A taxi pulling up in front saved me from having to think of a response. The doorman sprang into action as the taxi decanted a woman with several large suitcases. I figured I’d learned what I could, although it wasn’t as much as I wanted to know; I went out with him and crossed the street to my car.
I drove home across Addison, trying to make sense of the situation. Rossy had invited Durham to see him. Before the demonstration? After he got back from Springfield? And somehow Posner knew about it, so he’d followed Durham up here. Where Rossy calmed his angry suspicions.
I didn’t know anything specific about Alderman Durham’s cupidity—although those expensive suits wouldn’t leave much left over for groceries if he bought them on his alderman’s pay—but most Chicago pols have a price, and it usually isn’t very high. Presumably Rossy had invited Durham to his home to buy him off. But what could Rossy offer Posner that would get that fanatic off his back?
It was close to midnight when I finally found a parking space on one of the side streets near my home. I lived three miles west of the Rossys. When I moved into my little co-op, the neighborhood was a peaceful, mostly blue-collar place, but it’s become so crowded now with trendy restaurants and boutiques that even this late at night the traffic made the drive tedious. An SUV swerving around me in front of Wrigley Field reminded me to stop thinking and concentrate on traffic.
Late as it was, my neighbor and the dogs were still awake. Mr. Contreras must have been sitting next to his front door waiting for me, because I was barely inside when he came out with Mitch and Peppy. The dogs dashed around the tiny foyer snapping at me, showing they were miffed at my long absence.
Mr. Contreras was feeling lonely and neglected, as was I. Even though I was exhausted, after giving the dogs a short run around the block, I joined the old man in his cluttered kitchen. He was drinking grappa; I opted for chamomile tea with a shot of brandy. The enamel on the kitchen table was chipped, the only picture was a calendar from the Humane Society showing a bundle of puppies, the brandy was young and raw, but I felt more at ease here than in the Rossys’ ornate drawing room.
“Morrell take off today?” the old man asked. “I could kind of tell you was feeling blue. Everything okay?”
I grunted noncommittally, then found myself telling him in detail about coming on Fepple’s body, about the Sommers family, the missing money, the missing documents, and tonight’s dinner party. He was annoyed that I hadn’t told him sooner about Fepple—“after all, doll, you was in the kitchen with me when his murder come on the news”—but he let me get on with my tale after only a perfunctory grumble.
“I’m tired. I’m not thinking clearly. But it seemed to me tonight’s dinner was a carefully orchestrated event,” I said. “At the time I got swept along on the conversational tide, but now I feel as though they were herding me, corralling me into talking about something very specific, but whether it was finding Fepple’s body or what I’d seen in the Sommers file I don’t know.”
“Maybe both,” my neighbor suggested. “You say this gal in the claims department, her name was in the agent’s computer, but she’s saying she never was near the place. Maybe she was. Maybe she was down there after he got shot and she’s scared to admit it.”
I slid Peppy’s silky ears through my fingers. “That’s possible. If that were the case I can see Ralph Devereux being protective of her—but I have to confess, I can’t see that it would matter much to Rossy or his wife. Not enough for them to invite me to dinner to pump me. He said it was because his wife was lonely and wanted me to talk Italian to her, but she was surrounded by friends, or sycophants at any rate, and she didn’t need me, except to get information from.”
I frowned, thinking it over. “The news of Fepple’s body must have come in, so Rossy could have called to see how much I know—but I can’t see why. Unless the company is more worried about this Sommers claim than they’re admitting—which means it’s the tip of some ugly iceberg that I’m not seeing.
“It was such a last-minute invitation—I wonder whether tonight’s cast of characters was already in place or if the Rossys pulled them together on the spot, knowing they’d play along. Especially Laura Bugatti—she’s the wife of the Italian cultural attaché. Her job was to be the excited ingenue.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“She was the breathless airhead who could ask crude questions without seeming to know what she was doing. Although that could be her real personality. The truth is, they all made me feel big and crude, even the American who was there, some very acidulated writer. I hope I’ve never spent money on any of her books. It’s almost like I was invited to be the entertainment. There was a show going on which I was starring in, but I was the only one who hadn’t seen the script.”