 
See Here, Detective Vanek,

a Vanek Mystery

by

Leon Shure

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Smashwords Edition

PUBLISHED BY:

Leon Shure on Smashwords

See Here, Detective Vanek

A Vanek Mystery

by Leon Shure

Copyright © 20152016 by Leon Shure

All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to your ebook store and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author's work.

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This book is dedicated to Susan Mina Shure.

There are a few people I'd like to thank: Michael Berger for correcting my grammar and Corrine Levine for reading my first draft. Cover art was by Gabi Ladowski.

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See Here, Detective Vanek

A Vanek Mystery

By

Leon Shure

Chapter One

What faced me was a woman who'd been badly beaten. Bruises all over. The bandages that covered one eye probably meant the socket had fractures. She could lose that eye.

She'd been attacked as she walked from her law office to her car. It was no accident of fate, being in the wrong place, but intentional, she insisted.

Her voice gained volume and determination. Her head lifted slightly off the hospital bed to add emphasis. In the darkened hospital room, she said, "I do not believe that my father's murderer has been caught. This is my punishment for saying that."

She, being Jayne Lassiter Walchek, who no longer went by her married name, because she'd divorced Walchek.

"What do you want from me?" I asked.

"Justice."

Justice, with a capital "J"? Or is it that she wants Vengeance, with a capital "V"?

The latter, mostly, I decided. She wants me to be the instrument of her vengeance, I thought, and if a little justice occurs, that would be okay, too.

Fine, I think to myself, I am he, the vengeance-provider. Even though I am just Old Cop near retirement, befuddled by the world in general and by women in particular.

Doing my yeoman's job. Sitting at my desk until bidden to go out into the world. A cup of coffee, always in serious danger of being spilled, stands upon the stains of spills past. Hearing sounds of camaraderie echo off the walls of my precinct. These are my folk, men and women in uniform and decade-old suits, these cops. Closer to me than those of my ethnic background or my co-religionists, or the guys and gals I grew up with, or my neighbors.

Just not so close as my family. Nothing is more important than family.

So much for contemplation. Back to the trashed woman in her hospital bed.

Beaten, she was still slim, 30ish, blondish. I could remember her uninjured face as being beautiful in a reserved, well-bred way. I'd met her when her father, Robert Lassiter, a prominent attorney and Cook County Commissioner was murdered months ago in his suburban Brunswik home.

He'd served as campaign manager for Anton Marchette, and after his untimely death, for his wife, Angela Marchete, who replaced him as a candidate for Mayor of the City of Chicago. She'd won, for all the good that did her.

In my own quiet way—I'm a man who likes to swim beneath troubled waters without making a wave--I'd unearthed a conspiracy to manipulate and dominate the mayoralty of Angela Marchete. She was, unfortunately, manipulated and dominated into the grave, by someone who put the "man" in manipulation. I thought I'd caught all the wrongdoers, these being her assistant Mr. Gregory Rourke and his co-conspirators.

"I do not believe my father was killed by the man you arrested or by anyone working for him," Jayne said. "I believe that my father was killed for a totally different reason and by another."

Was that possible? Of course. The world is filled with possibilities. If I was wrong, though, why come to me? I'd already failed the first time around.

Because, she must figure, I'd want to make things right, leave nothing undone before I retired. I would want to know who really killed her father, because it was my last chance to find out.

She assumed I had a conscience. Did I? Unfortunately.

I opened Lassiter's murder file. I'd brought it at Jayne's request, having surreptitiously pushed it into a communal briefcase. I hadn't asked permission to take the file out of the precinct, and there might be hell to pay if I lost it. Very little danger of that. I wasn't so old I couldn't protect a file

"Give me a few minutes to review this," I said.

She gave me an irritated look, made horrific by her injuries. As if I should have already digested the facts and had them permanently placed in an easily accessible section of my brain. This being one bad result of computerization, because, indeed, a computer does remember everything. Also, because of fast food, she expected almost instant gratification.

I balanced the file on the portable shelf contraption that swings over the bed, already having removed the water jug and plastic glasses, and stood over it. Leafing through the voluminous, bound-on-the-top mound of papers, I came to the description of the murder scene, as provided by the first uniformed officer who responded. Lassiter, 65, was discovered dead by his wife in his Brunswik home at approximately 3 a.m. on a Saturday morning [so was killed on a late Friday or early Saturday]. He'd been shot from at least 10 feet away [the officer helpfully estimated] and was found face forward, crumpled, on his desk.

Nothing was found in his date book to reveal the identity of his last visitor. No one had seen [or admitted to having seen] this him or her. Lassiter's study had a door built into the back of the house. [This was the intent, anonymity, to meet with the great man, because] someone could park in an area behind the house and enter the study, without being noticed by someone walking on the street.

I flipped to the coroner's report. Not very helpful. The bullet was from an unknown gun. Death was instantaneous.

Whatever conflict had existed between Lassiter and the murderer was resolved in favor of the murderer, who could, for all intents and purposes, be said to have finally convinced Lassiter of the merits of his assertions.

As to the nature of said conflict of opinions, resolved, I had presumed differently than the two detectives assigned to the case, Polachek and Villarreal, both goodly men, but who are not, like all detectives and all mortal men, always right.

I'd believed Lassiter was killed because he was too close to the mayor, Angela, and whoever killed him wanted to gain that influence for himself.

I could have been wrong. I'd been wrong before. Seldom, but true.

Jayne's insistence and her bruises introduced an element of doubt. At the least, I'd need to confer with my two most trusted consultants to see if, indeed, I'd gone off the track. If so, they'd help me put it aright.

Obvious question, so I asked it. "Who do you think killed your father?"

She winced at the word "father", although she'd used the word herself. Perhaps it was a personal violation to remind her of him or I had pushed her defense mechanism. Like, in a way, evoking the childhood game of "Made you Flinch." During which the meaner of the two children makes an assaultive gesture towards the face of the milder, then laughs when the innocent pulls away in a trauma-avoiding gesture, involving the closing of the eyes before impact.

"I believe that some hate group killed my father."

Wrong answer in the world of Vanek, I thought. In Chicago, the only motive that makes any sense is greed.

As greed had been from the very start and continued to be so. The motive that built the city and its fingers-stuck-in-the-eyes skyscrapers. The immigrant's anger that built organized crime in parallel with industrialism. The ethnic downtrodden's impulse to form gangs and fight back.

"How would you define a hate group, exactly?" I asked.

Lawyers love definitions, so she was willing to try. "Some organized conspiracy to either keep things the same or change everything, to benefit those with nothing or those with everything, and against specified groups who do not conform to an exact image, a religious or visual ideal."

That's not it, I thought. What she'd described included everything from the Democratic and Republican parties to any group espousing anything. Trying to be helpful, I asked, "Do you mean, by violent means?"

"Yes."

"Any other theory?"

"It's possible that my father had discovered some corruption on the county level and that he was killed to shut him up."

Now we're getting somewhere, I thought. "How do you expect me to accomplish what you're asking me to do?" Putting the burden of realistic expectations back upon her.

"I know you are very close to retirement," she said. "I know that you're getting a smaller and smaller caseload in preparation for your departure. I've talked to your Lieutenant, Elston, who owes favors to my family, and he has agreed to look the other way while you investigate."

Looking the other way, herself, she turned her head towards the other person in the room. Detective Vejr, pronounced Veer, my soon to be son-in-law, who'd been listening. "I even have permission for your partner to help with the case."

Checking on her efficiency: "I suppose you and Elston have discussed the probability that I'll be working outside my jurisdiction in Chicago? Your family is in Brunswik and the County of Cook takes in one hell of a lot of suburbs beyond the city limits." Brunswik being one of those wealthy and diverse suburbs along Chicago's North Shore, which is, of course, at the Southern tip of Lake Michigan.

"I've discussed your investigation with the County Sheriff, and he will appoint a liaison with local police departments."

"You arranged this all before you were beaten?"

"Yes."

That's what got you beaten, I thought.

What I said, though, was "I'm at your disposal." Oddly appropriate to say that, because I felt one part refuge for her problem and one part, just wretched refuse.

* * * * *

Chapter Two

"Do you want my opinion?" Vejr asked, as we drove along.

No, but I nodded yes.

Vejr's wedding to my widowed daughter-in-law, Amanda, was imminent. She's the mother of my grandchildren, the little ladies. Her remarriage would soon make Vejr my son-in-law, as well as my partner in crime. So I obviously couldn't just ignore him.

I do not dislike Vejr. I just find him young and callow. A bit foolish because he thinks with his genitals.

Vejr said, "This Lassiter woman is a spoiled brat who cannot believe someone would dare to muddy her pool."

It took me a moment to figure out what Vejr meant, a not unusual happenstance. He meant that she'd no experience with bullies, had gotten her way on everything her entire life.

That wasn't quite right. "She's divorced, you know, and her ex is no prize. A difficult divorce. That kind of thing must put something wacky into a women's world view."

Would to a man's view of the world, as well. I've never, thank goodness, been divorced. I'd been very happy with my first wife, who left me a widower, and I was just as damn happy with Debra, my second.

In fact, I was in a semi-coma of happiness with Debra. We'd recently wed. If our marriage, which was out of a picture book, should decline into animosity and backbiting, I'd be very disappointed and very surprised. I felt very privileged to be married to her and to have inherited her three adult children, two of them biological, one the daughter of her deceased brother, who'd been my friend. I especially tolerated her son, Elliot, who was training at the community college for a career in law enforcement, even if he was occasionally irritating.

My own son. . . I still can't talk about it.

"I'm always with you, Pop." My late son said in my head.

"I know."

"It's not so odd that a child would want justice for the death of a parent. If you'd been killed in the line of duty, don't you think I would have tried to find the murderer? You found mine."

Yes.

"She seems like a fine person, of quality," my late father said in my head, interrupting, as in life. He had a baritone voice with a lilt of accent that made me feel sad and happy at the same time. "I know all about vendettas. I understand them, but don't condone them. Back in Poland . . ."

Not now, I thought.

My cell phone rang. It was the elder of the little ladies, Tessa calling on behalf of the two, being, in their own minds, a single entity. "Papa, I have a question and only you can answer it. Unless you are catching bad men right now. I don't want to be rude."

"No, that's alright sweetheart. I'm just on my way to someone's house in Brunswik and I'll be home for dinner. You can tell Mrs. Mischevski that."

I heard Tessa say to Margo. "Tell Missus, Papa will be home for dinner." They call our housekeeper and babysitter by her marital title.

"No," said Margo, "I want to talk to Papa, too."

Stymied in her effort to communicate the unrude way, Tessa raise her voice and shouted into the ether, "Missus, Papa will be home for dinner!"

The task complete, Tessa said, "Detective me a word, Papa."

"Alright," I said.

"What's the word when you are trying to put a lid back on a jar, but you end up with the top kind of stuck crooked, but then you jiggle it and try again and all of a sudden all of it gets in the right place, and you feel good about it?"

I thought about it. "Sweetheart, I'm afraid there is no word in the English language that describes what you are saying."

"Nor Polish" my father said in my head.

Following that interruption, I said, "You will need to make up a new word, and after that, everyone else will eventually learn what it is and say that when it happens."

I heard Tessa explaining this to Margo.

I heard Margo say, "Putonthetopgood!"

Tessa said, "No, Topjiggleshooray!"

"Bye-Bye, Papa," said a laughing Tessa.

After she broke the connection, I held up the phone to my ear for a while, unwilling to leave the pleasant cyber-presence of the little ladies.

I did have a concern. I wasn't sure that the girls were bonding with Vejr the way that stepdaughters, or just daughters, should. They were still shy with him. Even though they knew the wedding would be in a few weeks and Vejr would be their new daddy.

The problem is Fathers and Grandfathers are different and I couldn't be both. A father is an authority figure and, in my humble opinion, a grandfather is for fun. I'd tried to be both while Amanda was in hiding, but it was exhausting and didn't work very well. After she returned, if there was some reason to say "No!" to the girls, their mother said it, not me. Papa just stands mute, not wanting to undermine mommy. Which is fine. I can't be mad at those sweet faces for more than a milli-second.

My concern was, would Vejr and the girls reach some kind of good place, together? So they could fight and make up and their argument forgotten?

Maybe I should talk to Suzanne about this? She is a psychologist and friend, who, with her obnoxious husband, Ash, sometimes act as consultants to the Chicago Police Department in cases where motive is hard to identify.

She'd moved to Brunswik and opened a private practice. I heard she might even get into politics. She and Ash came to our wedding and would return when Vejr and Amanda said their vows.

Back to the problem at hand, we'd arrived.

The Lassiter home stood in a quiet neighborhood of big homes surrounded by large, green lawns, about two blocks from Lake Michigan. An older neighborhood with mature trees and long driveways. Everything about the neighborhood screamed arrival into the plutocracy.

I'd looked the name of Lassiter up on my smartphone and found out that Lassiter is an English name, for those from Leicester in Leicestershire. That, for me at least, suggested Anglo-Saxon tribes, also a good place for Shakespearean pretenders to the throne to kill each other, also small villages where everyone knows everyone else's business.

Why did the ancestors of the present Lassiter family leave the old country? Perhaps for the opportunity here and so that someday their descendants could live two blocks from the lake.

I'd seen Lassiter around, at political meetings and on the news. Chicago has been good to the Irish, who dominated politics for so long. I suppose, more subtly, Chicago has been even better to the English merchants and the German farmers, who simply became the establishment, the new aristocracy of businessmen.

Lassiter, himself, with whom I shaken hands several times and with whom I had a nodding acquaintance, was something unique, though. A rich man who was actually smart. Somehow wealth hadn't worn away his good sense or separated him from life.

He was one of those men who aged wonderfully, with a full head of white hair, and who didn't look more and more as the years went by like he was from Warsaw.

The kind of man called to Court to advise the King. A personage who could actually tell the King that he was wrong and not get his head chopped off for his effort. A favorite uncle to the King, who could give the "This royal throne of kings, this sceptred isle," speech. Like old Gaunt in Richard II, newly inspired and with enough wind left in his lungs as he expired to go on for several more inches of type.

I wondered if Lassiter's wife still lived in this home. I'd seen her around too, but she didn't accompany Lassiter to the gamey political dinners. I couldn't remember what she looked like.

I remembered that Jayne had a brother. His first name I could not instantly summon up out of memory. When I saw them both at the precinct, I first wondered if they were a couple, then saw that they too much resembled each other to be anything but brother and sister.

It came to me that Jayne's brother was named Jonathan and he was a lawyer too. Still, I couldn't remember if he himself was married, divorced, or what. Did he live in his parents' home with his family, having shipped the Widow Lassiter to a condo downtown or to a nursing home? Did Jayne live in the mansion with her two children, now that she was fully divorced from Alderman Walchek?

The Walchek in question, who did look like he'd walked off the streets of Warsaw, had actually been arrested once, accused of the murder of Lassiter. I had to agree with Jayne, who said at the time, that Walchek just wasn't the murderer type. In fact, I found out later he was involved sexually with Mayor Angela Marchete. No one, I feel sure, would be willing to risk his freedom and access to Angela's goodies by killing his own father-in-law.

As it turned out, Walchek wasn't Lassiter's murderer. As it turned out I'd arrested Rourke, an aide to Mayor Angela. That was because I witnessed him killing her. It was just assumed by me and everyone else that Rourke was behind all the murders and mayhem that preceded the Mayor's death.

If it wasn't Rourke who killed Lassiter, who was the real murderer? That's what I needed to find out.

"You want me to pull into the driveway?" Vejr asked.

"No, in back. Where the murderer entered through the private door, reserved for sneaky politicians and anarchists."

* * * * *

Chapter Three

Hush, shush, someone is watching. Someone is watching, watching, watching. Who are these people with time to watch and who is watching the watchers? Most of the images are never seen by a human being, evaporated, gone to pixel heaven. Occasionally though, the image solves the crime.

Sitting in the car while Vejr looked around, my eye caught a hand-drawn diagram in the murder book showing the general outline of the Lassiter house and the location of the surveillance cameras.

When this diagram, more like a doodle, was drawn, there was a camera on a streetlight in front of the house, another on a signpost aimed at the walkway from the street, and a third covering the outside front doorway area.

Nothing from these cameras was helpful in solving the murder, because, for one, the murderer entered the house from the back. No front yard camera viewed enough in periphery to see a car going down the side of the house and no surveillance cameras were set up in the back yard. This must have been intentional, to preserve anonymity.

The Lassiters didn't have any cameras inside their house either. Lassiter must have been conscious of the inhibiting nature of video observation, how some shun and avoid the tracking of their lives. Even the honest ones, if there are any.

According to the diagram, the back yard had several extra parking spaces, a pool and an elaborate patio. The back door, through which the murderer entered, was marked with a big "X" on the doodle, like a treasure map.

I wondered what secrets entered that house through that door. Lassiter was, no doubt, himself a human surveillance camera for what went on in Cook County and City government. No one but he had access to the secrets he knew, because he knew how to be discreet and how to keep a secret. Someone who needed advice from the Adviser could come into Lassiter's study and reveal or conceal, safe in the knowledge that Lassiter could be trusted.

I can be trusted to snore. I can be trusted to keep my own secrets. I can be trusted to keep my opinions of others to myself.

Discreet in my own way. I try to keep my little investigative forays a secret. There being no need usually to confess to my Lieutenant. I also keep my activities, as best I can, from the eyes of the Internal Investigations Unit of the Chicago Police Department. Sometimes I even keep Vejr in the dark.

I never tell Debra anything about my job because she would worry. I've convinced her my work is routine and boring. Routine it is, boring too, but, unfortunately, not always.

