I gave a tight smile. “It’s over at the Cheviot Labs. When they’ve done all their tests and taken pictures, the police can have it. You know, yesterday morning when Lemour and his partner came over, at first it seemed pretty much like a routine inquiry, following up to a manslaughter. For which the cops usually just go through the motions if there isn’t a witness to ID the car. I had my car towed because Lemour seemed so aggressive it got me worried. Half an hour later he threatened me on the street, which told me I was right to be concerned.”
Freeman gave a twisted smile. “Vic, this is so like you, to take matters into your own hands. The police are claiming your car as evidence in a manslaughter investigation. Can you do me, your long–suffering counsel, a huge favor and produce it by the end of the day? I would be most grateful. Tell Callie—she’ll arrange with Drummond for police technicians to pick it up from Cheviot Labs. And for God’s sake, don’t start a vendetta against Lemour. You can make better use of your time. I’ve got to run now: I have a conference at the federal building and I want to grab a sandwich.”
As he headed for the door I said, “Before you go, Freeman, did you know the dead woman was a nanny out at the Baladines’ in Oak Brook before her arrest? I presume it’s the same Baladine who heads Carnifice Security. Is he pushing on the State’s Attorney in some way?”
“Can you tell Callie that, too? She’ll add it to your file.”
“Also, which is really interesting, the dead woman’s body was released from the morgue in the middle of the night last night. Before Vishnikov could do the autopsy. Who better than a police detective to arrange something like that?”
“Vic, don’t go on a witch hunt after Lemour. Whoever this woman was, and whatever Lemour or even Baladine is doing with her, she is not worth your career. And not to be crude, you haven’t got the resources, either financial or in muscle, to take on someone Baladine’s size, let alone the Chicago cops. Got it?”
I tightened my lips but followed him to his outer office, where he stopped to rattle off a string of instructions to Callie—most of them about other clients. He finished with my affairs.
“Vic has a few things for you—and she’s going to tell you where her car is so you can call Gerhardt Drummond over at the State’s Attorney and let him in on the secret—isn’t that right, Vic?” He gave me a malicious grin and trotted out to the elevator.
When I finished telling Callie Mary Louise’s phone number and the rest of the stuff, I headed out. Down in the building lobby I stopped to call Mary Louise myself, to explain what Freeman wanted, but only got her machine. She was on the go a lot, between the kids, her work for me, and her classes. I gave as concise an explanation as I could and told her to call me on my cell phone if she had any questions.
I frowned at the fast–food stalls in the lobby. You used to be able to get a bowl of homemade soup or a deli sandwich in the mom–and–pop diners that dotted the Loop. The new buildings had moved all their shops inside, to so–called plazas, where they control the take, then brought in chains that drove the coffee shops out of business. I picked up something called a Greek salad—I guess because it had two olives and a teaspoon of feta on it—and went back to my car.
Mary Louise had given me the Baladines’ home number this morning. I sat in my car, trying not to spill oily lettuce on my lapel, and phoned Oak Brook. If Robert Baladine broke my legs or bombed my office I’d let Freeman chant “I told you so” over my hospital bed a few hundred times.
A woman with a heavy accent answered. After some prodding she put me through to Eleanor Baladine. “Ms. Baladine? This is V. I. Warshawski. I’m a Chicago detective. Did you know that Nicola Aguinaldo had escaped from prison?”
The silence at the other end was so complete, I thought for a moment the connection had gone. “Escaped? How did she do that?”
It was such a strange answer that I would have paid good money to know what went through her mind in the seconds before she spoke. “I’ll tell you what I know when I see you. We need to talk as soon as possible. Can you give me directions to your house? I have your address, but the suburbs are a mystery to me.”
“Uh, Detective—uh, does it have to be this afternoon?”
Bridge club? No, not for the contemporary rich woman. Tennis, or something more recherché. Her Artist’s Way group, I bet.
“Yes, it does. The faster I get information, the sooner I can figure out where she was headed when she left Coolis. I understand she was with you for two years. I’d like to find out what you knew about her . . . associates.”
“She was a maid. I didn’t gossip with her about her associates.”
“Even if all you ever said to her was, “Change the baby’s diaper,’ or “Make sure you vacuum under the beds,’ you must have had some references before you hired her.” I tried to sound reasonable, not like an irritable old leftist.
“Oh, very well.” She sighed mightily but gave me detailed instructions: the Eisenhower all the way to the end of the expressway, out Roosevelt Road to the winding side streets of one of the area’s most exclusive small communities.
8 Poolside Chat