“If you want to spend the money you’ll have to have someone on the spot doing surveillance,” I said. “It’ll take two people. One to handle the truck, one to operate a camera. And it has to be people who aren’t at the plant, because you don’t know how many employees on the ground are involved, or at least aware.”
As I’d feared, they nominated me as the one to handle the camera. And they figured their fleet manager in Nebraska could pose as a truck driver, as a walk–on for someone out sick. They were losing so much money on that route, not just from replacing tires but from lost delivery time, that they wanted me to “do what it takes, Vic; we know you’re not going to pad a bill for the heck of it.”
I was sort of flattered, although, remembering Alex–Sandy’s scorn for my low fees, I wondered if it was more a description of a low–rent outfit than a compliment. My man made a call to Nebraska; the fleet manager would meet me in Atlanta tomorrow night. A nice bonus for me if we wrapped it up quickly.
From Continental United’s offices I went to the Unblinking Eye. They carry surveillance matériel as well as running a more prosaic film and camera business. I talked to the surveillance specialist about the kind of equipment I ought to use. They had some marvelous gadgets—a still camera that fit in a button, one that was disguised in a wristwatch, even one in the kid’s teddy bear if you wanted to watch the nanny. Too bad Eleanor Baladine hadn’t trained one on Nicola Aguinaldo. Or maybe she had—the Baladines probably had every up–to–the–moment security device you might want.
I settled on a video camera that you wore like a pair of glasses, so that it followed the road as you drove. You needed two people to operate it, since it required a separate battery pack, but that was okay: the Continental fleet manager would wear the glasses while I operated the equipment. I saw no need to plunk down four grand of Continental’s money to own the camera, but took it on a week’s rental.
The Unblinking Eye is on the west edge of the Loop. It didn’t seem that far out of the way to drive the extra fourteen blocks to the morgue to see if Nicola Aguinaldo’s body had turned up. Since Vishnikov starts work at seven I wasn’t sure he’d still be there this late in the afternoon, but he was actually walking to his car when I pulled into the lot. I ran over to intercept him.
When he saw me he stopped. “The girl who died at Beth Israel. Is that why you’re here?”
Her body hadn’t turned up; he had lost track of the inquiry in the press of other problems, but he’d get back to it tomorrow. “As I recall, the release form wasn’t signed. It’s the trouble with these job sinkholes the county runs. Most of our staff is good, but we always have some who are there because their daddies hustle votes or move bodies for the mob. I’ve turned her disappearance over to the sheriff for an investigation, but a dead convict who was illegal to begin with doesn’t rank very high—family isn’t in a position to make a stink, and anyway, if they’ve been able to conduct a funeral they’re not going to want to.”
I don’t think this family has held a funeral. I haven’t seen them myself. In fact, I don’t know where they are, but a guy named Morrell has been interviewing immigrants in Aguinaldo’s old neighborhood. He says you know him, by the way.”
“Morrell? He’s a great guy. I know him from my work on torture victims in the Americas. He pulled me out of one of the worst traps I ever walked into, in Guatemala. Nothing he doesn’t know about the Americas and torture. I didn’t realize he was in town. Tell him to call me. I have to run.” He climbed into his car.
I leaned in before he could shut the door. “But, Bryant—Morrell talked to Aguinaldo’s mother. She didn’t even know her daughter was dead, so she definitely doesn’t have the body.”
He stared at me in bewilderment. “Then who does have it?”
“I was hoping you could help on that one. If the form wasn’t signed, is there a chance the body is still in the morgue? Maybe the tag got taken off or changed. The other possibility is that a Chicago police officer named Lemour got the body. Do you think there’s any way to find out?”
He turned the ignition key. “Why would—never mind. I suppose it could have happened. I’ll ask some more questions tomorrow.” He pulled the door shut and shot past me out of the lot.
I walked back slowly to the Rustmobile. I wished Vishnikov hadn’t turned the investigation over to the sheriff’s office. If anyone was covering up for the disposal of Nicola’s body, the sheriff’s office was probably knee–deep in how it was done. But I had enough going on without trying to run an inquiry at the morgue.