To the cameras of the world I am just some old fart detective trying to get to retirement without further difficulty. I don't want to be the almost retiree who screwed up himself and his career on the eve of receiving his Goodbye, Thanks and Get Lost certificate from the Chicago PD.

When Vejr finished examining the back yard and returned, I sent him around to the front of the house to confirm the diagram in the murder book.

Now that Vejr had seen the back of the house, I decided to resee it for myself. I got out of the car and stretched my legs. I tried to observe everything for inconsistencies, things out of place, the echos of past decisions good or bad.

One thing I found odd at first was: why would someone need a pool if he lives only two blocks away from the lake?

After some thought, I decided this was not so strange. Said resident couldn't expect waiters to come to him on the lakefront and he wouldn't want to leave his drink on a public beach, where children could sample it. Also he or she wouldn't want to swim with the unwashed.

I expected to see new surveillance cameras in the back area and I did. Because, I supposed, the remaining Lassiters no longer wanted to encourage anonymity. They'd want to know exactly who parked behind the house. Who lurked in the shadows until he or she made his way to the door of Lassiter's study.

The smallest and, I guessed, the most technologically advanced cameras were in several places in the back yard. One was inconspicuously between the slats of a fence, another attached to a tree, a third over the back door in question, itself.

The little cameras were about the size of one half of a fly's eye, and maybe as complex. None had wires leading from them, indicating to even the non-technical, that camera images transmitted wirelessly. Maybe they even worked off solar power.

Was someone in the house watching me through these cameras? I thumbed my nose at the camera on the fence. If the Lassiters were wealthy enough to have some geek sit in their home full-time staring at a monitor, a security guard would be outside with me in an instant.

No one came.

I decided that making funny faces at the camera was unprofessional, even if enjoyable. The images from these cameras were probably sent elsewhere, to some other central place where one person could monitor several screens. Possibly the local police already knew of my presence and a policeman or private guard was on his way.

I listened for a siren. I heard nothing.

Vejr came back. "I found the cameras in front. Oddly, each camera has another smaller, tiny actually, camera attached to it. If they'd wanted to replace the old surveillance cameras, why didn't they just take the old ones down and leave the even less conspicuous new cameras?"

A good question from Vejr. Was the earlier surveillance system turned off? If so, why were the cameras left in position? Laziness, or were two different surveillance systems functioning at the same time? Why would the Lassiters do that?

Maybe two different people were observing the Lassiter home? If not just the security people hired by the Lassiters, who else watched through these little wonders?

I'd learned enough from trying to trace emails that, if the person or persons on the sending end doesn't want to be traced, he or she would find a way to block all efforts. Was the same true on the receiving end of surveillance cameras? Could we trace where the images go?

I bet not.

Because, that's how it works. I figure out how to catch a bad guy and the bad guy figures out a way not to be caught. It's the old story, I'll make a weapon and you'll make a better weapon, and then I make an even better weapon, and on and on. The human mind is nimble and clever and loves a tit-for-tat challenge. This year's unbreakable safe is next year's Limburger cheese, full of holes. Mice are building a better people-trap.

Vejr had reentered the car and was talking on his cell. I walked around the house to the front door.

If someone were observing me, they'd already know I was about to push the doorbell, I thought.

How fast the door was opened would tell me something. If the door opened quickly, then there was a resident security guard. If it took a long time to answer my doorbell, then probably there was no security guard and the residents were oblivious and slow. If no one came to the door at all, it meant no one was home or didn't want to answer the door. Or some other scenario, because another reason is always possible and I just don't know what it is.

The full-range of my detectively analysis exhausted, I waited for the bong-bong of the doorbell to have its effect.

Not quickly and not slowly--so what did that mean?--the door was answered by an attractive woman in her early 30's, who was several years younger than Jayne. She was dressed too expensively, although leisurely, to be a domestic, so I assumed she was Jayne's sister-in-law, Jonathan's wife. The large diamond on her finger confirmed her marital status.

She was a bit above plain-looking, which did not rule out that she was a beautiful woman, only that I could not picture what she looked like with make-up applied.

Behind her, a large tawny dog growled at me, showing his teeth.

"Hello," the woman said, in not an unfriendly manner, which is only slightly less than a friendly manner.

Vejr, his phone call completed, had silently joined me at the door. We both took out our badges and flipped them open. Of course, we were out of our jurisdiction, and I, for one, would have slammed the door in my face if someone big like me asked for entrance.

"I'm Detective Vanek and this is my partner, Vejr. Jayne Lassiter contacted us about doing a follow up investigation of the murder of Robert Lassiter."

She nodded. "Yes, nice to meet you. [No attempt to shake my hand.] Jayne told me. I'm Jenessa, her sister-in-law. I didn't expect you so soon or I would have completed my cleaning." From this, I assumed that she was very fastidious, needing to dust even after the cleaning service or domestic help were done. That the cleaning needed her personal touch to be complete.

"Please come in," she said, opening the door wider. "Don't worry, Harold, our dog, will not attack unless a stranger threatens harm."

Comforting. I liked dogs and generally dogs liked me. Which doesn't mean I'd ever be a mailman or an express deliveryman. I wouldn't want to face danger every time I approached a house. On second thought, as a policeman, I did face danger every time I approached a house.

"Walk this way," she said.

We followed her through the foyer and into a large room, which, if there weren't so many other large rooms that I could partially see, would be the living room, as distinguished from the typically more sloppy family room.

"Would you like some coffee?" she asked.

"Yes, thanks," I said. She motioned for us to sit on the couch and went to a door where someone took her order for three cups.

While she was gone for an instant, Vejr said, "She did it. A woman with that good a body must be the murderer. Anyway, it's always the daughter-in-law who's done it."

* * * * *

Chapter Four

The woman upon whom Vejr had passed premature judgment, sat primly back on a formal chair, demurely crossed her legs, and eyed us.

Not nervous, exactly. This was her home. Anticipatory. "I want to help. I know Jayne thinks that my father-in-law's murderer has not been caught. Thinks that there's been some kind of mistake."

"What do you think?" I asked. I took a sip of my coffee to cover the few moments while Jenessa gathered her thoughts for a reply.

"I think that Mr. Lassiter was a fine judge of character and would not have allowed a potential murderer into his study. I think he would have known whether the person in front of him was upset enough to want to kill him."

I started to like Jenessa. She seemed like a detail person, not superficial. She thought about things. Perhaps, a bit fussy in some ways. Maybe that's what women called "standards." She wasn't showing anything to me but the respect earned by age, and I did not find her to be much different from the other young women in my life.

I said, "I'm not sure what the living arrangements were at the time of his death. For instance, who was living in this house then?"

She put down her cup on the end table, the better to use her hands, if necessary. "Mrs. Lassiter of course, and also Jayne and her children. Jayne was still going through the run up to her divorce. There was much give and take and negotiation about who would get what in the property settlement. The children were acting out, jockeying for position, if you know what I mean, trying to see what they could gouge out of their guilty parents regarding visitation."

"I'm not sure what you mean by that," Vejr said. I was glad that he did not know what she meant. He obviously had not thought about divorce, being drunk from the elixir of anticipated marriage, which, as all know, cures all.

She looked at Vejr. "Oh, wanting to know how elegant a room each would get in the residences each parent would individually buy. Wondering about the weekends they would visit either parent and what they could expect in the way of guilt-driven entertainment and outrageous privileges."

To my mind, this meant that Jenessa was, herself, a child of divorced parents, a veteran of the split custody wars.

I congratulated myself again for maintaining a marriage without divorce. Not to brag, exactly, just to note in passing that I, bright young man that I was, had not fallen into the adultery trap or endangered in any way the fragile bond in my first marriage.

I looked at Vejr. Would he ever be unfaithful to Amanda? My son had been. And died because of it. From my point of view as a man whose inner fires have begun to cool, I thought that the young, lust-driven Mr. Vejr could be easily enticed to stray.

I needed to talk to him about this, sometime. I wasn't afraid to do so, I just didn't want to scare him away before the wedding. I wanted him to be married first, because my grandchildren needed a father. On the other hand, I didn't want the little ladies to suffer a second reversal of parental fortune. Those little faces should smile and be happy, not cry and hide tears.

Back to the present, I asked, "Where is your mother-in-law? I'm sorry. What is her first name?"

"Janice."

There really were too many "J" names in the Lassiter clan. "Where is Janice residing?"

"She felt there were too many bad memories in the house after Mr. Lassiter's death and moved to a condo downtown."

Good guess, Vanek. I was glad the other alternative which came to mind, that she was in nursing home care, had not occurred. I'd need to talk to her, of course, at some point, so I asked, "Is she much withdrawn or does she remain active?"

"Very active," Jenessa said. "Quite active in the Lassiter Foundation." She paused to consider whether or not to speak further. She decided she should. This big, homely man was trying to be helpful and should receive some intimate family knowledge for his trouble. "You may not know this. She was quite an accomplished musician, a violinist, before she married. Her special interest is in the Arts, especially music. She sits on the board of the Sonic Opera Company."

A housekeeper, not in formal maid's outfit, entered to see if we wanted more coffee. She whispered that a person named Robert would soon be home from day camp. I assumed this was Jenessa's son, named after his grandfather, and hoped his middle name did not start with a "J."

She nodded to the maid, but her expression did not change, or show impatience for us to leave. Instead, she wanted to be more helpful. "What else can I tell you?"

"How do you get along with your mother-in-law?" In my experience mothers and daughter in-laws sometimes disagree.

"Very well. I love her. She is a fine person, who does not interfere. She loves, loves, loves her grandchildren."

I was glad to hear it. I had only my passing impression of Mrs. Lassiter, Sr. I'd only talked to her briefly in the investigation of her husband's death. She'd been upset and I hadn't wanted to add to her angst.

"And you say she's moved downtown? When was that?"

"Several months after Mr. Lassiter passed. Arrangements take time."

"She wasn't fearful to be here?" I asked. "Did she upgrade or change the surveillance system watching the house? For instance, did she put cameras in the back area, the parking lot and the pool?"

"I'm sure not. It was already the wrong season for the pool. She just closed off the whole wing where the study is. Actually had the back entrance into the study nailed shut and boarded up from the inside. No one can get into the house from the back. I thought it was a little odd."

Yes, a little odd, I thought. I wondered what Debra would do under similar circumstances. If a stranger had violated her home and killed me?

"She just wanted to cut off any possibility that someone could get into the house, even if it meant some inconvenience. Needing to go around the house to get in. The side entrance is still open and towards the back, because of the additions in the past. I suppose mother also thought the burglar alarm system was enough if there was no possibility of someone getting into the house from the back yard. I intend, sometime, to reopen the study entrance. We'll just put some more cameras back there. We are connected to some kind of service, and if an intruder tries to enter through the front, the police are called."

But they weren't, even though two strangers had been lurking. Which indicated to me that this so-called service, served badly.

I did not marvel at the thought that Jenessa had never noticed the cameras in back. Most people are somewhat to completely oblivious about what is around them.

The question was: who installed the second round of surveillance cameras? "Did anyone else do anything to make the house secure?" I asked.

"Jayne was too absorbed in her divorce. She stayed here with her preteen children until her mother left for downtown, then bought her own condo in this area. You know, one in the same school district so her children could still be with their father on weekends and still go to the same school with their friends."

I hoped Vejr was listening carefully. Divorce is difficult, emotionally painful and messy. Avoid that.

Was the house vacant at all? Did you move in after your in-laws left?"

"Yes, but not immediately. We waited until the end of the school year. We didn't want to take Robert the second out of school. We've been here about a month."

"Does that mean the house was vacant for a while?" Vejr asked, unnecessarily. She'd said that, if a person followed her chronology.

"Vacant, yes. Wait, that's wrong. Just no one from the family. We kept some staff, who have continued on."

The subject seemed fully covered. Someone could have set up a second surveillance system, if he or she was careful and moved in the blind spots.

Next question: "How did your husband and Jayne get along with their father? I'm just trying to get a total picture." Sometimes sons and daughters don't get along with their father, in my humble experience.

"They loved and respected Mr. Lassiter. I loved him too. He was . . . solid. I don't know how else to describe it. He was always there, always fair, a permanent touchstone." She teared up.

I decided I better not continue on this line of questioning. No need to unnecessarily upset her. I waited for her to regain her composure. "Just to be complete. How do you get along with Jayne?" Sisters-in-law sometimes disagree.

"She's like a sister to me." Ah, a small flicker in her eyes told me she was not providing the whole truth and nothing but the truth. Thank god, this whole menagerie of adults was starting to sound a little unreal, too good to be true. Had I missed any other indications of disharmony?"

"What about Mr. Walchek, the alderman? Do you think he was involved in your father-in-law's murder? He was arrested at one point."

"I really don't. Walchek owed everything to Mr. Lassiter. He may have resented that Mr. Lassiter was paying Jayne's legal fees for the divorce, but my father-in-law had been very kind to Walchek in the past, supported him in his political ambitions, acted as his campaign chairman. Walchek knew that his problems with Jayne would affect his relationship with Mr. Lassiter. How could he not? No one expects a father to side against his daughter in a divorce."

"Was it adultery that caused the break between Jayne and Walchek?"

A reluctant, "Yes." Meaning to me that she didn't want to talk about it. What did this mean? If the adultery had only been between Walchek and other women, wouldn't Jenessa join the rest in Walchek-bashing.

Had Jayne, herself, been less than faithful?

Robert, a full-of-energy boy, burst into the room. I could hear a school bus pulling away.

He ran to hug his mother. Robert, I noticed, wasn't pocketing a key. Had Jenessa left the front door unlocked for him? I hadn't seen her go back to the front door after we entered. Maybe one of the domestic staff let him in?

This told me something more about Jenessa's instincts for tight security or lack thereof. She must have grown up in a home in the country or two blocks from the lake, where bad men fear to tread. Usually.

* * * * *

Chapter Five

Paragons have six sides. No, that's a hexagon.

Jayne had suggested that Lassiter was murdered by a hate group. Was this a possibility? I needed to give this some thought and diligently research.

I had a certain idea of what Robert Lassiter was like in life. I had my own impressions and those of a few family members. Had I been led astray? Reality being the slippery thing it is.

What did Lassiter think about himself? When no one was looking, in the middle of the night? When there was no need for pretense or sham, or keeping up appearances? Did Lassiter have a little boy inside of him that wanted to rob the local toy emporium?

I looked up his police records. He had several speeding tickets when he was a young man. The cars he drove were expensive, had really huge engines under the hood when cars were heavier and seemed more like missiles or boats. [Possible groups, hateful and otherwise, who might take notice or be insulted: those for or against car accidents, anti-road repair or extension activists, people against governmental regulation of the auto industry, those for or against missiles and boats ].

So Lassiter was a man who liked to drive fast when he was young. Who doesn't or didn't?

I searched the Internet, skipping the accounts of his murder. The search engines are skimpy beyond a few years back. For more, I needed to search the newspaper archives. I would just, as Lassiter probably would have, put the cost for access on a City of Chicago employee credit card. [Potential hate groups: people against misers, anti-credit rangers, plastic sensitives.]

Reading the archives reminded me of when I was young and had a class assignment. I would go downtown to do research at the central library, now a cultural center and replaced by the Washington Library, named after Harold Washington, the first Black-American Mayor of Chicago.

I'd look for appropriate articles in the drawer after drawer of photographic rolls which, after being placed in a reading machine and cranked to the right spot, showed each page of old newspapers and magazines. When I was done with looking up whatever my classroom assignment required, I'd go to the earliest newspapers on file and read what was news in the 1920's and 1930's.

I felt like I was an explorer. All these people I read about were undoubtedly dead by then. [Anti-reincarnationists, those who deny that children are created through sex]. I liked reading the lesser known history of the city. [Those against history itself, deniers of catastrophic events, those who fear the revealing of secrets, those who believe secret societies and/or aliens run the world, and any and every other kind of conspiratoralist, those who believe that we have been led astray, cultists, true believers, those who believe we are watched and those who fear we are not watched.]

I liked the old comic strips, which seemed a lot more like continuing stories, adventures [those who fear that comics are pornographic and corrupt children, those who wish the comics were more pornographic and corrupted more children].

I found fascinating how world events were reflected or distorted in the news. How the local news was so much important than events in Europe, which must have seemed as distant and inaccessible as the moon [xenophobes, isolationists, survivalists, doubters men landed on the moon, those who don't want us to muck about with the moon, people who howl at the moon.]

I couldn't find anything about Lassiter's actual ancestors, rather than those who shared their geographic origins, because Lassiter is too common a name. For that reason, I could not pinpoint which British boat brought his ancestors to our shores. [Anglophobes, those still upset about the War of 1812 and the burning of Washington D.C., those who hate 1960-70 music].

I assumed his ancestors had little or no opportunity in the mother country and came to America penniless. [Anti-immigrationists, nativists, anti-assimilationists, those who deny their families emigrated to America, those who hate when the poor become rich.]

I assumed that the Lassiters were Church of England. [Those against all religions, those against particular religions, those who favor a particular religion to the exclusion of any other religion, those wanting to kill those of other religions, Anti-Semites.]

Once his ancestors were in America and had something, they probably disliked anyone who had anything they didn't or who had nothing and might want what his ancestors had. [Racists, Anti-Ethnic Group of the Month clubs, those still fighting the Civil War, those who believe their side won the Civil War.]

Lassiter's father was the grandchild of a clothing manufacturer. One of his family's factories burnt down with much loss of life. [Pro-unionists] but thereafter introduced reforms in the workplace. [Anti-unionists, Citizens against Reform, reactionaries, those against any change, Luddites, those who like a particular century and intend to live in that one.]

