To his team, he flashed his Bobbyesque smile, holding up a hand to acknowledge the applause like a modest major leaguer acknowledging a home run. He gave a quick thank-you to the group for their hard work, a mention of Petra’s disappearance and how worried he knew they all were, an assurance that if a sparrow fell, Brian Krumas would rescue it.
“That’s it, guys. These are a couple of people who are going to help us find Petra.” He ushered Peter and me into a nearby conference room. “I’ll talk to the FBI, of course, but—Vic, is it?—better fill me in on what you know.”
“I think she ran out the back door of my building,” I said. “I’m hoping she ran clean away from the two people she was with, but I can’t imagine where she’s gone. I need to talk to her college roommate—”
“No, you don’t!” Peter screamed. “You need to stay the fuck away from this—far, far away from this—and let George handle it.”
“Peter, we’re all upset, but—”
“You’re not just useless, you’re dangerous!” my uncle shouted. “George knows more than any detective I’ve ever heard of, private or public, including the FBI. He’ll find Petra without letting it get messy. If you look for her, chances are she’ll burn to death in front of your eyes.”
I turned very cold, but I said levelly, “Petra was looking for something the last few weeks. She organized an outing to your old place in Back of the Yards. She was on Houston Street ten days ago when someone forced an evacuation from my old home. She went to the Freedom Center three days after Sister Frances died. What was Petra looking for? Something for you, Mr. Krumas? Or was it for you, Peter? Is that why she was claiming an interest in the Warshawski past?”
My uncle shook his head like a cornered bull. “My girl wants to look at her family roots, and you want it to be some filthy story involving the Anacondas or whatever mud you wallow in.”
I thought of Petra’s fixation with the Nellie Fox baseball. I dumped the red sweatshirt and Scarlett O’Hara hat on the conference room table and pulled the ball from my case.
“Why did Petra want this so badly, Peter?”
Peter and Brian both bent over my hand, looking at the ball with the same puzzlement, and then my uncle’s face turned the color of putty. Sweat covered his face so fast it was as if he had sunk in a pool of water.
“What is it?” Brian asked.
“It’s nothing. It’s an old baseball,” Peter muttered. But he was clutching a chair back for support.
I began to worry about his heart, but when I said I’d get water and call Rachel he brushed my hand away with a violent gesture. “Leave Rachel out of this.”
“My apartment was ransacked two nights before Petra disappeared. Is this what they were looking for?”
“How should I know?” my uncle said. His voice had lost its belligerence. “You’re the one who’s so friendly with the blacks in this city, not me.”
“The people in my apartment weren’t black. Someone saw them.” Of course my witness said he couldn’t make out their race, but my patience was wearing thin. “Did Petra mention the ball in one of her daily chats home? Did you tell her to come back to my place to get it?”
“Nellie Fox. She knew I was a Nellie Fox fan, so she—”
“Peter, who are you protecting? Petra had never heard of Fox. When I mentioned his name, she thought the Sox had put a woman at second. Why won’t you tell me what the story is with this ball?”
“There is no story. There’s nothing to know about it.”
I rolled the ball in my hand while my uncle watched uneasily. The door opened, and Strangwell and Dornick came in with Harvey Krumas, who looked in surprise at my uncle and me. Once again, though, it was Strangwell who spoke first.
“Brian, the kids said you’d popped in here. We’ve got Global Entertainment in the situation room. Gina’s here to do your makeup.”
The candidate let Strangwell lead him away, but Harvey Krumas and Dornick demanded to know why Peter wasn’t back at the Drake lying down. “You look like crap, Pete. What’s going on here?”
“Brian wanted to talk to me,” I said. “Peter wanted to stay close to me. We were talking about what Petra might have been looking for in my childhood home. Any hunches?”
Dornick said, “I don’t know Petra, so I don’t know what might have struck her fancy. Girls her age get romantic ideas about family history sometimes. Maybe she thought there were Warshawski heirlooms.”
“Mr. Krumas? You know her better than I do. You’re her ‘Uncle Harvey,’ after all. Peter says she wasn’t looking for a baseball.”
“This is outrageous,” Harvey fumed. “Pete’s sick with worry—we all are—and you’re treating this like some video game.”
I tossed the baseball in the air, caught it, and put it into my briefcase. “You’re right. I’ll get this to a lab, see what they can tell me about it, and start searching for Petra.”
“No!” Peter said. “How many times do I have to repeat it? Stay the fuck out of this!”