“You made it through ten years in the department, but I take so many risks you can’t even go to the Unblinking Eye for me?” I slammed the phone down so hard my palm smarted.
Was I really more dangerous to work for than the Chicago police? I fumed, pacing the room. If she could go down dark alleys after drug dealers, why couldn’t she at least go to the camera store and arrange for a video monitor for me? And all she’d say was she wasn’t going to put the children at risk. As if I were asking her to use them as human shields.
I came to a halt by my desk. Of course. Someone had threatened the children. That was what had happened. My hand hovered over the phone, then I thought better of it. If BB was monitoring my calls, then he’d assume Mary Louise had squealed. Then he might really go after the children. I felt trapped, and horribly alone. I sat with my head in my hands, trying not to cry.
“Vic! What’s wrong?” Tessa was leaning over me, her face lively with concern.
I rubbed a hand through my hair. “Nothing. I’m feeling sorry for myself, which is a disastrous indulgence for a detective. You taking off?”
“My appointed knight has arrived. It’s time for me to go, or have my mother show up with the FBI.”
She gestured toward the door and a man came in. He was tall and dark, almost as dark as Tessa herself, with fine–drawn features and the easy manner you get growing up with a lot of money. I could see why Mrs. Reynolds thought he looked like good husband material.
“Don’t sit here brooding alone,” Tessa said. “We’ll take you down to the Glow or some other place where you can be with friends.”
I pushed myself upright. The soreness in my legs was fading, that was one thing to be thankful for—a tribute to my daily workouts, or maybe just my DNA.
“It’s not such a good idea right now for you to hang out with me.” I tried not to seem melodramatic, and sounded pompous instead. “Anyway, I’m going to see a priest, so I’ll be in good hands.”
“A priest?” Tessa echoed. “Vic! Oh, you’re pulling my leg. Well, don’t stay alone here too late, hear?”
I followed her to the door and watched her and her escort leave. He was driving a navy BMW sedan, an easy car to keep an eye on if you were tailing. Just as well I’d turned down a ride.
I watched the street through the small pane of wire–filled glass for five minutes or so. Who knew if I was under surveillance or not? I walked down to the corner, leaving the Rustmobile in the lot.
Elton was hawking Streetwise near the L stop. I stopped to buy a few; his red–streaked blue eyes looked at me with lively curiosity. “I see some dudes hanging around today,” he whispered with hoarse importance. “Streetwise, miss, Streetwise, sir—read about the mayor and the homeless on Lower Wacker—they was driving some kind of late–model tan car, maybe a Honda. Fact of the matter they’re driving down Leavitt now. Coming up behind you. Streetwise, sir, thank you, sir.”
I scuttled up the L stairs, frantically fishing in my wallet for singles to stuff into the ticket machine. Below me the tan Honda stopped. I grabbed a ticket and ran up to the platform, shoving my way through a knot of commuters who swore at me for my rudeness. A southbound train was getting ready to leave. I stuck a hand into the shutting panels, earning another yell—this time from the trainman—and watched the platform with a sick franticness until the doors hissed shut and we were under way.
I rode the train all the way into the Loop, where I got out and walked slowly around Marshall Field’s, admiring the beachwear in the State Street windows and the garden furniture at the north end of the store. The setting sun made a mirror of the glass; I watched the people behind me. No one seemed to be paying me any special attention.
I climbed back up the L stairs and picked up the Blue Line outbound: I’d had a tiny inspiration while I was indulging in misery in my office. It took me to the California stop, in the heart of Humboldt Park. I walked the six blocks to St. Remigio’s.
St. Remigio’s was a Victorian brick monster, dating to the turn of the last century when Humboldt Park had a large Italian population. Whoever Remigio had been, his miraculous powers hadn’t extended to protecting the building: the great arched windows in the sanctuary were boarded over, and the old wooden doors were fastened with massive chains.
Despite the lateness of the hour, small boys were racing after a soccer ball in the heavily fenced schoolyard. A stocky man with sparse white hair punctuated their screams with shouted directions in Spanish. After a minute or two he saw me at the locked gate and came over, asking in Spanish what I wanted.
“Ando buscando a el Padre.” I stumbled through the phrase in my schoolgirl Spanish.