When, during a summer vacation from college, Lassiter went to clerk at one of his family's diverse manufacturing plants, a feature article made much of his connection to the factory's past. [Anti-nepotismists, anti-rich, anti-work.] In the picture, Lassiter had a skinny, beardless face, stunned by the flash of the camera. [Citizens against Youth, the Anti-Pimple League, those who fear that cameras rob individuals of their souls.]

He was mentioned in his father's obituary soon after. His grandfather was still alive at that time, so, I suppose, he still had lots of parental advice and continuity. [Ageists, the old or young, those against prior generations, anti-inheritancers.] It wasn't like the death of his parent left him destitute, an orphan in his late teens. [Foster Care for All Children Advocates, anti-orphanage societies, Citizens for Prosecuting Children as Adults, groups in favor of homelessness.]

I know what that's like, my father said in my head. He'd spent some time in an orphanage when his family could no longer feed him during some war or revolution. [Pro-War, Anti-Peace, those who want to punish their enemies, those who want to nuke all their enemies, those who want to nuke everyone.]

The most interesting and perhaps most relevant item was a picture of a young Lassiter standing behind the then powerful alderman of Bridgeport, Patrick "Pat" Reilley O'Malley. He was a man with a round face and heavy eyebrows who looked like he'd never left the old sod. Like he had an imaginary shillelagh in his hand all the time, except when he walked in the St. Patrick's Day parade, when he carried an actual shillelagh.

O'Malley was a king-maker, or Mayor-maker, same thing in Chicago, with a huge personal following who trusted him only enough to drink with him. He was Lassiter's political sponsor, as unlikely as that always seemed. Lassiter the White Anglo-Saxon Protestant, and O'Malley the Irish Catholic.

Lassiter moved into the city after getting his law degree from DePaul University, the better to show a common touch, rather than from the other schools that accepted him, like Harvard, Yale and Northwestern. Even in his early 20's, Lassiter must have known what he wanted, and what he wanted was to be a king-maker like O'Malley.

Lassiter rose from precinct captain to campaign manager for every alderman who succeeded O'Malley, including the late Alderman Marchette, also Lassiter's hapless, now-ex son-in-law, still alderman, Stan Walchek.

I looked for O'Malley's obituary and was surprised to find none. Surely, if such an esteemed creature of the politics had died, there would have been a tumult, if only to fill his place and find the tin box where he hid his bribes.

No, in fact, O'Malley was still among the living. He must have been in his middle to late 90's, by my calculation, bless him. I hoped that he wasn't waiting to die in some warehouse for old people.

I wondered if anyone knew his secret stories and anecdotes and had written them down for posterity. I saw no books about O'Malley, just a few old articles that stated what he wanted to have said. The legacy of successful and powerful liars.

No one has more insight into a mentee than a mentor, and vice-versa. Too bad Lassiter died before writing his autobiography. He must have had some wonderful O'Malley stories. Was it possible that I could reach O'Malley and find out some Lassiter stories, before O'Malley's mental equipment was sent back to the factory?

I assigned Vejr to find out where O'Malley resided. I half-expected to hear he had just faded away or that he'd been buried in Ireland, or that he'd been put up for Sainthood, his revered bones being considered for a basilica.

Vejr reported that O'Malley had both an address and a phone number. I briefly doubted what Vejr told me, that probably the O'Malley listed was a son or a grandson, or even a great grandson.

No, it was him, but his secretary said he was "in conference" when I called. She asked, was this a police matter? A little far-fetched to say it was. More like I wanted to satisfy my curiosity and hear some good stories, some true, others amusingly not. When I told her no, she said she would get back to me.

She never did.

* * * * *

Chapter Six

Lincoln Park Zoo is a fine place to watch humanity. I sat on a bench near the Lion House. Past the pit, too deep and wide for Leo to leap across, a lazy male, full mane, yawned in the sunlight and heat. He'd probably never known the Veldt, probably was calculating whether he'd make it across the moat to eat me.

Too tough and old. I wouldn't be a satisfying meal. He'd be better off with a baby gazelle or zebra.

Probably less pollutant in those animals than me. Who knows? Maybe I'm poisonous.

I awaited the arrival of Truck, my long-time trusted snitch and possibly my friend. I'd left a message at his most recent telephone number, (which would somehow appear anonymously on my desk at the precinct).

The number was undoubtedly to a burner phone, and a call from that number could not be traced. The first three digits were a local exchange, the one for downtown, so I was pretty sure Truck was still in the Chicago area. Also, if the number had been disconnected—-if, for instance, he'd been eaten alive by the city—-some recorded voice would have told me the number was no longer in service.

Truck remained a mystery to me, one I could not hope to solve. He looked like a combination of all the possible ethnic groups but seemed predominantly Hispanic, was apparently homeless. He had a sadness about him. He certainly wasn't uneducated. He'd had a life before he became an animal of the urban jungle. Now he was more like a scavenger than a predator like Leo.

I hadn't seen him in months, since that time I took Debra to a trendy restaurant, and, to my surprise, Truck showed up, clean and looking like a stockbroker. (This was before I asked Debra marry me. Time is divided in my mind between the pre-date and the post-date of that milestone.) Truck hadn't looked at me then, even though I'm sure he knew I was there. To my further amazement, the cleaned-up Truck had been seated across from his date, a good-looking woman.

A dirty, homeless bum of indeterminate age and ethnicity sat next to me on the bench. I said, "Hello, Truck."

He almost smiled. "Yeah, it's me" he said. "What's up and did you bring cash or traveler's checks?" He was making a funny, because no one in their right mind would cash his checks, traveler's or otherwise, or trust that he hadn't stolen a proffered credit card. He looked like a man more likely to rob a bank than have an account.

Would Truck accept credit instead of cash? I imagined Truck carrying one of those portable things that connect to the credit card company. He'd say, that information will cost you $500. Debit or credit?

In any case, this would leave way too much of a paper trail for Truck. He still dealt in old fashioned money.

"What's up is I'm looking for someone," I said.

"Is it someone who has murdered already or is planning to?"

I hadn't expected that question. "Do you know people who are about to commit murder?" I asked.

"Everyone is about to commit murder."

True, so I stopped asking.

"Who was killed?" he asked.

"I'm trying to find who killed Robert Lassiter."

This would have been the appropriate moment for Truck to say, you already arrested the guy. He didn't say that and that was significant in itself. What he did say was "I wondered when you'd realize it wasn't the guy serving time for it."

If he knew that much, did he know everything? Like he hadn't said, because I hadn't asked? "So who killed him?"

He stroked his beard. I expected vermin to fly out from between the whiskers. "Don't know yet. Is that what you're asking?" This was a bookkeeping question. The difficulty of his investigation, in terms of how much estimated punishment would be inflicted onto his smelly hide to extract some information, was the issue at hand. "Might be costly to find out."

"I can handle that."

Truck almost smiled. Two almost smiles in one meeting. He must be in a good mood, I thought. But why? Would the cash I gave him be used for a down payment on a condo for that lady he'd brought to the restaurant that night? What exactly did he do with the money I gave him?

I'd never know. Unnecessary to know.

Maybe I could narrow my inquiry down by just asking Truck some short questions? "Is it someone from a hate group? Some loon?"

Truck finally looked me straight in the face. Trying to see if I was the loony.

After a moment of staring back and forth, I said, "Yeah, that does sound like a crazy question." This being, after all, the city that is synonymous with greed. "I guess you're telling me Lassiter wasn't killed for ideological reasons." Idiot logical reasons. "Then what? Was he known to be on the take? I never got that impression."

"No," Truck said. "The guy had money coming out of his pores. He needed to shower twice a day or he'd turn green. Anyway, how much can one man spend in a lifetime? How much better can he live?"

Philosophical questions from a man who lives on the streets.

I didn't answer because I really didn't know how much money a man needs to spend in a lifetime. Apparently, there are those trying to find out. How much better can a person live? I suppose some people compete to have the biggest house. Why would anyone want a house bigger than a football field? I'd get lost.

"Lassiter only liked power," Truck said. "The only time he was in public was when he went to County Board meetings. He never said anything much at those meetings. He was a quiet man. An introvert, private. Unusual for a politician, right? He didn't want the spotlight. He wanted the deal, the access, the inside info so he could score more prestige."

Almost a eulogy.

Truck was right. Lassiter didn't ask for anything, just to be the one who decided. People came to in his study, on his terms, to ask him what to do or to get his blessings. He wanted to be the judge, not the fool who begs the judge for a favorable ruling on a point of law.

"You sound like you knew him," I said.

"I knew him."

Why would this literally dirty man know Lassiter? Was this in his former life? Maybe Truck himself had gone many times to Lassiter's study, and for some unknown reason, shot the man?

Nah. Too incredible even for my imagination.

"That's what's troubling," I said. "Someone, obviously known to Lassiter comes over late at night. Lassiter lets him in. Knew he was coming, otherwise, why be awake and in the study? He listens to the man, very civilized. He tells the visitor what he thinks. The visitor takes out a gun and shoots him dead. Why? What did he tell this visitor that made it a good idea to kill him? What is it that Lassiter could have done to please the visitor, what kind of advice or reassurance or help could Lassiter have provided to someone to avoid being killed?"

"Wordy today, aren't we?" Truck asked. "What you're asking is: 'What was so fucking important that Lassiter had to die?'"

Right. Truck had a way of melting things down to the essential. What was so fucking important? "What can you do to help me find out?" I asked.

"I'll ask around. First, my retainer."

I took an envelope out of the pocket of my shirt and handed it to him. I hoped the envelope was clammy with my sweat.

He counted the cash. He almost smiled, again. Truck was being positively jovial for him.

Usually, after the exchange of cash, Truck would disappear without another word. This time he continued sitting. Was he trying to decide if he could jump the trench and eat Leo?

"How are you?" he asked.

I was very surprised by this personal inquiry. My first thought was, who wants to know and how much has he paid you to find out? Or, was it that Truck just wanted to know when I intended to retire, so he could curry favor with another detective before then?

"Fine, almost out."

"Your wedding was beautiful," he said.

Debra and I got married at a hall near where I live, which is as far North as you can get without being outside the city limits.

I hadn't invited Truck.

I had all kinds of reasons not to invite him. He isn't exactly what I'd call a social friend. At the time, I didn't want to explain who the hell Truck was to Debra. I didn't want to mix business with pleasure. It wasn't that I thought he'd show up dirty. I'd seen him cleaned up. He might even have brought a plus one. Maybe, I just couldn't imagine Truck at my or any wedding. Now I felt a little guilty. Had I committed a vagrant faux pas?

"You were there? I didn't see you."

"I don't get seen when I don't want to be."

Truck had asked me a personal question. Did that mean I could finally satisfy my curiosity about him? Ask him something personal? Such as, what derailed your life so much that you live on the streets?

Truck was already gone.

* * * * *

Chapter Seven

From a news article:

A fire early this morning in the dressing rooms of the Sonic Opera Company building in downtown Chicago caused an estimated $1 million in damage and will delay, by at least a week, the opening of "La Boheme."

No one was injured, according to Opera Company board chairperson, Janice Lassiter.

The fire apparently started in a closet in the chorus make-up rooms and may have been caused by defective electrical wiring, according to fire department officials.

The entire building, which is more than 100 years old, is in the process of a $100 million renovation, following a recent successful fund-raising effort.

The fire will further complicate construction and cause further delay, according to the fund-raising chairman, Mr. Phillip "Rusty" Hastings, another member of the Company's Board. Supplementary funds may be necessary, he said.

Following an alarm, the fire was discovered by a watchman on his regular rounds at about 2 a.m., according to Lassiter.

The investigation, so far, revealed no evidence of arson, according to fire department officials. The fire apparently began in an electrical closet.

Firemen were able to subdue the fire from within the building before the fire spread beyond the make-up room. The roof was not damaged, and no snorkeling of the building was necessary.

Efforts will begin immediately to air out the building, Ms. Lassiter said. The proscenium stage and audience sections were not affected.

" _Fire equipment was on the scene almost immediately, because the local fire station is only two blocks away and there was little traffic that late at night," Ms. Lassiter said._

Subscribers will be alerted in regard to canceled performances, if necessary, Ms. Lassiter also said, and make-up dates will be selected.

The building itself faces Canal street and backs up into the Central commuter Amtrak station. Because of the building is so close to a transportation hub, the Chicago Police Department and other law enforcement agencies will investigate for possible terrorist activity, according to a written statement by police spokesmen.

The Sonic Opera Company is one of the oldest cultural institutions in Chicago and is world renown. Recent operas are recorded and are broadcast digitally to theaters throughout the country. The upcoming season's opera's will include "The Marriage of Figaro", also, a remounting of the classic American Opera "Porgy and Bess," and the performance of a controversial new opera about Middle-East conflicts.

"Guys, Guys, hold it down! Have some respect. It's Chicago's Finest on the phone, Detective Vanek," said my FBI contact, Agent Madison, still full of fire, still full of ire, still full of crap. "I can't believe my good fortune. A call from the Man Himself. Be still my beating heart."

I thought briefly about stopping his heart altogether, but found the idea unworthy of me. I waited until he wound down. "I understand you are my opposite number on this fire at the Opera building," I said.

"Opposite is right. How did you get this plum, Vanek? Have you curried favor with the bigwigs downtown? Is this your reward for writing the most parking tickets, opening car doors for fat-assed politicians?"

I'd received this assignment from Elston, my lieutenant, who called while I was eating breakfast with the little ladies. Their mother was already at work. Debra was in our room getting ready to drive the girls to their school. Because that was where she also worked, as a kindergarten teacher. Nice planning on your part, Vanek. Also, great that all the adults are employed.

The Lieutenant, a bright, maybe brilliant African-American, with some hazy political connections, was only wordy on the phone. He said that, since I was covering the Lassiter case, to his disgust, I might as well cover the whole family, which included Mrs. Lassiter.

"I'll tell you who assigned me," I said. "My superiors, who include nobody in the FBI, thank god. Possibly my boss feels that my experience in dealing with the FBI has built up some kind of immunity to mental infection."

"I'm losing patience," Madison said. "You've used up your time. I have to turn my attention to more serious matters. Can we speed this up? What do you want to know?"

"How serious is this connection to terrorism, do you think? I mean, does every fire within a mile of a railroad track get investigated like our way of life is imperiled?"

"I don't think so, and apparently the Homeland Security people don't think so, either. I got a call, is all. A much more pleasant call than this one. Asked about my health and whether the rumors of my promotion are true."

"Are they?" A sobering thought: I might need to deal with someone with more intelligence, for instance, any other FBI agent, the next time around.

"I believe my exemplary work makes me deserving," he said

"Well goody-good for you. Getting back to why I called. Why aren't the big boys interested in this fire?"

"Because it looks like an ordinary electrical fire in an ancient building. No accelerant was found. Maybe, to conjecture, the insulation on some wires was chewed through by rodents."

"You didn't feel there was any possible human involvement?"

"I suppose if someone were angry enough, he could have punched through the plaster, taken two wires and sparked them together. Why would someone do that?"

So no one would think the fire was caused by an arsonist, I thought. "Who has access to that part of the building by night?"

"Security was not what I would call tight. The building was built for a more genteel time. No one figured that, in the future, just about any public building could be targeted. You know, the audience doesn't even go through security gates. Maybe they should. The singers are often of non-American origin. Some of them from very suspect countries."

Like Italy, I thought.

Continuing, "Anyone who spent a lot of time in the building, such as the highfalutin Board of Directors of the Opera Company, could get access. I don't think a lot of thought was given to keeping doors locked in the first place. All keys weren't accounted for. We aren't talking here about security state of the art. The night watchman is somebody's uncle."

"Did anyone have a theory why someone would commit arson?" I asked.

"I talked to that Mrs. Lassiter, the Board chairperson. Nice woman, would fix her up with my father. Why does that name sound familiar?"

"Her husband was murdered last year."

"Oh, yeah, a county secretary."

"Commissioner."

"Yeah. She didn't mention him. Just said that she couldn't think of a reason for the fire unless it was this opera they're planning about Middle-East politics. They expect some picketing and bad publicity. She says the opera has artistic value and deserves to be heard. In any case, the fire might just delay the first opera, not that one."

"What did you think of Mrs. Lassiter? She's still in the grieving period."

"Like I said, she didn't bring up her husband. She seemed cheerful enough. Well-spoken, educated. Seemed like a very arty person."

"She's a violinist. I heard she was very good before she gave up music to raise a family."

"Interesting, in a not interesting way."

"Did you talk to anyone else?" I asked.

"That guy 'Rusty.' Who calls himself Rusty?"

Someone who wants to be liked. "I suppose he has red hair?"

"Yeah, red and lots of freckles. I'd say about your age. Old. A CPA, I think. A bean counter, is in charge of the fund raising for the latest gouge. The wheels were already turning in his head, picking out the wealthy suckers he'd hit up for more money to repair the closet and surrounding."

That was about all I needed to know from Madison. I wanted to talk to the widow Lassiter anyway and I thought the investigation to the fire would be a good excuse to start. She'd probably been filled in by her daughter that someone would be re-investigating her husband's murder.

I wanted to, was glad to, end my conversation with the good Agent Madison. "Well, thanks for the information. I'll probably go and take a look myself. You're not still investigating over there are you?"

"Might be a lab guy wanting to cover up a mistake, that's all. Be my guest."

"As always, you have been very helpful. Make up your own closing salutations."

"I will." He broke the connection.

