost as nervous as he intended. I urged the dogs up Racine to my apartment. I was beginning to think having an outside lab look at the Trans Am was the smartest thing I’d done this year.
Mr. Contreras had left a note in his large unpracticed hand to tell me he was down in his own place, making phone calls to a few likely prospects, and would I drop the dogs off with him on my way downtown. I showered again to wash the sweat from my hair, then called Max Loewenthal’s office while I dried off.
Max was in some meeting or other, which didn’t surprise me. Fortunately his secretary hadn’t gone to lunch and was glad to check on a Jane Doe for me. I gave her my cell–phone number and dressed at a record–setting pace, in a wheat–colored pantsuit, black top, and silver earrings. I could slap on a little makeup in the L.
I didn’t have time now for breakfast. I grabbed an apple from my groceries, stuffed my pumps into a briefcase, and ran back downstairs with the dogs. Mr. Contreras stopped me with a status report, although I told him I was on my way to Darraugh Graham’s.
“You’d better get going then, cookie,” he said, following me to the hall and hanging on the door. “It don’t do to keep the one guy who pays his bills on time waiting. I got a lead on a Buick Century with ninety–seven thousand on it, and a Dodge with some less, but maybe a whole lot more rust. What time do you think you’ll get back? Want me to take a look at these without you, or what?”
“You the man, Mr. C. Pick out the car of our dreams and I’ll drive you downtown to the Berghoff for dinner.”
The dogs were convinced I was going to the lake and tried to leave with me. I shut the door on them firmly. Running the four blocks to the L got me sticky and sweaty again. I could have made time for breakfast by skipping the second shower.