I unbolted the door and ran down the hall to the bathroom, flushing and flushing until the powder was gone, until the bags—cut to pieces with Tessa’s cuticle scissors—were gone, standing under the shower in my clothes, running hot water over me until I thought any treacherous trace of powder was gone. I got out and changed into a clean set of Tessa’s work clothes. Hung my wet ones from a hook behind her studio entrance. A bubble of incipient hysteria made me want to leave a note on the refrigerator in our I took column. I took one pair of cuticle scissors and a pair of khakis and a T–shirt. Will replace ASAP.
Back in my office, I picked up the cell phone and called the cops. While I was waiting for them I put on a pair of latex gloves and looked gingerly through my papers. I had put the Frenada report in an old file, but I couldn’t remember which. I could only remember thinking Mary Louise would have typed a fresh label at once. The squad car still hadn’t shown when I came on the folder labeled Alumni Fund. The Frenada printout was still in there, along with the paramedics’ report Max had faxed me from Beth Israel.
The police come slowly to this end of Wicker Park. On an impulse born of fear, I stuffed all the papers into a manila envelope, addressed them to Mr. Contreras, and went down the street to the mailbox at the corner of Western and North.
Elton was standing there with his usual ingratiating smile: I will not hurt you, I am your friend, help me out. He started his usual patter:
“Streetwise, miss. Get your update on hot bands in Chicago this weekend. Find a nice place for your boyfriend—oh, evening, Vic. You been away?”
I gave him a five and took a paper. “Been away. Someone broke into the office while I was gone. You notice anyone strange hanging out the last few nights?”
Elton scrunched up his face in earnest thought but shook his head regretfully. “But I’ll be on the lookout now, Vic, you can count on that. God bless you, Vic. . . . Streetwise, sir. Now, how about a list of all the hot new bands in this area, place to take your best girl . . .”
Blue strobes were dancing toward me along North Avenue. I hurried back up Leavitt and got to my office as a blue–and–white pulled up. A young pair stepped out, black woman, white man. The perfect TV cop–show pair. I showed them mutely what I’d come on.
“You didn’t touch anything, did you, ma’am?” the woman asked, following me into the office.
“I—uh, I put the covers back on the couch.” Somehow that seemed the worst thing. “I tried not to touch any papers, but I’m not sure. Anyway, my prints are on everything. Mine and my assistant’s.”
The male half of the team was on his radio summoning additional troops. It’s something cops love to do. The work has so much tedium that when one of them finds something, the others all get invited to look. In ten minutes they had a whole battalion in place.
I was answering questions from the pair who took the call—was anything missing, had the lock been forced, how long had I been out of town—when a plainclothes team arrived. A thin, triumphant voice demanded to know if the crew had searched the premises.
“I don’t think the perp is on the premises, Sergeant,” the woman said.
“Not for the perp, for drugs. We’ve got information that Warshki is dealing.”
Craning my neck, I saw Detective Lemour. He was wearing the same brown polyester suit he’d had on the first time I saw him, unless he’d bought a closetful on sale at Wal–Mart.
I stood up. “Sergeant Lummox. What a coincidence. I didn’t know you worked burglary.”
“It’s Lemour, and I don’t work burglary, I work violent crimes. I told you I’d be on you like your underwear, but you went on across that line, Warshki, the one we knew you danced on, and we’ve got you dead to rights.”
“What are you talking about, Lemming? Since when is it a crime in this town to be the victim of a major break–in?”
The woman on the team coughed to cover a laugh, while her male partner stood as solemnly as if he’d been embalmed.
“It’s not a crime, if it really happened.” He showed his row of little pike’s teeth in a vindictive smile.
“If it really happened? Sergeant, I trust you have a tech unit on the way here to take prints, because if you don’t I am going to be raising a serious complaint with the police review board. And if you accuse me in front of witnesses of dealing in drugs, then I will also sue you as a private citizen for slander.”
“You do that, Warshki, but I have a red–hot tip that you’ve got a half kilo of powder right here on the premises. And you schmucks can stop grinning behind your hands and search this office. Now.”