Remarkably, no one knows who invented the closet, and they were never mentioned before 1850. Before then, people had armoires, chifferobes, wardrobes, cabinets, basements, attics.

Someone woke one morning and said, today I shall invent a sub-room, something small using some inner housal space, separate from the entire, upon which I will hang a door on its front and behind shall be space and three walls at right angles to each other. Patent still pending at the U.S. Patent Office.

Some of the notable signs I've seen on closets: Please check out by Noon or you shall be charged with another day's stay. Also, Door Opens Without Warning. My favorite is the Electrical Closet, denoting access into the secret world of voltage.

The electrical closet in the chorus dressing room was now a charred space surrounded by more char. And the smell made the back of my throat protest.

Only my throat. Singular. Vejr had begged off and was with a travel agent, trying to straighten out a problem. He and Amanda were scheduled for a honeymoon in the Caribbean.

I had the security guard take me to another electrical closet. If closet one was like closet two, Agent Madison was wrong. The unknown someone didn't need to punch his way through the wall, as Madison theorized. A person needed only do a little unscrewing and reach in and cross the wires.

Probably someone with rubber gloves or whatever won't carry an electrical current. Would he need to be wearing rubber shoes? In fact, I knew nothing about how to grab a live wire and could only conjecture.

No, my father said in his head. You are off the track, letting your imagination take you far afield. The arsonist probably just took out the fuse or tripped the switch to turn off the electricity, before he put his hand inside and up.

I had to agree. The arsonist must have taken out the right fuse or flipped the right switch. One must take the time to do so, unless one wishes to fry one's self.

Where was the fuse box? I asked the guard, who'd introduced himself as Craig Mithuss. "This way," he said. He led. Either he had injured one leg in an accident or had arthritis.

He showed me a real antique of a fuse box. Is it still possible to buy fuses like this, the screw-in kind? This box must have been up to fire and electrical code in 1910. Next to each fuse was a label, carefully indicating the circuit's destination. Written by some hand when good handwriting was still prized.

I put on gloves and tried turning the fuse, marked as "Dressing Room." It turned easily. "Has anyone dusted this cabinet for prints?" I asked the man, who was elderly and would have discouraged no interloper. The guard did seem like a kindly older person, glad to be working at his advanced age so he was not so dependent on his long-suffering family.

"Oh, yeah, and that fuse especially. I was worried that the powder would interfere and we'd have a fire right here."

At least the investigators had been thorough. "No one's considered replacing this system with one of those, more modern, trip boxes?" I asked.

"It's slated for the next renovation, the big one everyone keeps talking about. I've been told that when the renovation is done, I'm going to be renovated out of a job and put out to pasture. They're going to put in all modern stuff, rewire. I doubt if this building would be allowed as it is, if it had to meet code. Fortunately, it's been grandfathered in. You know, as long as it stays the same, no improvements need to be made. Like me."

I wondered if the old man guard was the culprit, wanting to delay his retirement. "Anyone else poking in this box recently?"

"Lots of people, mostly making estimates for the fund-raising campaign."

"You know Rusty?" I asked.

"I do," he said, and that's all. He must not like Rusty, I thought, or had some other reason not to expound upon his relationship to the man.

Not like Rusty? How could anyone not like someone nicknamed Rusty? Impossible.

* * * * *

Chapter Eight

"Could you direct me to the Board of Directors' office? I have an appointment with Mrs. Lassiter."

"Of course, follow me." The security guard looked over his shoulder. "I think she is a wonderful person."

"You know her?"

"Just to say hello and how are you. She always asks if my arthritis is worse. A sweet lady."

I found Mrs. Lassiter sitting at the head of an otherwise empty conference table. She wore dark framed glasses. She had about an inch of documents in front of her and was wading through, turning each page to make a second pile as she completed her perusal.

"Mrs. Lassiter?"

She looked up, removing her glasses at the same time. "Yes." She looked a little perplexed by the sudden appearance of large me. Perhaps she'd forgotten the appointment made by her secretary for her? Or perhaps I didn't look like her image of a police detective? Possible, when one's years start to creep up.

Mrs. Lassiter was my age or slightly younger than me, I guessed. That would mean she was more than 10 years younger than the late Mr. Lassiter.

Debra is only several years my junior. I've wondered about the dynamics of having a much older spouse. Does the younger spouse live in dread of losing the older to death? Or has the younger come to terms with the thought he or she will outlive his or her mate by many years? And be alone? Or, if lucky, find another.

"Yes, hello. You must be Detective Vanek."

Yes, I must. That's the role I have in life.

Like her daughter in law, she made no attempt to shake my hand. Instead, she gave me a lovely smile, her best for strangers. She was better than well-preserved, had dark hair, which must have been dyed to hide the gray. A fine dye-job though, an excellent look. Her face was round, her nose small, her eyes blue and expressive. Her clothes were fashionable, I imagine, not really knowing. She made a fine impression.

All in all, a different kind of person than I usually dealt with. My life of talking to mopes, miscreants, and murderers was not adequate practice for talking with someone of refinement.

Musicians are different from the rest of us, anyway, and Mrs. Lassiter had that ineffable something that connected her to the music of the spheres. I could imagine her playing a violin, her whole self concentrated on the sound, the emotion of the music.

I sat uninvited.

She realized she could have been more welcoming. To compensate, she asked if I wanted coffee.

I did. Mrs. Lassiter raised her voice so someone in the next room could hear her and requested coffee, just like her daughter-in-law had. Was this a habit of the super rich or was this her way of telling me, savage that I am, I was not alone with her and she could call for help if I became disruptive or rude.

When I did not scratch myself, snort or stamp my feet, she relaxed somewhat and gave me a shy smile. I think she decided I was a gentleman. I do consider myself one.

"Are you here especially about the fire? I'm a little confused. I thought, Jayne said, that you were investigating . . . " Her voice trailed off. She was having trouble saying out loud her husband's name and the fact of his murder. Like Jayne, her daughter, that way.

I helped her. "Yes, Mr. Lassiter's murder."

She nodded, not wanting to repeat my words. "Jayne doesn't believe the facts have all come out. I agree."

"You know someone was arrested for his murder. I'm guessing, there is something that just doesn't feel right to you?"

"Yes. My husband wasn't the main concern in that investigation, just what was done to Angela. My husband's case was treated as an afterthought."

She was right and I had a momentary feeling of chagrin and regret. Arrest a man for one murder and it's easy to claim he killed the other unsolved murders. Clear the books. "What else?" I asked.

"I just don't, still can't understand the reason someone would kill my husband. He was so well liked by the . . . politicians."

She said "politicians" like she was referring to some exotic vermin, as such as dwell in Truck's beard, or people from another planet. Didn't she know that pols are like viruses, everywhere you look, taking up whatever space is empty? Of course, I may be overstating this. There are some good pols, just like there are some good cops. Just a few though, like me.

"What was Mr. Lassiter like?" I asked.

She smiled sadly. "That's like asking a fish to describe water. He was just the reality around me, my environment."

Could she be more specific? Leading, "I've heard him described as an introvert."

"Oh, yes, that. You never knew what he was thinking, and you never knew what he would say. Not in all of the 30 years of our marriage. He was very smart. A lot was going on behind his eyes and he shared it with no one. Not secretive, exactly, just had an inner self that he could not or would not show others."

I gave her more time to add to this. I was a little lost, being more accustomed to descriptions of the crude, lewd, and rude of the world.

She thought for a while. "He was my exact opposite. He was quiet to my noisy, unsocial to my social. The bass drum beating in the background as the violin soars."

I nodded to encourage. She added, "That's another thing that bothers me about his . . . murder. If he was in danger, wouldn't I have known it, sensed it?" She paused to consider. "Maybe not, because he was good at hiding things. Even so, over time, I would usually notice some little thing, a change in his habits or workday that would reveal, if only to me, that he was upset about something."

"And he wasn't?"

"No. I don't think so. He enjoyed being the Mayor's senior adviser. He was happy in his marriage, loved his children and grandchildren."

That gave me an instant of doubt, because it was too ideal. Obviously, everything wasn't perfect or he wouldn't be dead. Also, because Perfect is an abstract, and does not occur in life. Possibly only in memory.

Trying another angle. "Did you or anyone in your family have enemies?"

She hid a gasp of disbelief. "You think my husband could have been murdered because someone disliked me or my children?" She shook her head. "I find that very hard to believe or imagine. That has never crossed my mind and I think I have good reason. I don't know who in the world could feel that angry at one or any of us."

I didn't know either, but it was still possible, despite her doubts. Perhaps, she had offended someone at a fund-raiser? Maybe one of the clients of her son or daughter walked away angry and disgruntled?

"Had there been any recent replacements of your domestic help?" I asked. Grasping at straws, here.

"No. They'd all been with us for years and all were not good enough actors, I would think, that they could disguise a dislike for my husband or the family. That's really a bizarre thought. You think the butler did it?"

I liked her. She was smart and sensitive. Way out of my league. Fortunately, I wasn't searching for a new team anymore. If we'd met under different circumstances, I would have found her attractive and charming and wanted to hear her play the violin.

"Was there anything about being chairman of the Opera Company that would have attracted anyone's wrath?"

"No. I've never feared anyone who likes Opera. It's like . . . I can give an example. I've never feared anyone in a library. No one who reads for pleasure is my enemy. Same with opera. If someone is sensitive enough to like the fine arts, they are my friend, not my enemy."

"What about this upcoming opera, something controversial? Could that be a source of animosity against you or your family?"

She looked shocked and skeptical at the same time. "Heavens, that's a big leap. You think that someone is upset about a work of art and wants to murder people because of it?"

Not in Ms. Lassiter's world, but, in my world, anything is possible. I had to agree though, it seemed farfetched. If Lassiter was killed because of the opera, the murderer would have left a threatening note, to frighten others. Like, death to all who present this opera.

Besides I'd already given enough time, and decided against, any theory that Lassiter was killed by the haters. Last thought on the subject, Lassiter would never have invited a complete stranger into his study. Like, I see by your resume that you are a terrorist. Let's get together soon.

Maybe the opera had something to do with the fires? "Give me a little background about this particular opera. Has it been performed elsewhere and attracted violence?"

"No, it's a new opera, actually commissioned by us. Senton is the composer, Meriwell the lyricist." [Names that meant nothing to me.] "Yes, I know, that's pretty impressive, isn't it? It's to be a world premiere. A major production."

"Was this several years in the making?"

"Yes, commissioned three years ago, but its content was only publicly announced recently. Since my husband . . . died."

I summed up in my mind: no possibility that the opera and the murder were connected. I couldn't quite rule out yet that the fires were somehow connected the opera. It just seemed very doubtful.

So why was Lassiter killed?

"Is it a hard life to be a policeman?" she asked me. Soliciting some complaint from me so she would have a question the next time she saw me, like asking the guard about his arthritis.

* * * * *

Chapter Nine

From a news article:

The second fire in a week at the Sonic Opera Company building in downtown Chicago claimed the life early this morning of an unidentified victim.

The fire department was alerted at about 3:50 a.m. when a fire alarm sounded near the same second floor chorus dressing room that was so recently damaged, according to a fire department spokesman.

Police have not ruled out the possibility that the arsonist himself was trapped and died in the fire.

The County Coroner's office said an autopsy may determine whether the man was a victim of the arson or was already dead at the time the fire began.

Motive for the fire also has not been established, nor has any group claimed responsibility.

The Fire Department was again able to control the fire quickly from within the building and surrounding buildings and train station were not threatened.

The smaller fire, earlier in the week, apparently started in an electrical closet, and was estimated as causing $1 million of damage. No estimate for the further costs caused by the second fire has been made yet, according to Phillip "Rusty" Hastings, an Opera Company spokesman and Board member.

However, Hastings said, "the second fire was much more extensive. Almost $100 million has been raised for the renovation of the more than 100 year old building, which will almost be a total replacement. Supplementary funds will be necessary because of the damage from the fires."

From a follow-up article:

A Board member of the Sonic Opera Company has been identified from dental records as the victim of a recent arson in the company's building in downtown Chicago.

Mitchell Statsmeyer, 60, a long-time Board member, apparently perished in the fire.

It was not immediately clear whether he was unconscious before the fire or whether he was overwhelmed by flames. Further tests will also be made to determine if he was drugged or had drugs in his system, according to a spokesman for the Cook County Coroner's office.

It is also not known why Statsmeyer was present in the building after business hours or why he would be in that part of the building. He had no history of visiting the building during the night, without notice, and was not near the offices maintained by the Opera Company board, police said.

Statsmeyer was a widower and is survived by a son. He served on several other Boards of Directors, mostly in the banking industry. An ardent opera supporter, he was influential in bringing original operas for debut by the Opera Company.

The Opera Company Board will meet Tuesday to discuss the fires, the condition of the building, and the appointment of a new Board member, according to Board president, Janice Lassiter.

Visiting the Opera Company was becoming a habit. I tried singing that operatically while shaving in the morning. "Viiiiisiiitiing theee Oppppperaaaaa Commmpannnnny . . ."

Mrs. Mischevski came rushing, thinking I was calling for help. When she saw I wasn't dying, she shook her head sadly and probably said to herself, "They never grow up."

The little ladies like when I sing and are fascinated by the whole male shaving process. I hope they will also enjoy watching Vejr, who would move into our crowded home after a brief honeymoon.

Debra thought we should wait and get a place near her school after I retire, but I can't wait that long. Better that Debra and I should leave as soon as we can find a new house or condo, so the new family can get used to each other without ghosts from the past. So they can make a new start. Also, I am growing weary of maintaining the house and would be happy to pass that responsibility to Vejr.

Back to work, the crime scene revealed little more than was in the news.

Vejr sagely observed: "Statsmeyer's body was not at the dead end of anything, which meant he could have continued to run."

Why didn't he? "Perhaps he was overcome with smoke and had a heart attack or some such," I suggested. "Or was bopped over the head. But I doubt that. His skull didn't look crushed."

Vejr theorized. "Maybe he was meeting someone?"

"You mean, was Statsmeyer somehow lured to his death? Maybe. Perhaps some beauty of the chorus enticed him here for a midnight tryst? Were they making beautiful music together and were consumed by the flames of passion and also by regular type flames? If so, where was she? Did she say, continue on without me, dear, I need to go to the ladies room?"

Mrs. Lassiter was at her home, upset, her secretary said, by the death of her dear friend, Statsmeyer. Mr. Hastings was in the building. Would it be sufficient to talk to him? He says you should come to his office.

Apparently, Hastings was not so sad about the loss of his former colleague on the Opera Company Board that he couldn't talk to us. Was Statsmeyer also a dear friend of Hastings, or an old enemy? Does being on one of these boards encourage friendship or rancor? The rule is: conflicts are seldom reported while successes are overemphasized.

Hastings sat in his own tiny office. The walls were decorated with fund-raising posters. None of them were red in color, which I thought was curious, believing red attracted the most attention. Was red a problem for Rusty?

Rusty wasn't red, exactly. He might have had hair more reddish when he was young. It had settled into reddish brown or brownish red.

He certainly had the pale coloring of a red-head and had lots of freckles. I wondered if all that pigment had limited his style in high school. Pimples and freckles, being a bad combination.

We showed our badges. Rusty stood to grasp our outstretched hands. Formalities competed, Rusty gestured towards two chairs for us to sit and, himself, sat behind his desk. "This is really just a place for me to do the shit work," he said to an unasked question. "I meet potential contributors in restaurants or in their homes."

I noted his descriptive word about his work. Swearing shows that you are a man with some common masculinity with the one who hears you swear. Was this an indication, I wondered, of a difficulty or inability to bond well with others? "I appreciate your talking to me," I said. "I imagine the Board members are quite upset today?" All except you, apparently.

"Yes, Mitch was well-liked." I rarely heard that the victim in my murder cases was well-liked. Usually they are dead because they are unwell-liked.

Was Rusty well-liked?

"Have you any theory," I asked, "what Mr. Statsmeyer was doing in the building, in that section of the building, so late past business hours?"

"No. Maybe he just wanted to inspect the damage at the electrical closet. Maybe he was trying to work out his own theory. Maybe he was trying to catch the arsonist, although I still don't think that the first fire had anything to do with the second."

Vejr asked, "Was Statsmeyer familiar with that part of the building, the chorus dressing rooms?"

Rusty nodded. "People don't realize exactly how much effort is put into renovation plans. The Board had gone on numerous field trips within the building to get a better idea of what should change and what should stay the same."

Vejr nodded that he understood. "Where he died, was that a particularly interesting spot? Was it a matter of some controversy?"

"No," Rusty said, "not at all. And there was no reason Mitch couldn't wait and walk through with me if he'd developed some particular interest."

I said, "I know you are in charge of the fund-raising. What role did you play in planning?"

"A lot actually. I'm an architect. Retired." Agent Madison had told me Rusty was a CPA. What else had he told me that was incorrect?

Rusty looked to be 60, so just a few years beyond my chronological age.

You'll never grow up, my father said in my head. Hush, I thought.

What would possess an individual to call himself Rusty? I'd guessed that this nickname was an attempt to be liked. Nothing wrong with that. Everyone likes being liked. Just that, after puberty, the name stank.

He couldn't claim that he'd been given that name and couldn't avoid it. Everyone gets to start again somewhere. At camp, at a new school, at a new job. Just don't introduce yourself as Rusty and no one else will know to call you that. Don't respond to the name of Rusty until people give up.

Maybe he just disliked the name of Phillip. A little old fashion these days but a perfectly acceptable name for someone his age. Why not Phil as a nickname? For that matter, why point out a feature he was sensitive about? Why not call yourself Phillip "Shitforbrains" Hastings? Phillip "Assface" Hastings?

