“Strangwell?” Murray’s normal baritone rose an octave. “What were you sitting on that the Krumas campaign cares about? Why would they hire—”
“Murray, darling, I’m spreading rumors right now. I don’t have any facts. I don’t think I have anything that the Krumas campaign cares about. All I can tell you for sure is that Strangwell did meet with Alito last week. And he asked Alito to do something for him.”
“Where are you? In your office? I’ll be there in twenty—”
“I can’t set up meeting times and places. I’m going to be on the move for the next few days. So, that’s all for now.”
I hung up on a barrage of questions. The phone rang again, as I checked that I had my wallet, keys, and gun. I pulled my Cubs hat low on my head. No moisturizers or unguents to protect my healing skin today. The Cubs, those frail reeds, would have to look after me.
My phone was still ringing as I locked my office door behind me. If anyone was monitoring my calls, I had only a few minutes to get out of the area before they had a watcher in place. I didn’t run up the street, but I walked fast, and I turned left at the first intersection.
As soon as I left Oakley, I was on a quiet residential street where it was easy to see whether anyone was with me. I moved north and west in a random way until I reached Armitage.
I needed to find a car that couldn’t be traced to me. I couldn’t rent one, I didn’t have my driver’s license. Even if I did, Homeland Security, if they were paying attention to me, they’d know the minute I rented a car or bought a plane ticket. While I was talking to Murray, I had suddenly thought of not only where I could get a car but also a bolt hole, assuming I could cover my tracks coming and going.
I walked to the El stop, not bothering to look around, and rode the train into the Loop. I got off at Washington Street and walked through the underground tunnel into the basement of the Daley Center, where traffic court and a bunch of other civil courts sit. Since I had my gun on me, I couldn’t do the safest thing, go through security and watch who came in after me, so I followed the maze of corridors and came on the underground entrance to a trendy Loop restaurant.
The staff were just gathering for the day, the Hispanic stockmakers and cleaning crew. They looked at me narrowly but didn’t try to stop me. I went through the doors into the kitchen and found an exit that took me into a parking garage. I walked up the ramp and out onto the street and made my way back to the El, where I rode the red line north to Howard Street.
It was a long ride, and I could watch all the changing characters who got on and off. By the time we reached the Evanston border, I was reasonably confident that I was clear. I changed to the Evanston train and rode it three stops. No one was with me when I got off. No bicycles circled around me, no cars passed and then repassed me.
Morrell and I had broken up in Italy, but I still had the keys to his condo. And I knew where he had hung the spare key to his Honda Civic. I couldn’t afford to use the phone to call anyone I knew, but I could spend the night, drive the city, even change my underwear. When I let myself in, I found my favorite rose-stenciled bra still hanging in his bathroom. I thought I’d lost it in Italy.
40
THE SHOEMAKER’S TALE
MORRELL’S HONDA STARTED ON THE FIRST TRY, WHICH was a relief. I’d worried that the battery might have run down after sitting in the garage for three months.
Going to Morrell’s place had left me melancholy. Little traces of my life surfaced wherever I looked—a pot of my moisturizer in the bathroom; Sleeping Arrangements, which I’d read aloud to him when he was recuperating from his bullet wounds, next to the bed. When I put away the juice I’d bought, I found a container of Mr. Contreras’s homemade tomato sauce in the freezer.
Morrell and I had spent two years together. He had put me back together when I’d been tortured and left for dead on the Kennedy Expressway, I’d helped him when he’d been left for dead in Afghanistan. Maybe that was the only time we could really help each other, when we were near death. When we were near life, we couldn’t sustain the relationship.
The tomato sauce made me realize I needed to notify Mr. Contreras, as well as Lotty and Max, about where I’d vanished to. The easiest person to tell would be Max because I could slip into Beth Israel through a side door and get to his office. If anyone was tracking me, they’d be keeping an eye on Lotty’s clinic, on Damen Avenue, as well as her condo on Lake Shore Drive. Since Max lived in Evanston, if my friends wanted to reach me Max could slip a note under Morrell’s door on his way home.