“Vic, this may make sense to you, but it’s Greek to me.”
“Ever since that wretched party you threw here last week, I’ve been running around in circles. Like my dog Mitch chasing his tail, come to think of it—exhausting and about as meaningful.” I told her what I’d been doing. “And don’t tell me it’s none of my business, because it is, even if no one is paying me for it.”
“Get off your high horse, St. Joan.” Sal poured me another finger of Black Label. “It’s your time and money; do what you want with it.”
That encouragement didn’t cheer me as much as it might have, but dinner at Justin’s in the west Loop—where the owner knew Sal and whisked us past a dumbfounded line of beautiful Chicagoans—made me much happier. At least until I caught sight of Alex Fisher halfway through my tuna in putanesca sauce.
I couldn’t help staring. Alex was at a table with Teddy Trant and a bald man with the kind of shiny face all Illinois politicians take on after too much time snuffling around in the public trough. Jean–Claude Poilevy in person. If Trant would rather eat with him and Alex than the exquisite Abigail, there was something seriously wrong with his taste.
When we got up to leave, Alex and her convoy were still talking over coffee. Sal tried to dissuade me, but I went to their table. Trant was as perfectly groomed as his wife, down to the clear polish on his manicured nails.
“Mr. Trant,” I said. “V. I. Warshawski. I wanted to let you know I appreciate your willingness to send me some work. I’m sorry I couldn’t take it on for you.”
Alex gave me a look that could have done laser surgery on my nose, but Trant shook my hand. “Global tries to do business with local firms. It helps us anchor ourselves in cities we’re new to.”
“Is that why you’ve been talking to Lucian Frenada?” It was a guess, based on the Mad Virgin decal I’d glimpsed at Special–T earlier in the evening, but everyone at the table froze.
Poilevy put down his coffee cup with a clatter. “Is that the guy you were—”
“Lucian Frenada is the man who’s been harassing Lacey.” Alex cut him off quickly and loudly.
“Sure, Sandy, sure. It’s not a bad story, even if it has a few holes around the edges. Alex, I mean. She changed nicknames in the last twenty years,” I added to Trant. “We were such good pals when she was Sandy, I keep forgetting she’s Alex now.”
“What do you mean, holes around the edges?” Poilevy asked.
“I did a little looking. I talked to Lucian Frenada. I talked to the head of security at Ms. Dowell’s hotel. Maybe the studio is overreacting to the scene between Frenada and Ms. Dowell at the Golden Glow last week—understandable with an important star—but I can’t find any evidence that Frenada’s been hanging around her.”
“That isn’t what I asked you to investigate,” Alex snapped.
“No, but you haven’t been asked to pay me anything either, have you.”
Sal came up behind me and put a hand on my arm. “Let’s go, Vic. I’ve got to get back to the Glow—it’s my night to close.”
I reminded Alex and Trant that they knew Sal from last week’s party. We all said meaningless nothings, about Murray’s debut, about Sal’s bar, but I would have given a month’s billings to know what they said when Sal and I moved out of earshot. I turned to look when we got to the door; they were bent over the table like the three witches over a pot.
20 Child in Mourning
What with the drive to Coolis and the long night hopping around town, I was glad to crawl into bed. I read a little of Morrell’s book on the Disappeared in South America, stretching my legs between clean sheets to pull the kinks out of my spine.
The phone rang as I was drifting off. I groaned but stuck out an arm and mumbled a greeting. There was a pause on the other end, then someone garbled my name in a hurried voice just above a whisper.
“Yes, this is V. I. Warshawski. Who is this?”
“It’s—This is Robbie. Robbie Baladine. I was at the gate, you know, when you came last week, you know, when you talked to my mom about—about Nicola.”
I came fully awake in a hurry, turning on the light as I assured him that I remembered him well. “You’re the expert tracker. What can I do for you?”
“I—It’s not for me, but Nicola. I want—want to go to her funeral. Do you know when it is?”
“There’s a problem about that,” I said carefully. “The morgue seems to have lost her body. I don’t know how that happened, but until they find it there can’t be a funeral.”
“So he was right.” His young voice was filled with a kind of bitterness. “I thought he was making it up to—to tease me.”