Change of topic. "I understand that Mrs. Lassiter is quite upset." I said.

"Yes, very upset. Not here today and it's a rare day she doesn't appear at least once. She has a condo downtown and is very dedicated. People don't realize. A great, not just good, volunteer treats a job like it's a regular, paying job, a vocation."

"Were they friends, Mrs. Lassiter and Statsmeyer?"

"I think they were in college together or something like that. She put his name in nomination for election to the Board, as I recall."

"Were they close?"

"I'm not sure what you're getting at." The first break in his friendliness. Was I trying to find out if they were or had ever slept together? I suppose I was. That, unfortunately, even in a feminist world, is still a relevant question.

"More than just friends?"

He seemed insulted on her behalf.

* * * * *

Chapter Ten

My cell rang almost as soon as Vejr and I left downtown. It was Mrs. Mischevski, who is on strict orders to only call me if there is a dire emergency.

"Hello, hello, is this Mr. Vanek?"

Could I deny it? "Yes, Mrs. Mischevski. What is it? You know you're not to disturb me unless it is absolutely necessary."

"Oh, I know, I know. An important man like you must be allowed to do his work. It isn't about the little ones. It's about the daughter-in-law. I could have called Mrs. Debra, but, you know, she is busy with her class and cannot be drawn away to do something important that has to be done right here and now."

I could be disturbed at any time because I wasn't doing anything important. "You might as well tell me. What about Amanda?"

"The florist is in crisis, has called her at work, even. The florist is going bankrupt, either needs cash now or can't guarantee flowers for the wedding. The daughter-in-law is very upset, cannot spend an hour on the phone arguing and doesn't have the money, anyhow."

I eyed Vejr, who'd looked anxious as soon as Mrs. Mischevski called. There was certainly no reason to worry Vejr or to discourage him in any way from marrying Amanda. "I'll handle it, Mrs. Mischevski. Give me the florist's number." I smiled at Vejr to reassure him.

I'll just pay for the damn flowers, I decided. I called the florist. Apparently, something had made him nervous about being paid. Maybe he'd just been stuck for payment by some bride or groom who were angry the daffodils made the reverend sneeze.

The florist had very obviously changed his tone by the time he talked to me. Why is it a man feels he can be as nasty as he wants to a woman, especially over the phone when he can't see her face, but is quite civil to another man?

My credit card relayed, number by number, the crisis was over.

"Thank you," Vejr, I think, was really grateful. I hoped that, no matter what, we'd always be able to maintain at least an outwardly civil relationship.

Hopefully, this wouldn't be a challenge. I was to be his step-father-in-law, a new category for me or almost everyone. I wasn't quite sure what to expect. Luckily, I had some experience from the other side, as a son-in-law. I'd gotten along well with my first wife's father, rest in peace, and Debra's father was long-dead.

I intended to be the kind of step-father-in-law who does what an older parent should. Be a buffer against the world. Provide the money when the furnace breaks down. Someone who can go with you to buy a television. Someone who knows not to offer child-raising advice.

"Where to?" Vejr asked.

"The University in Brunswik. I need to visit an old friend."

I didn't mean Ash, Susanne's husband, who taught statistics and logic. He was studiously to be avoided. Our target was Emily Rasmussen, that independent young actress, who taught a course in the Speech Department.

"Does this person know we're coming? Should I give him or her a call?" Vejr asked.

"No, it's a surprise." If Emily knew I was coming to ask a favor, she might bolt or might dream up some really awful favor in return.

I knew from a conversation at my wedding, where she was a guest, that Emily was between movies, except that the time between movies was getting longer and longer. She'd decided to teach her skill during the hiatus.

Teaching might be her new profession. I didn't think she'd ever become a big star. She probably didn't either, at this point. Maybe she would re-emerge, like some women do, after their children are older, to become a character actor, taking on such roles as the mother of the heroine.

Emily's husband was Ryan, which wasn't his real name, from Ohio, who was quite successful. Mean looking, he possessed a treasure of a face, perfect for horror movies. He was his generation's Lon Chaney or Boris Karloff or Vincent Price. Someone whose face alone would discourage a vampire killer or get him elected chief zombie. Someone you wouldn't want to meet in a cemetery at midnight. He was, in reality, a nice and friendly guy. He was, I'd read, in Timbuktu, transforming into a giant mole.

Finally on campus and car parked illegally, we walked up the stairs of, to my mind, a modern looking building.

My impression was corrected by a sign announcing new construction. Even though the Speech Building was only, perhaps, a generation old, it was already slated for replacement. Maybe they needed to update frequently because, as I've been told, technology changes so fast in the visual arts.

We caught Emily in her tiny office at the University. Emily was, as always, a beautiful woman, slim, blond, of medium height and large, scientifically-enhanced breasts. Her posture was perfect and she carried herself with a quiet dignity. She was nobody's fool.

She stood and extended her hand elegantly to me, Queen of England style, then to Vejr, acknowledging our presence only as upstart commoners "I had a premonition this morning that I was about to get myself into trouble. Are you two the messengers of bad tidings?"

"No," I said. "We just interrupted our busy schedule of fighting crime to see how you were."

Skeptical. "With no thought of asking me to do some outrageous deed or masquerade?"

"Of course, not." We sat. "Just a small favor."

Immediately on guard, she smiled. "What a coincidence. I was thinking of asking you for a favor. If you think you can handle it, I'll consider your favor."

I said nothing, nothing being needed to be said. I knew she would launch unbidden into her story, as dramatically as possible.

Her face approximated anxiety and fear. "Several of my students are being pursued by an agent, who says he can get them parts in Hollywood. Yes, I know, the old casting couch story, but this guy is slick. Has an office and a secretary. One of my students, barely out of her teens, who was being pursued, has disappeared and her parents are very worried."

"You want us to find her?" Vejr asked.

"Find her. Bring her back. Expose this so-called agent."

A not unreasonable request. I calculated that visiting this agent and interrogating the younger woman's roommates could be done without too much wasted time or effort. The girl in question was probably staying with a friend. "Before I promise that, I'll pitch my favor. We can both decide at the same time."

She looked at me as if this were some ploy, to her disadvantage. I suppose it was. I hoped my request would interest her enough to encourage her cooperation and limit the amount of mine.

She crossed her arms underneath her ample chest. This was her power position. Focused upon her asset, a man's rational mind melted. As for my bargaining position, I'm a big, imposing guy. We now were equals.

Best to soften her up with praise first. "I know you have a lovely voice," I said. "You sang in your latest movie, which, by the way, Debra and I really enjoyed."

"How is Debra?" She was hoping to distract me. Emily had taken a liking to my bride.

"Fine. Let's catch up socially, afterwards. The thing is, I'd like you to try out for the chorus at the Sonic Opera Company. I saw an announcement of an audition, when I was doing some research." Anticipating her first objection, "You don't need an operatic voice to be in the chorus."

The proposal obviously caught her interest and challenged her. "Don't worry about my voice. I can reach several high notes, some as written. When is this audition?"

"Tomorrow night. Don't worry about being able to come to each rehearsal. Attendance requirements are probably pretty loose. Most of the chorus must have day jobs."

She considered. "Is this for a worthy cause? Will I be preventing something awful from happening?"

"Of course." I said, as sincerely as I could muster.

Curious. "And what do you expect me to find out?"

"I want to make sure the upcoming season is artistically brilliant. And I want you to hear as much gossip as you can, especially about the Board of Directors."

She thought for a while. Her eyebrows went up and down. "I suppose this would be a good way to meet people my own age. I'm disappointed there isn't more of a social life at the University. I'm too old for the students and too young for the professors and the associates. The graduate students are too busy with three or four jobs. Some of them are teaching at the community colleges as adjuncts, some performing in local theater." She wondered if she was giving me the wrong impression. "Don't worry, I'm not looking for a man, I've got one. I just need a few more friends to talk to."

Good, I thought. "This would probably be just right for you. You'll meet people your own age from all walks of life. Just be there and tell me if anything seems peculiar."

Still a little hesitant. "Is there some danger? I read that there had been some trouble there."

"Some arson," Vejr said, not being helpful, just honest. He must have been surprised by my request and was probably wondering whether or not his step-father-in-law to be was displaying premature dementia.

She frowned. I see." Allowing herself to be convinced, she brightened. "I'd just be another member of the chorus. I wouldn't be specifically in danger. I'm sure they are being very careful about fires after what happened. I could tell you if they aren't"

"Yes." The less I said, the more convincing.

"Alright, I'll do it."

"And I'll take up your investigation," I said.

Suddenly hesitant. Had she given in too soon? Looking for a compliment? "You know, I might not be picked at an audition."

"I'm sure you will." I really did think her voice, beauty, and bearing was enough to assure she'd be selected.

Already getting into the role: "I'll be a music student at the university. I'll be a former soldier or helicopter pilot who started college a little late. I'll be an expert on munitions so I can ask questions about the fires." She was lost in acting dreamland.

"And your father has a lot of money," I suggested.

* * * * *

Chapter Eleven

I asked about Emily's friend, Anne.

She, according to Emily, was now to be called Anne Marie. She'd answered to the common name of Anne long enough. With the upgrade from city hall gloried clerk to a more posh job, she wanted to use a fuller, more formal name.

AM had worked in the office of the director of Streets and Sanitation for the city and was helpful in providing us with city hall rumors. Since then, she'd completed some courses at Wright Community College and became a legal secretary and sometimes paralegal.

Even better from my point of view, AM now worked for Lassiter's former law firm and sat near his son's present office, which had been his father's former office.

Was being hired by this particular law firm a wonderful coincidence? Doubtful, in my world. More likely, her political sponsor, probably her alderman, saw an opportunity after Lassiter died to move her up to where she could provide him with gossip about the politically prominent firm. Or was I being cynical?

We met AM by appointment at one of the better coffee shops near LaSalle street, with its many warrens of lawyers and other legal low-lifes. Since we were paying, she was delighted.

As she walked up to where Vejr and I sat, I noticed she walked a bit ungracefully, with her left hand somewhat outstretched.

She must want us to notice the huge ring on her finger, I thought.

I was happy for her. She glowed. Someone loved her at last. No more dating the denizens of Chicago's sewers and byways.

"That's some ring you've got there," Vejr said, as she joined us at the table. He'd become sensitized to engagement rings after many a jewelry store safari with Amanda to find the exact right diamond. His initial choice had been summarily rejected. It looked too similar to her first engagement ring. When she married my son.

I'm glad Amanda is remarrying, my son said in my head.

I'm glad too, my father said in my head. The little ladies need a mother. She should stop working as soon as they get married and spend all her time chasing after them.

As an afterthought, he said, So she can teach them to be strong women.

My father had apparently become a partial feminist while in his grave. He was trying, bless him. He just couldn't completely dump the old world prejudices and preconceptions of his entire life.

Meanwhile, AM took a deep breath. "Yes, I've been engaged for two months to a third-year law student, who is clerking for the firm, Ethan [inaudible last name]. We haven't set a date exactly, but it may be on the night before Thanksgiving, when relatives are visiting in town." She paused to address the waitress. "I'll have some tea, please." Vejr and I were already drinking coffee.

When the waitress returned, Vejr closed his menu as a signal he was ready to order. "Corn beef on rye."

The waitress, an older woman with sore feet, wrote this order down in a tiny, cramped script on a folded piece of paper. I wondered, where had her life gone so wrong that she needed to stand up for hours? Who had betrayed her trust?

I ordered a cheeseburger, well aware of the dangers of grease and fat to my heart muscle and not caring. AM hesitated, then ordered a salad and a cup of soup.

I thought of the time my mother got confused and made a cup of soap.

My father and son said in unison in my head, Terrible pun!

I smiled. I could explain my amusement to AM, but it was best not to share that joke with her. She'd also think it was a bad pun.

To change the subject, I asked, "Do you miss the streets and sanitation department?"

She laughed.

It must be delightful to be young and pretty and in love, I thought..

"No, no, no," she said. I don't miss working there. Especially after all the arrests. I still tremble when I think of those men who were crooks and . . . blowers up of bridges."

I couldn't think of a word for those who blow up bridges, either. Saboteurs came close. The word, though, invoked an old fashioned image, right out of black and white movies.

Getting back on track: "I wonder, Ann Marie, if you could help us just a bit with a new case? It involves, remotely I think, your law firm." It wasn't really her law firm. It was the Lassiter family's law firm. I thought that saying the firm was hers would give her a reason to be protective of it. Building on that thought: "To prevent something bad that would hurt your firm."

She took a gulp of her tea, swallowed, and looked concerned for her firm's safety, in that order, not simultaneously. "I'll help if I can. The firm has been very good to me and even provided a law clerk for me to marry. That's what I call a real job benefit."

Like she'd received a coupon for one free lawyer-to-be? Why can't there be coupons for all the really difficult things in life? Such as, take this voucher for one successful marriage. Or, here's a coupon that will allow you to avoid illness until you are old. Why isn't there a real "get out of jail free" card?

Maybe I could get some information now, without further arrangement? "We know that Mr. Lassiter's children, Jayne and Jonathan, are in the firm," I said. "How do the two get along?"

She looked around to see if anyone could hear her. She decided she could speak if she kept her voice down to a stage whisper. "They don't get along. The other legal secretaries said this is new, since Mr. Lassiter died. Jonathan moved himself into his father's office right after the funeral and acts like he's in charge. There's been no meeting of all the partners to confirm this. On the other hand, nothing has been done to oust Jonathan, so I suppose he really is in charge."

"How did Jonathan and his father get along?" Vejr asked.

"I wasn't working there yet. I heard, though, that Mr. Lassiter got along with everyone except his son. That they had arguments. Sometimes Mr. Lassiter and Jonathan would even raise their voices to each other."

So what, my father said in my head. All fathers and sons argue. That's how it is and has always been.

Right, my son said. We had our differences of opinions. None of it was important or affected how we got along in the long run.

He was right. Fathers are always behind the times, and sons think they know best. That's the nature of things. It doesn't mean that Lassiter and his son hated each other.

However, it did mean something. Lassiter the elder was known for his steady and calm ways. Apparently, Lassiter the younger knew how to most efficiently irritate his father. About what? "Have you heard what they argued about?"

"Some of it was about money, the girls said. Some of it was about people. Jonathan didn't like the politicians in his father's life, wanted the firm to be more corporate."

This didn't sound right to me. Having political power always brings in clients who imagine that the lawyer in question can influence decisions and get city contracts. Mr. Lassiter must have been a real rainmaker.

Did this mean that Lassiter the younger didn't feel comfortable with the political types and only wanted to be in the munificent presence of businessmen, corporate gods? Was this a reflection of personality or a lack thereof? Lassiter senior liked the rough and tumble of politics. Lassiter junior liked going for lunch with the semi-alcoholic sons of rich men.

Ah, there, Vanek, don't let personal prejudices color your impressions. Sure, you don't particularly like arrogant people, just don't characterize everyone with money as being arrogant.

"What do you think of Jayne?" Vejr asked.

"I like her, what I've seen of her. She's not that friendly with the clerical staff, but that's alright. She really is socially above us legal secretaries and paralegals. Sometimes when she needs something done, she can be brusque. Like we can't do something fast enough and can't do anything right."

"Who's smarter, do you think, Jayne or Jonathan?" I asked.

"Oh, I'm sure Jayne is smarter," AM said. "I think she would have fought harder to be in charge, if she wasn't already exhausted by her divorce. I hear that her children are spoiled brats."

I asked: "How does Jonathan get along with his wife?"

AM now became uncomfortable. This meant, what? Were Jonathan and Jenessa less than an ideal couple? I liked Jenessa, from my short interaction with her and hadn't formed that impression at all. "Is Jonathan unfaithful?"

"I'm not saying yes and I'm not saying no." To me, this meant that Jonathan was a philanderer to the 100th degree. I was really getting a negative vibe about Jonathan. Had he flirted with and hit on every secretary in the firm?

I thought back to the time he and his sister came to the precinct when Walchek was arrested. "I know that Jonathan didn't think that Jayne's ex was the one who murdered Mr. Lassiter. Do they think he still feels the wrong man was found guilty of Lassiter's death?"

"I have no idea." She shivered. "Is that right? About there still being a murderer who isn't in jail? I hate to think that the real murderer is still lurking about."

Best not to alarm her. "I think you have nothing to worry about. Mr. Vejr here is an award winning detective and I am Chicago's Finest. If we say the right one has been arrested for the murder, there's no reason to be concerned.

She looked relieved.

My reassurances didn't work on myself. Despite my father's and my son's doubts about real conflict, I chewed on the idea that Jonathan benefited the most from his father's death. Jonathan was now in charge. He no longer needed to get along with a father who always said no. He could change the direction of the firm and have his predatory ways with the female help.

"Would you be willing to give us some more information in the future, some gossip, for instance, about the firm, if it will do some good?" I asked.

Why shouldn't she? She probably was already transmitting the gossip to her alderman, so one more gossipee wouldn't matter. "Possibly I could," she said, "if you could do me a favor, in return."

"What?" Vejr asked.

"I want to know where my fiancé goes at midnight."

* * * * *

Chapter Twelve

Loose ends are for losers, and loose lips sink ships.

AM's hints that Jonathan Lassiter was not a paragon like his father refocused my thoughts about where I should be watching. Not me personally, since I couldn't be in two places at once. That would violate the laws of physics, which I would never consciously do, being someone dedicated to upholding all laws.

From the precinct, I called Officer Smith, a Brunswik policeman. Someone I'd worked with in the past, who I trusted and respected.

" . . . 'sleep," Smith mumbled. Meaning he was asleep, not that I should get some sleep. I'd obviously caught him at home after his evening shift. That he would answer the phone after seeing its origin on Caller ID, tired as he was, showed his dedication to his profession.

"Smith, it's Vanek." If he were Agent Madison, he would have said my call "was the beginning of a bad day."

"Vanek? Is someone about to murdered?"

"Probably." Someone is always about to be murdered. The corollary to Truck's maxim.

At least I could ask Smith to do something that didn't require a return favor. He was a policeman and already sworn to uphold the law. Besides, I had spoken to his bosses in the past and praised him, so he owed me.

"Let me focus a little," he said. I heard movement as if he threw off the covers and forced himself into a sitting position, causing the bed to creak. He needed to be forceful in this effort or he'd relapse into his dream-state.

I heard Smith clear his throat. "What can I do for you?" he said. That was the right attitude.

"I need someone to watch the Lassiter house, and to solve a small mystery for me."

"I know where the house is. I had some involvement, although not much, when Lassiter was murdered. I could swing by the house more often at night in my squad car. Is that what you want?"

"Yes. If things tighten, I'll call you and you may have to stake out the house for me."

"Alright. What's the small mystery?" he asked.

"Vejr, you know Vejr, V-J-E-R pronounced Veer, noticed that there were two sets of surveillance cameras outside the Lassiter house. One set was obviously newer and smaller. The new system covers the back of the house, too."

"Let's see if I can guess what you want," Smith said. "You want me to find out what company provides security and if there are two companies involved? You know, surveillance isn't such a big deal anymore in the suburbs. Even the television cable companies offer that kind of stuff now. Get a free camera for your front lawn for $19.95."

"No, these looked much more professional than being able to see who's kissing your daughter on the front porch." Blaming Vejr like I also was a victim of his thoroughness, to elicit some sympathy from Smith, I said, "Vejr thought that tracing these would be difficult and would take time, but insisted it would be worth it." That son of a bitch, Vejr.

"Difficult is us," Smith said.

"Someone is tapping my mother's cell phone." said Jayne Lassiter, calling from an aftercare facility. She'd apparently used up the hospital days allowed by her insurance and either would recover or learn to like the terrible food provided to the chronic or dying. Her choice.

"How do you know?" I asked.

"She was contacted by the carrier. They wanted to know if she was doing something to their system."

I wasn't exactly surprised about the tapping part. The days had passed when someone needed to do something physical to the telephone wiring to listen in. It was my paranoid understanding that some government agency, hopefully one with benign intentions, randomly listened into telephone conversations, hoping to unearth a terrorist plot or two. A silent intrusion into the privacy of all to catch those few who specifically pose a threat to national security. An unfortunate necessity.

Was I naive about personal, non-governmental eavesdropping? Probably. Giving it some thought, I realized anyone with a computer, the right hacking programs, a lack of conscience and some persistence could probably find out who was calling and what was being said.

What was surprising to me was that the telephone carrier would report such audio hijacking to the victim. Had some new law or court ruling required reporting each time an intrusion occurred, and I hadn't been informed? "The carrier told you? That's not my understanding of how these things work."

"We have some connections, my family, with the carrier," she said.

Ah, the Chicago way, use of wealth and status to get special treatment. I understood that. "Did they say who was eavesdropping?"

"No. Whoever it is, is able to keep that a secret."

"Give me a second." I leaned back in my chair at the precinct and took a slug of coffee. I needed a moment to think.

Why was someone taking a continuing interest in the affairs of the Lassiters? If, as I suspected, an unknown person was watching their house, electronically, was the same person listening into their phone conversations? To what end? And why tap Mrs. Lassiter's phone in particular? Did she know something about her husband's murder? Or not know she knew?

"You're sure there isn't a tap on the phones of others in your family?" I asked.

"Our friend said, no."

Why is whoever focusing only the Mrs. Lassiter? "Interesting," I observed. "Can you do something for me?"

"What, like solve my father's murder? That's what you should be doing."

"Call the management of the building where your mother has her condo as soon as we hang up and tell him I'm placing someone from my staff to walk around with the security guard, if there is one, or to be himself, a substitute guard."

"I'm almost certain there is a guard, 24/7. This isn't public housing. Are you suggesting that my mother is in some danger?"

We, the residents of this world, are all in danger, said Truck the philosopher in my brain. I was sure Jayne didn't want to be informed of this. "I doubt it. On the other hand, there is no reason not to take extra care."

A note of fear in her voice. "You do know that, while I'm recovering, my children are living with my mother? When they aren't in my ex's custody?"

Did I know this? Maybe. It just hadn't been at the forefront of my mind. I remained silent as a cue for her to go on.

"We've got a woman who takes care of the children when mother is out doing her charity work. She's one of the domestic help at the house in Brunswik and gets along well with them. As well as can be expected when dealing with children of privilege who are convinced that the world exists only for their benefit."

So Jayne had a little insight into her children. Good.

I wanted to get off the phone and not waste any more time. Conversation closing words: "I hope you are healing well."

"Thanks."

I waited. No effort was made by Jayne to find out the state of my health. This must be what AM called brusk. I didn't exist in Jayne world, except to do my job. Which I intended to do.

"Keep in touch," I said.

She broke the connection without saying goodbye. Or its original meaning of "god be with you."

I called my stepson, Elliot, with one "T" in his name because that was all Debra could afford at the time of his birth. I had a good relationship with Elliot, mainly because I wasn't his actual father, as fraught with anger that relationship can be.

Elliot wanted to be a police person and was taking courses in criminology at the community college. I occasionally asked Eliot to do some stake-out work for me. Debra didn't mind me using Elliot for one of my investigations if there was zero risk of him being hurt.

I always had the sense I was disturbing his video game when I called him. "Hello, what's up?" Elliot asked.

"Wait a few hours then go over to a condo building downtown and talk to the manager. I'll give you the address. It should all be arranged by then. You'll report each evening. If there is a watchman, you'll walk with him when he goes on his rounds. If there's no watchman, then you'll walk through the common areas about once an hour. When you aren't watching, you can stay in your car on the parking floors and do your homework." He'd rigged up a light that didn't work off his car battery so he could study into the night while watching the guilty.

I was certain this assignment would be acceptable because it was, actually, a job which required him to do almost nothing. Sit and, after an hour, stretch his legs, so he wouldn't get cramps.

Instead of gratitude, I heard a Not So Fast. "I have a test coming up," Elliot said. "So, well, I'd be really putting myself out and risking my academic standing. But I'm willing to discuss this. Are we just talking the usual rate?"

"Yes." This was the equivalent of tuition per course hour at the community college. One way or another, I'd been paying for his educational career.

He still hesitated. Apparently money wasn't enough and he also needed a favor. What more could I provide the boy who has everything? A trip to Acapulco or some other resort, skiing in Colorado, a trip around the world?

"There's a new graphics board that I want for the newest games," he said. "Just a few hundred dollars. All I need from you is to not object and say I'm being spoiled when my mother gives it to me for my birthday."

I could do that.

* * * * *

Chapter Thirteen

In the news:

The Modern Classics Night at the North Shore's Ravenna Festival this Saturday has been rededicated as a fund-raising event for the Sonic Opera Company, following several recent arson fires at the Opera Company's hall downtown.

In a night of splendor, music and magic, beginning at 7 p.m., the Chicago Philharmonia, conducted by Madame Honore Brukman, will perform a popular concert of works by American composer George Gershwin, including "An American in Paris," and "Rhapsody in Blue."

The evening will be rounded out with some incidental music from Gershwin's opera classic "Porgy and Bess," which will be performed, in full, later this year by the Opera Company.

Many local patrons of the arts and political leaders are expected to attend. Several corporations are also sponsoring events for their employees on the lawn, which will include catering.

The chairperson for the Sonic Opera fund raising efforts, Phillip Hastings, better known to his friends as "Rusty", applauded the charitable rededication of the concert. Hastings said that the $100 million already raised to renovate the Opera Company's 100 year old building, is short of the additional amount needed to cover the recent damage, and funds from this concert are badly needed.

Hastings, who is also a member of the Sonic Opera's board of trustees, said he believes "the music and fine arts constituency of the North Shore can be depended upon to fulfill our fund raising goals. We all know what a cultural jewel the Opera Company is for our city and suburbs and are proud of its international fame and renown."

A short speech by Sonic Opera chairperson, Mrs. Janice Lassiter will precede the concert.

The concert will be simulcast by WWR, Chicago's fine arts FM station, to many classical music stations throughout the U.S. and Canada. The concert will also be streamed on the Internet, and will, thereafter, be available for download by various Internet providers.

A visual recording of the concert will be shown in early August in theaters of the Bijou Cinema chain. A portion of the price of each ticket is pledged to the fundraiser. Later, a documentary of the event will be presented on Public Broadcasting. Contributors have already pledged a matching dollar to the Sonic for every two dollars raised for public television.

Because the modern classics night has attracted so many in the past, the public has been warned to come early for parking and lawn admission.

Patrons are also advised to leave their cars at home if at all possible, due to the limited parking facilities around the Ravenna campus.

Several buses will be available throughout the North Shore to transport the spill-over crowd. Ravenna is also a stop on the Amtrak line and is an easy walk from the station to the festival's front gate.

Open air BBQ's by picnickers on the spacious lawn have been banned for several years due to concerns about air pollution. Those who do not bring their dinners will have their choice of food, from hot dogs to connoisseur meals, provided by several restaurants and kiosks on the campus.

Tickets for seats in the permanent open-air tented pavilion have already been sold out. A special contribution by the Ravenna Festival will include a portion of all pavilion ticket sales. Lawn admission at the day of the concert will cost slightly more than usual, with the extra amount as an earmarked charitable contribution.

Tickets are still available, according to a spokesman, for a performance by Violin Virtuoso Matan Schoen, at 3 p.m. in the Fine Arts building on the Ravenna campus.

The Ravenna Festival, unique in the Chicago area and the Midwest, is presented each summer on land contributed by the Letterburger family and has hosted performances since 1926. The Festival features classical concerts by the Chicago Philharmonia, as well as popular concerts.

Non-symphony performances this summer will include a country western night, a performance by the rock group Arthur, Paul and Rita, a Star Wars (C) music night, as well as a special showing of the silent "Phantom of the Opera" with a new score, performed by the Chicago Philharmonia.

Bring your blankets and picnic baskets and make a night of it at the Ravenna Festival!

Reluctant as always to mix business with pleasure, I hesitated to agree when Debra proposed a night at Ravenna. "We'll have fun," she said. "I know the Stockmals are planning to go and have already offered to join us. We can stop and buy some sandwiches. I'll make some salads and we can bring some goodies for dessert."

Of course, I'd be the one who would lift the heavy cooler out of our car trunk and pull it on its wheels for the several blocks from the parking area to the lawn. While also carrying lawn chairs and a blanket.

The Stockmals to whom Debra referred were a fellow teacher, Sara, at Debra's school and her husband, Chuck, a minimally communicative CPA, with an almost secret sense of humor. I liked him well enough, appreciated his shyness, and laughed at his very occasional comments, which were usually puns.

The Stockmals were of approximately the same vintage as Debra and myself. Sara taught first grade and worked closely with Debra to prepare the kindergartners for the life-long adventure of reading.

The business part was that Mrs. Lassiter would attend, as would, probably, all the Lassiters but Jayne, who was still convalescent, so far as I knew. I wasn't sure Jayne's children would attend, because they might have something better to do, such as anything that didn't include stuffy adults. I wondered if Walchek had the children for the weekend.

I wondered also who else would attend, because, to my mind, all and everyone was a suspect in the Lassiter and Statsmeyer murders. These suspects included the, as yet unknown to me, thousand or so picnickers from the North Shore who would be at Ravenna that night. Also included in my mind as being possible murderers was everyone in Northern Illinois

Apparently I was the only person in a quad-state area who realized it might rain Saturday night. Rain would put a significant damper on those paying lawn admission, but would not discourage the performance by the Philharmonia inside the pavilion.

Ticket holders for the permanent seats under the canopy of the huge tent would only be inconvenienced by the rain when they walked from and back to the parking lot. People who sit in the permanent seats just beyond the canopy would, presumably, use umbrellas, allowing the thump-thump of the rain to mix with the beat of the music.

Preparation required me to take a look at the condition of my lawn chairs. I remembered purchasing these with my first wife, which gave me a twinge of nostalgia. About when Michael was young and we would drag him to Ravenna for some culture.

I enjoyed that and am looking forward to the concert, Michael said in my head.

The chairs, used only a few times each summer, were still pristine and would still hold my bulk.

Also, Debra wanted me to buy some wine for our picnic dinner. Nothing too expensive but not swill either. She said she would wrap some wineglasses in cloth so we could have wine to sip and make toasts, like the other sophisticated people.

I planned to get to the festival very early. The lawn, which is about the size of a football field if round, fills up fast. The bulk of the lawn is mostly to the left of the pavilion, if you are trying to face the music

I liked to set up my blanket around the area closer to the Pavilion on the right side of the lawn. This area is less frantic because it is far away from the permanent building with restaurants at the back of the left lawn and always seemed more intimate.

Some sit in lawn chairs just beyond the pavilion in neat rows, emulating the seating within, so they could catch sight of the orchestra. Behind them is a smaller section of lawn where we usually sit and behind that, a washroom area, and also the Fine Arts building. Further beyond are the front gates and ticket admission area. Beyond that is an Amtrak station, bringing people from downtown Chicago. The train engineers are careful not to toot their horns while the music is playing.

The whole lawn would be a hive of activity on Saturday night. Once filled, the lawn becomes a crazy quilt of mismatched and multicolored blankets. Those walking to and from the washrooms and restaurants needed to take circuitous routes back to their blankets, sometimes inadvertently stepping on someone else's claimed territory.

It did not really matter where one sat on the lawn because several tall speakers transmitted the music to the larger audience. I supposed the amplified sound is what is recorded and sent out into the world. I always had a mental image in my mind of some old guy in a sound-proof booth playing with more dials than an airplane cockpit.

Good thing I only need to distinguish the lying sounds from the true sounds.

* * * * *

Chapter Fourteen

I was shocked to discover the weather on Saturday was perfect. The big, blue of the sky, the ideal temperature, the sun illuminating all in a warm glow. Every possible flower was in bloom. Lovely, memorable, sweet.

Why do summer days seem more real than those in the winter? And slower, like they are a continuation of those lazy days during the long summer break from school, when anything seemed possible and was.

Debra was particularly happy and ready for an evening of adventure and musical uplift. In our kitchen, she, with a light heart, peeled her potatoes and mixed them with the other ingredients until she created a fine German Potato Salad, like her mother used to make.

She hummed as she worked. The little ladies watched her carefully, taking mental notes for some future date when they too would make this concoction for their own families to be.

The girls drifted away to do what little girls do. Mrs. Mischevski would babysit while we were gone. Amanda was on a working date with Vejr, creating another gift list at another department store.

Being the tallest in the house, I was assigned to climb up on a stepladder and fetch down wine glasses from the highest kitchen shelves. The glasses were crystal and were wedding presents. It would be a shame to break one, Barbra said.

Too bad if we did break them. These glasses have a fate and it's to hold wine so we can carry the stuff proudly to our waiting lips. Until that time, inevitable, when the glass is dropped and becomes shards. Then time breaks the shards into smaller and smaller pieces until they are sand, ready to be remade into glasses.

Mindful of the warnings about too many cars in the Ravenna Festival parking lot, we picked up the Stockmals. Chuck declared that he and his wife "hadn't been together in the back seat of a car since they were teenagers," and gave her a leer that I saw through the rear view mirror. They snuggled and the ordinarily phlegmatic Chuck grabbed Sara and kissed her. Not to be outdone, I drew Debra near and landed tulips on her mouth.

Traffic was heavier than usual on the Edens Expressway and did not, as usual, thin down the further North we drove. The exit onto Dundee East jammed and the cars extended back into the highway, blocking one lane and causing road rage. Not in myself, of course. I was, as always, the steady and constant captain of my ship.

Once on Dundee, the cars were bumper to bumper. Even though this was still early, hours before Madame Brukman would raise her baton. The Ravenna Festival gates probably weren't even open yet. That was most likely the reason for the miles-long back-up, unless there had been an accident.

I always marveled at the sight of homes on property adjacent to Ravenna. These lucky people who lived so close to the Festival must hear the concert every night, as the music drifts across their lawns. Also, how nice it must be to exit your door and walk to the Festival entrance. They must pay a hefty markup for such houses.

Students from the University and old men with badges directed traffic in the huge parking lot. One, inventing hand signals like he was a football coach, directed my car into an empty space. This must be, I thought, how pilots feel when they are directed into the airport gates by the flag and flashlight wavers.

The trunk popped by a lever near the driver's seat. Before getting out myself, I waited for the others to disembark, so I would not bump into anyone.

Positioning myself behind the trunk and bracing with both feet, I lifted the heavy rolling insulated red carryall and set it on the ground.

I found the retractable handle and began to pull the contraption, which stirred up some dust. It had not rained for a few days and the parking lot was mostly grass and well worn paths.

We were joined by other middle-age people, all struggling with chairs. One woman even carried a disassembled table, with screw-on legs. Some carried new, large picnic baskets, most likely purchased for the occasion and pre-stocked with a picnic dinner. Too lazy to make their own.

As we four strode upon asphalt, we neared the Amtrak station, which was just an antique looking brick structure. An overpass had been built over the tracks.

This reminded me. I once had the honor of pulling someone's foot from a railroad track where it had become wedged. Fortunately, the train hadn't been barreling down on us.

Every week in Chicago, the rail capital of the U.S., a commuter or two perishes when he or she gets too close to a moving train. Or thinks they have time to cross the tracks to the other side and the Eastbound trains, but doesn't. Multi-person deaths occur occasionally, because cars always seem to poop out just as they go over the tracks.

I remembered the time one student refused to release her Stradivarius when her violin and arm were trapped by a closing railcar door. She was badly hurt while being dragged by the train.

I stood in line and paid our lawn admission, while the others stood with our equipment. Chuck tried to push some money into my hands to pay. I said the admission price was on me. I could almost see his CPA mind recalculate his net worth.

"Which way?" Debra asked. She had only a general idea of where I wanted to sit. I led the way. I would have been an ideal scout for the wagon trains going West to start a new life.

I spied my goal, a bronze sculpture of two dogs, given to the Festival long ago by proud dog fanciers in honor of their deceased pets. The small dogs waited for the signal to fetch which would never come. As a bonus, the statue was also a water fountain.

This sculpture was my landmark. After walking to the kiosks for ice cream, for instance, I should have no problem finding my way back to our blanket.

Annoyingly, a young couple, probably college students had already stacked out a claim for the precise spot I liked. I thought of asking them to move, but feared I would be mistaken for a curmudgeon. In any case, they were more interested in caresses and kisses and had no idea I, or anyone else, existed.

Debra spread out the blanket, one especially created for this purpose, which had printed on it, "Picnickers are Picknicy Eaters." I secured the four corners with the folding chairs, each opening at the flick of my wrist.

Still a little early to start eating, we observed the crowd and were observed by them.

The canoodling college couple certainly were losing their inhibitions.

Many children, looking for places to get lost, passed by on the way to the food stands and washrooms.

Several blankets away, a hassled young father placed his toddler in a portable crib. Out of which, the little one immediately scrambled, in a great escape.

To my far right was a tent with many signs indicating that it was locus of a corporate celebration. Men and women, uncomfortable in their finest sportswear and chagrined by hobnobbing with their supervisors, were lined up for small goodies to relieve their hunger or punch to relieve their thirst.

The open air will do that to the appetite.

Before we ate, though, it was time for a toast with the wine I'd bought. I carefully held the thin stem in my thick hand. "To us! To life! To future times together!

Toasts done, Debra began to unpack the carryall.

Should I offer to help? After all, once outside, it is the man who takes over, becoming the open-air master of the feast. No, she preferred to do this chore herself.

We other three drew up our chairs, now confident that the wind, which was becalmed, would not upturn our blanket.

Debra carefully gave us plates to balance on our knees. These plates were better than paper and less than porcelain, somewhere in a world where plastic rules.

Delicious. Especially the German Potato Salad.

We put off our dessert until later. Sara, I knew, had made some wonderful Polish pastries.

I've forgotten their name, Dad.

Kalotchkes, he said in my head. Cookies stuffed with different flavors of jam, similar, I've been told to Hamantoschen, the Jewish Purim delicacy.

My mouth watered.

Really, someone should tell the college couple that this behavior was inappropriate. But not me. I was off duty.

A few clouds moved through the sky. The wind blew lazily. I fell asleep in my chair.

I dreamt I was a peasant tilling the same soil as had my forefathers. Dirt was underneath my jagged nails. I smelled the cows. The cows smelled me.

It was almost dawn.

Slowly the sun rose and I remembered not to look directly into it. Years before, an old woman in the village told me that the sun was so powerful it would burn my eyes. As wrinkled as she was, I thought my eyes would burn by just looking into her face. The face of age and death. The glow in her blue eyes yet remained and I imagined that, in her death, her light would go out like a flickering fire.

You think this is how it is, how it will always be, a voice said. I supposed this was the voice of my grandfather, long dead but still talking:

You get up, you work six days. On the seventh day, you go to church and are told what not to do. You don't steal your neighbor's cow because it would violate the laws of both god and man. You don't steal your neighbor's wife, either. It's all right there on the chart of the10 Good Laws. Follow these other laws and you get a bonus because your children are required to honor you and their mother.

Nothing changes, until everything changes. Cossacks or soldiers or the tyranny of the day rides into your village and kills as many as they can. For reasons you can't imagine except blood lust. Or disease sweeps through silently, accomplishing the same. When these grim events are over, everything goes back to the way it was, unchanging until the next catastrophe.

Tomorrow may be my last day, I dreamed.

Thank you god for the goodness and strength of my wife. Thank you god for my children, even though I must divide my bread into smaller and smaller portions.

Thank you for this brief peace.

* * * * *

Chapter Fifteen

I woke to the sound of Mrs. Lassiter's voice."

". . . [A]nd so, it is the Sonic Opera Company's great honor to present the music that is so loved by so many. Also, I want to remind you that a remounting and reinterpretation of Gershwin's timeless classic "Porgy and Bess" will be presented by the Opera Company this season."

I could see her, far in the distance, perspective making her the size of one of my finger nails. She faced the audience. Behind her was the venerable Chicago Philharmonia.

All of the players, men and women, were crisp and alert, world-class musicians ready to perform once again, to make beautiful music together.

Marvelous, is it not, that this number of people can perform so closely together without killing each other?

Her speech completed, Mrs. Lassiter walked off the stage, to the left. Rusty rose from his seat in the front row, and walked dramatically from stage right to the center of the stage.

He made the pitch for the extra funds needed for the Sonic Opera company renovation. He was a better public speaker than I'd imagined. He had that indefinable thing called stage presence. I was almost convinced that it was a good idea to make a contribution. Almost. I hoped Debra wasn't thinking the same thing. Charity begins at home.

When Rusty completed his speech, an unidentified man walked from—-I didn't see where—-to center stage. He began to speak and sounded like one of those mellifluent announcers on FM classic radio stations. Like (cultured baritone), "Next is a composition by the noted composer . . ." He reminded the audience of future events and restated the rules about taking pictures with flashes during the concert.

The man exited, and the conductor, Madame Honore Brukman walked from stage left to the podium. Her hair was short and silver white. She wore a slightly feminized tuxedo.

With great dignity, she turned to face the musicians. She raised her hand and brought the musicians to attention. Extreme attention.

The crowd held its collective breath.

Madame signaled to the clarinetist who, in his moment of solo glory, lifted his instrument, scaled to the high notes, then descended into a bluesy statement, until joined by the trumpets. Rhapsody in Blue.

In that sheer moment of joy, I knew that nothing I did or could say amounted to anything compared to this burst of sunlight. I looked away to see Debra's face. Enraptured.

I had a sudden feeling of unease. This was too good to be true. The faceless soldiers would sweep through the village as they inevitably did. Disease would take my loved ones. This little joy, this harmony, would be shattered.

I smelled gasoline and smoke.

Oral Statement of Damon Ratner:

I sat in the rows of lawn chairs behind where the actual seats of the pavilion stopped. Where we are still close enough to hear the music directly from the players. I became annoyed that someone down the row felt an irresistible urge to comment. I gave her a discouraging look. She noticed and, thank you, stopped talking. If I'd wanted to go to a concert of this woman's yammering, I would have bought tickets and gone to her home.

I have a condition and must, unfortunately, rise frequently to empty my bladder, no matter how much I suppress the urge. My doctor is baffled and hopes this is not a precursor of some worse, darker disease, that will sweep me off when I am at my most happy, perhaps during a birthday celebration.

Fortunately, lawn chairs take a great deal of room, and the space between, in the front and back, is wider than for regular seating. I can easily rise and go to the end of the row to exit temporarily and can return later without unduly disturbing anyone.

This is one of the reasons I prefer these informal seats rather than the more expensive seating. Besides, I could never attend so many concerts in the paid seating.

Not that I don't have the money. I am, however, a frugal person. I also do not feel guilty about the partaking of pleasures that are, after all, paid by my taxes. For instance, if I want to read a best seller, I do not buy this at the store, unless I am feeling particularly rich or do not believe I can finish the book within the alloted time before fines begin. I sign up for the book on a reserve list, wait my turn, and get the best seller out of the library.

Yes, to get back on the point, I walked towards the washroom building. What? Yes, it is old, perhaps, the oldest on the campus, overbuilt, probably with materials that are no longer allowed, like asbestos, I'll bet.

Usually I am only half-thinking about how to navigate with my feet, because I'm listening intently to the music behind me. My purpose is only to get to the washroom as fast as possible, do my business and return to my lawn chair and my cohorts.

On this occasion, I admit to a feeling of foreboding. I am not superstitious. I believe now and have told others prior to this interview that I sensed something was wrong and in the air. The superior, intuitive functions of my brain just knew this.

I understand from the newspaper that there was an explosion. I didn't hear any explosion. Maybe I unconsciously sensed it, as I said I can. Like the more sensitive wildlife can sense a distant earthquake.

As I reached the door of the tiled inner sanctum, a man exited with a disturbed look on his face. He felt he had to share his problem with me. I have a friendly face, I've been told, although, in my heart, I am shy.

" _Fire," he said. "Maybe someone was killed. Call 9-1-1."_

Even though horrified, I did not feel that calling for help was particularly my job. Someone else should be spreading the alarm, I thought, someone who would like to become personally involved. In any case, I could not immediately locate my cell phone on my person and finally found it in my sweater pocket. By then, others had called.

Since you ask, in my opinion, someone had simply doused one of the stalls with some gasoline and lit a match.

The smell of gasoline would have attracted attention immediately? I see. Well, I imagine it is simple enough in this era of the cell phone for an arsonist to buy some kind of delaying program, an app, that sets off a fire. You would know better than I. Mine is a reasonable theory, I should think.

No, I don't have any idea how someone could walk through the crowd with a can full of gasoline. I suppose, if you want me to guess, someone could carry a gallon's worth in a picnic basket or drag it from the parking lot in one of those cooler-type things.

I observe such activities all the time. I prefer to eat at home and walk the mile to the festival, not wanting to waste money. I believe, over a lifetime, the extra I paid for a nearby residence has been balanced by the money I saved, for instance, by not taking taxis.

Have you thought through about the possibility that the gasoline was brought in before the concert? Here's what I would do, since you bring up the subject. I know from my walks that the festival grounds are deserted before concerts, except, of course, for the people who clean up from the previous night's concerts, or those who cut the lawn and reseed spots scorched by illicit bar-be-ques, for instance.

If I were a devious man and agile enough, I would have jumped a fence during one of these off hours and hauled up my gallon container on a rope. Or, even easier, if I trusted in the strength of the container I'd chosen not to break and spill, I would have tossed the container over the fence before I jumped.

I'm sure I am smart enough that I would also throw a mop over the fence before I jumped over. I could even have thrown a pail over the fence. What I'm trying to point out is that anything could have been thrown over the fence to show the legitimacy of the pretense of being a maintenance employee.

I would have proceeded across the grounds, careful to avoid any of the legitimate workers, or, perhaps, I would have dressed like one of the workers so no one would suspect.

I'd proceed towards the washrooms.

If I were the arsonist, I would have gone into one of the stalls. I would set up my incendiary equipment and some computerized device to make it go off.

Wait, one other detail. I would have locked the door of the stall and climbed underneath to make my escape. Not that I have this present agility, of course. Also, I would have hung a sign on the door, saying something like "Closed for Repair."

What? I would also have brought the sign with me.

The sign would have discouraged investigation by anyone, including the staff. Washroom facilities are always breaking down and wouldn't have made anyone suspicious. Wouldn't you think that with all the thought given to washroom facilities, one could invent an unbreakable, unstuffable toilet.

Yes, I'll try to keep to the subject.

Frankly, I think it less likely that the washroom itself was the target of the arsonist than a desire to create smoke. I do not think the object was to destroy the washroom. As if it was done by some maniac who is against the idea of indoor plumbing. No, I think the actual purpose was to create smoke to disturb the performance.

I always get confused about this. Does air blow from Lake Michigan during the evening and towards the lake during the day? I remember specifically that this was the subject in one of my science texts in prep school. Not just about Lake Michigan, about all large bodies of water.

The idea being that the difference in temperatures causes a flow of air in one direction or the other. In the daylight, especially in summer, one could expect the air over the land to heat up more because heat is absorbed by dark materials, like asphalt and buildings. At night, though, the water of the lake would have warmed during the day so that its heat is greater than that of the land. Thus air would flow.

Which way? I confess I never quite understood this. Heat travels up, I know. I'm not sure how it travels forward and backwards. I suppose that the heated air is more active and pushes the less heated away.

Yes, that's it. At night the wind off the lake would blow west, away from the pavilion, not east towards the lake. I know, that's not what happened. Either the air was becalmed or the heat from the fire pushed the smoke in all directions outward.

In any case, I did not return to my seat because the pavilion filled with smoke like a balloon.

* * * * *

Chapter Sixteen

The music just stopped in mid-phrase. To the musicians on stage the black smoke must have approached like a tsunami.

We smelled and saw some smoke, but the dark billow must have been pushed by some malignant wind directly towards and into the Pavilion. We were more to the left side.

Alarmed, I wanted to run forward to the Pavilion, but was badly conflicted. Wasn't it my duty as a policeman to help in a crisis? Yes. But I couldn't just leave Debra and our friends. They were under my immediate protection.

I made up my mind.

First of all, I wasn't in my jurisdiction, which meant I was not immediately responsible. I know it's a stupid distinction. Even so, it's real. No one would expect an off-duty Chicago cop, a block away from the Pavilion, to rush in to help. I might even become part of the problem because I couldn't coordinate my actions with those already providing security.

How would I get into the Pavilion, anyway? People were coming out, not in.

Also, the situation in the Pavilion was ambiguous.

I didn't see flames, just smoke. Even from behind, in the washroom area, which was the obvious source of the smoke. Was this amount of smoke an inconvenience or was it life-threating? Were people merely irritated or were they gasping for breath and losing consciousness?

Unambiguous—-in fact, right in front of me—-was an immediate need.

I saw the alarm in Debra's eyes. I wasn't concentrating on the Stockmals or the other picnickers, just on her.

I had to get her to safety.

Noise and cracklings came from the audio system and the speakers mounted on poles. A calm and somewhat bored voice: "Ladies and Gentleman, there is some problem in the Pavilion. No one is in any danger. Please respect the rights of those around you and gather your blankets and chairs together and proceed to the exits. The local safety network has been alerted . . ."

To me, this meant that the speaker, probably the one who'd sounded like an FM radio announcer, had decided not to use the word "fire." A good idea. Also true. Those on the lawn were not in immediate danger of being consumed by a fire. The more immediate threat was from panic. The announcer's matter of fact manner of speaking purposely undermined the sense of crisis.

Not asking everyone to leave their blankets and baskets was also an interesting strategy. Burdened down, people had to move slowly. The music lovers were being asked to do nothing they wouldn't do if the concert had reached its natural end.

The announcer seemed to only be speaking to the lawn patrons. What about those in the Pavilion? Weren't they in greater danger? They were engulfed in thick, shut-out-the-light, smoke.

I heard sirens in the distance.

Announcer: "You will be assisted into your cars by the police and volunteer staff. There is no danger. Just proceed out of the campus."

I hoped, but did not believe that no one would panic. I needed to get my little group out and onto the street headed home.

The announcer said, in a bored tone: "Since the concert could not be completed, due to circumstances, refunds will be provided. Information about where to send your request for reimbursement will be in all of the newspapers tomorrow, and will be on the Ravenna Festival site." He did not provide the net address, because, I suppose, he did not want people to stop and write it down.

Continuing on a more hopeful note, the announcer said, "Those who still wish to contribute to the Sonic Opera renovation should simply make no claim. [Long pause] On behalf of the Ravenna and the Opera Company, thank you."

Thoughts of money had replaced thoughts of death, which is, I suppose, the natural order of things. I heard grumbling and complaints, which was better than screams of terror.

Statement of Jenessa Lassiter, supplemented by my imaginary notations:

I was sitting in the 10th row with Jonathan, my husband. [Beginning imaginary _] I'd checked on my son, Stevie, with my cell shortly before my mother-in-law, Janice, addressed the crowd under the canopy. Our sitter said Stevie was fine and would go to sleep after the comedy on television concluded, in a few minutes._

I was calming down. Jonathan and I had argued in the car on the way to the concert. I objected to his hours at work. He hardly is ever home. All kinds of concerns were floating in my head and I needed reassurance. Instead, I received anger and harsh words in return.

_My mother-in-law spoke well. I love her. I respect her. I know people complain about their in-laws, but I don't. She is an ideal mother-in-law. Maybe it's because she is a musician. Maybe it's because she is directed outward, towards the community that embraces and loves her back_.

I heard some coughing behind, smelled something burning, and felt some tightness in my lungs. _I've always felt my lungs are one of my weak points. In high school, I mostly wanted to die after only a few times around the track. I don't enjoy swimming underwater, don't like to hold my breath. I never smoked cigarettes, and marijuana smoke brings on a soreness in my chest that lasts for hours. I probably have allergies._

I turned and said something to Jonathan. He looked concerned. We looked further back. Black smoke approached row by row. Those in the seats far behind were chocking and moving out of the Pavilion. There was some pushing and angry words and I was afraid some people would panic. _Thoughts crossed my mind about those soccer games in foreign countries where people get trampled to death. I've always had a bit of claustrophobia._

As the smoke rolled forward, it meant that those furthest upfront, in other words, the best seats in the house, were in the greatest peril. They would need to get to an exit with the most people between themselves and that goal.

My mother-in-law, Janice, facing backwards, caught my eye. The smoke hit us in the 10th row and moved forward. I coughed and gagged. I thought I was about to throw up. I began to fear that the canvas above which seemed so permanent and roof-like was instead a fire hazard and would quickly catch fire.

My mother-in-law collapsed. I was chocking and I pointed to her. I must have said something.

Here it was, the classic choice. Would Jonathan save me or would he fight to get forward to help his mother off the ground? Like the old joke, who is more important to a man, his wife or his mother? Jonathan is not a mama's boy. He makes little jokes about his mother. What son doesn't? Mocks her behind her back, makes fun of her. I know, though, there is an unbreakable bond there, whether he admits it or not.

_The instinct is to move towards the exits, even if it means going through thicker smoke. Out, is the only thought._ Jonathan said something about my mother in law. I couldn't hear it in the tumult.

Tumult is the right word for it. Tumultuous is used more often. Tumult was one of my own mother's words. She liked that one to describe how obstreperous my stepsisters and I were when we needed to be somewhere quickly but fussed and argued. I've never heard anyone else use the word "obstreperous" either. I miss my mother. I especially missed my mother when I thought I was going to pass out in the smoke and die.

Janice was on the ground. Fortunately, since she'd been in the front row, she was not boxed in as some were who collapsed around me. That man, Rusty, came towards Janice. Before he could reach her, he was pushed out of the way by some woman in a panic. Another reached Janice. He was Charlie Edison. Also, a member of the Opera Company's board. He literally lifted my mother-in-law from the ground and carried her out in front of him.

I'd been introduced to Mr. Edison a number of times. He either was nondescript or I was already overloaded with impressions by the time I talked to him at one of those dull cocktail parties before, during, and after the opera season. I did not have a negative impression, just very little impression at all.

I must have passed out. Later, Jonathan said that he walked me out. I have no memory of that. The next thing I remember, is that I was flat on my back and receiving oxygen in a mask over my mouth. _Jonathan was with me, looking serious and concerned._ I asked about Janice. He said she was alright. She'd already been taken by ambulance to Brunswik Hospital, and I would be, too.

_All in all, I suppose this experience could have been worse. There were some people who would need to be hospitalized for several days._ I later learned that the fire in the washroom area was quickly put out. _It was fortunately that none of the children were old enough to attend. They seem always to need the washroom._

Jonathan was very attentive and I credit him with saving me, whether he did or not. I have only his word that he helped me to the exit. I've given him the benefit of the doubt.

News article:

One man was killed and as many as 15 others were injured Saturday night when fire swept through a washroom area behind the Ravenna Festival Pavilion while a performance was in progress,

Numerous people were treated for smoke inhalation both outside and inside the Pavilion. Some will require lengthy hospitalizations.

Witnesses are in conflict whether an explosion preceded the fire, or whether this was the force of ignition.

The fire began in a washroom stall in the men's room. The door had apparently been locked from the inside. Police have been unable to establish whether or not an "out of service" sign was on the stall door.

Spokesmen for the Ravenna Festival said the musicians knew to go backstage and, from there, outside. Some panic at exits occurred but no one was seriously trampled.

Those on the lawn left without panic and apparently without incident.

Damage was minimal outside of the washroom area and performances are expected to resume within a week . . .

* * * * *

**Chapter** **Seventeen**

Obituary in the local press:

A funeral service will be held tomorrow for Terrence Toffler, age 92, who perished in a fire Saturday night at the Ravenna Festival.

Toffler, the son of Nathan and Suzette, was the husband of the late Fanny (nee Osborne) for 51 years. Their children, now deceased, were Eli and George "Tip" Toffler. He is survived by his grandchildren: Etta, Mary, Sophie, Mack and Thomas. He had 10 great-grandchildren.

He will be greatly missed.

His funeral will be held at the Knoxman Funeral home in Elgin at 10 a.m., and will be officiated by Mr. Toffler's long-time minister, Pastor Abraham Lee of the Holy Mount Congregation.

Mr. Toffler was born in Dearborn, Michigan, to a pioneer family who'd settled in what came to be known as Toffler Valley. He attended a one-room schoolroom which provided education for children of various ages. His three brothers and his sister also attended. Terrance was the oldest and was the only survivor among his siblings.

He ascribed his longevity to his "good genes" and that he gave up smoking when he was 30 years old.

Toffler served for 40 years as the chief financial officer for Roxtelmel, a manufacturer of ball bearings and industrial parts. He was very respected in his field and received numerous awards from the local chamber of commerce. He was a member of the Jaws of the Wolf and was often among those who collected money at intersections for charity.

Toffler had a life-long interest in music and half-seriously believed he was a reincarnated musician, according to family legend. He had a "pretty good" voice and could have performed professionally, if that had been his inclination, family members said. He would travel to the Ravenna Festival once each summer and stay with a relative until the performance.

He served in Italy with the U.S. occupying forces during World War II, where he was known as the "Fighting Accountant," according to his stories.

While in basic training, he received an injury to his right eye when a stray bullet during target practice kicked up a stone. His vision slowly worsened, and he had limited vision in his eye for the rest of his life. He received partial disability veteran's benefits and joked that he only needed one eye to find a mistake on a spreadsheet. He was active in the local veterans lodge and marched in the Fourth of July parade in his uniform.

"The perfect random accidental death," Vejr pronounced. "No connection to anyone we're investigating."

I leaned back in my chair. The precinct was unusually quiet. "So far as we know," I said.

"Are you seriously suggesting that this death was anything more than coincidence?" asked my skeptical son-in-law to be.

"His death wasn't within the parameters of our investigation, I agree. It was something else."

"You'll tell me whether I ask or not."

"Simple," I said. "When Mr. Toffler was in basic military training, he was in the wrong place at the wrong time and suffered an eye-injury from an errant ricochet, probably a million to one accident. This was a presentiment and also reset the course of his life."

"Yes, not following," Vejr said.

"Instead of dying in the war, he was given a desk job. He lived on, in fact, for several more generations, outliving his contemporaries, while unconsciously following an inevitable path."

"This leads you to a theory?" Vejr asked.

"Yes. Everyone is born to do something. His job, Mr. Toffler's job was to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. He had a premature premonition of his intended job in the universe when he was in military service. He lived long after that so he could be in the washroom at the Ravenna Festival and be killed in an arson. Him, rather than someone else who has some other duty to perform here on earth."

Vejr gave me a look that included doubt, frustration and resignation. He couldn't avoid listening to my meandering blather for years to come. He was as stuck with me as I was with him. "What's my duty to perform here on earth?" he asked.

"If I told you, you'd be very angry."

Emily on the phone. "Have you had any luck in finding my student? She's been gone for weeks. Her parents are frantic."

"Just a second," I said. "I need to fill in my partner."

I covered the receiver and repeated what she'd said. I whispered: "We've been lazy about not following up on her request."

Vejr shrugged. As if to say, all the problems in the world couldn't be solved by Vanek and Vejr. So true.

I went back to my conversation with Emily. "Has there been any new development?"

"No she hasn't been heard of or from."

"Alright, give me her parents' names and we'll go out to see them."

She did. Mr. And Mrs. Ezra Nicolson, of Dulcimer Street, Brunswik.

Vejr wrote a note on a pad and pushed it in front of me. He'd written "Maybe the universe wants this young woman to be lost. Later, after she's found, she'll get lost again."

My wisdom hadn't been wasted on Vejr.

Changing the subject with Emily to what I wanted to know. "Did you get accepted into the chorus of the opera?"

"Yes. No problem there. I look the part, which apparently is more important than my voice. Chorus members are a mixed lot. Some have been doing this for years, and some are newbies like me. Even some star struck children. I suppose singing in the chorus at the opera is some kind of avocation, a hobby for some people."

I could think of worse hobbies. Being onstage, hearing the applause, seeing the world famous opera singers. Partaking in highest art even in some lowish way. Another hobby denied to me by my height and gravelly voice. Not apparently my job as designated by the universe.

"Any good gossip?" Really, what I wanted to know.

"About the arsons?"

"Yes," I said.

"Well, the consensus is definitely that the fire at the Ravenna Festival wasn't a coincidence. They see this as a part of the pattern. Some are concerned because they will be singing in a "Porgy and Bess," stand-up at Ravenna next summer. You know, where there are no costumes or scenery, just the principals and chorus singing to the microphones. A concert performance."

I shook my head as if she were present. "I think a repeat of the arson at Ravenna is very unlikely. I'm pretty sure it accomplished whatever the arsonist wanted."

"Which was what?"

Might as well be honest. "I don't know. I'm really more interested at this point in gossip about the Board members."

"That reminds me. How is Mrs. Lassiter doing?" she asked.

"Resting comfortably at home, according to my sources. So, to go on, gossip?"

"The ones the chorus talk about are Mrs. Lassiter, that nice Mr. Edison, and one of Mrs. Lassiter's friends, Ida Mancini."

"What do they say about Mrs. Lassiter, Janice?" I asked.

"She is revered."

"Which means what?"

"Loved. Every good feeling. They consider her one of their own. An artist, a performer. They prize the times she's come to observe the chorus. They all feel she is their personal friend."

"This man, Edison, what's he like?" I remembered from the statements local police gathered that Edison carried Mrs. Lassiter to safety when she collapsed from the smoke. I'd never met him personally.

"He is Prince Charming. A recent widower, very wealthy. Everyone has him married to Janice in their imagination. They've never even seen them together. It doesn't matter. Everyone is convinced that they are having a secret romance."

"Have you seen him?"

"No, but they say he's a dreamboat."

Love among those in their sixth decade! Good health had extended the seasons of romance. Good for them! Wasn't it awfully convenient, though, that both Janice and Edison found themselves on the same Board after losing their respective spouses? Or was it that people of a certain age begin to lose their spouses to death?

Was there something to the gossip? "What about this other woman you mentioned, Ida?"

"She's the proverbial fly in the ointment. She has her multi-fly-eyes focused on Mr. Edison, they believe. She's a long-time friend of Janice and hasn't been married for a while. Divorced, I think, from a very wealthy man."

All the ingredients for Ida to want Janice to be dead, if any of this was true and not wishful or dreadful thinking.

Enough conjecture for now. "Tell me about this girl, your student, who's missing."

"Paige. She's bright, willowy. Great figure. I think unenhanced, so she's probably been fulsome since adolescence."

I was not going to get into a discussion about artificial enhancement of features with the fulsome Ms. Rasmussen. She'd be the expert. What Emily was trying to tell me was that the missing girl was a natural beauty. "Is she's very ambitious?" I asked. I felt a twinge of embarrassment about saying this to Emily, whose ambitions had been, at least for the present, dashed.

"Oh, yes. She was quite thrilled when this evil agent contacted her. He said he'd seen her perform in a student production and wanted her to come to his office for an informal attack on her person."

I doubted if those were the words he'd used. "Did she go?"

"Not up to the time she went missing. I discouraged her, which doesn't mean she took my advice. I'm willing to bet she was last seen entering the agent's office."

I'd find out. Was the missing girl at the wrong place at the wrong time?

* * * * *

Chapter Eighteen

"We are appalled," Mrs. Nicolson, Genevieve, said, on behalf of herself and her husband. Vejr and I sat in her condo's family room, high above downtown Brunswik. I heard the faint rolling of a commuter train below. I wondered if people became so accustomed to the noise from these trains that they do not hear them anymore.

She went on. "The Brunswik police act like we are the crazy ones. Refused to investigate until our daughter was missing for ten days. The officer said—ha, ha!—-he has a list of missing University students and could match them up together in couples. They disappear for weeks at a time, and come back with tans and apologies. Defying the parents who would never agree to a mid-semester tryst. Said, and I quote, 'their little baby students feel that it's alright to torture their parents.' Well, I can't imagine Paige just taking off. For one thing, she doesn't have a current boyfriend. Well maybe one, but he's not missing and I don't believe their relationship was at that stage"

Mrs. Nicolson was tall, fashionable, small waisted. Early 40's. Very neat, very organized, a detail person. I was curious as to her profession, if she worked currently or before and was it as a bill collector? I couldn't think of a question about her job that would be relevant to the investigation, so I couldn't satisfy my curiosity.

Her husband seemed be simmering. He reminded me of a suspect who'd finally come to a boil.

Mr. Simmer had told me: The people I love, those I take care of in life, are totally indifferent to me. No one offers me a glass of water. No one asks me if I want my coffee cup refilled. No one goes out of their way for me, changes their plan, does me a favor. They, the none of them, aren't happy when I enter the room.

He'd gone on: Those who should care about how I feel, like, for instance, my in-laws, my wife for heaven's sake, my children, don't give a damn about me, my health, or my mood, whether I'm happy or sad. No one asks me "what's new?" even after I've asked them how they are. It's like, everyone and anyone else is the center of attention and his or her every need must be fulfilled. Just not me. I'm sitting there and everyone could care less, or is it couldn't care less?

His other complaint was that he's always being asked to run other people's errands. Like his time isn't important.

I was tempted to ask Mr. Nicolson to get up and get me a cup of coffee. I just didn't want to be in the same room if this was the day he finally exploded.

Vejr wasn't taking the lead, so I started. "Where would your daughter go if she were running away from home?"

No immediate answer, as if Mrs. Nicolson was waiting to answer a question she preferred. I decided to ask several questions at once, in the optimistic hope I would shake something loose. "Does she have a best friend who would let her stay in her dorm room? Could she be in some off-campus housing?

Mrs. Nicolson still hung back. I said, "Sometimes a person of your daughter's age has a secret and can't share it with her parents."

Mrs. Nicolson straightened, her eyebrows raised, as if I'd made a salacious suggestion. "I assure you that my daughter is not pregnant."

She knew best. I wasn't going to ask further. Maybe she knew when her daughter had her last period. Hopefully, just her latest.

"What about a best friend?"

"She has many friends," Mrs. Nicolson said, as if I had accused her daughter of being antisocial or a hermit. "We've contacted them all." She sniffed as if she'd smelled something bad. "These are the same questions the Brunswik police asked. I don't think," she explained, "that I need to repeat myself."

Well, pardon me. Originality isn't in my job description. "Tell me about your daughter, her disposition, habits, trustworthiness."

"My daughter is a blessing to us."

This was not what I expected to hear. Wayward daughters, according to my extensive experience, escape from difficult or impossible situations at home. For instance, because of sexual, physical and/or verbal abuse.

Sometimes the parents are addicted to something and have long since become, in effect, the children in the family. Like they've traded places and the actual children are unable to cope.

Sometimes extreme poverty forces the missing child onto the streets. Nothing good can come of this.

Often the parents don't recognize or realize that they've given the child permission to leave and never come back. Not that they've said those exact words. Usually it's more like "I wish you were dead."

Also, Paige didn't fit the profile of a young woman about to launch herself into a career in porn, another possibility in Vanek World. She seemed like a typical college student . She was getting an education and had a future, even if it wasn't the one she imagined. She didn't seem to be under someone else's control, like a pimp, for instance. She seemed to have self-esteem. Not a person acting out or punishing someone for past sins. Not looking for the love she'd never received.

"You and Mr. Nicolson hadn't argued with her lately?"

Mrs. Nicolson answered for the both of them. "She's as good as gold. Nothing to complain about. If anything, we want her to relax a bit and enjoy college. She is a bit too serious."

What would be a bit too serious? Hanging oneself after getting a "B" in a course?

"She's never given you any cause for concern?" I asked.

Mrs. Nicolson looked insulted, as if I'd accused her of being a derelict parent. "Of course, we worry about her all the time. She's an only child. However, her instincts have always been good. She's never even missed a class. She's never late for an assignment. She's organized". Pause to catch her breath. "I know what you're thinking."

More than I knew.

"You're thinking she was under a lot of stress, either from herself or from us. No, that's not so. She is just an achiever. Very goal oriented. She'd decided to be an actress and was very disciplined about it, very ambitious. Learned her lines, sometimes so many we were amazed."

Self-delusional much? The key word here was ambition. Girls, in my experience, are pressured from a much earlier age than boys to achieve. Find a spouse. Get a job. Set yourself up for life.

In the case of proto-actresses, the problem must be intensified. They must be famous quickly, like immediately. The child star has an advantage, has already been working since they were cute little toddlers, maybe were the children of famous people, the royalty of show business. An aspiring actress who is 20 years old and without prospects may have missed the boat to fame and fortune, already. If their singing ability hasn't gotten them on television, or if they aren't already playing ingénue parts in the movies, it is, most likely, too late.

"Have you been able to trace her comings and goings before she disappeared? Do you know what she may have said to anyone?"

"We believe she'd just left a class," Mrs. Nicolson said. "Paige stopped to speak to that nice Ms. Rasmussen, her teacher. Ms. Rasmussen said that they'd talked about many things, especially her future as an actress. My daughter shared some of her concerns that she wasn't achieving her desired goals."

"Anyone else talk to her that day? What day was that?"

She gave me the date, which I dutifully wrote down. "She went to lunch after class and talking to Ms. Rasmussen. Paige told her friend—-I can give you the girl's phone number—-that she didn't feel well, that she might lose her lunch, if you know what I mean? She told her friend she'd be right back, but never returned."

So what did this mean? Instead of going to the washroom, she headed out to change her luck somewhere.

"What do you think?" I asked Vejr when were back in the car.

"She'll probably come home humiliated and a little more mature."

"Or she's already dead," I added.

News article:

A talent agent was found dead this morning in his downtown office on Hubbard Avenue.

The cause of death of Rog Kalatchi, age 29, has not yet been established. Natural causes have been ruled out, according to a police spokesman. An autopsy will be performed.

Police are unsure how long Kalatchi had been dead when he was found by a maintenance worker. Based upon the assistant county coroner's preliminary investigation, he may have been dead for as long as a week.

Police said that no family member or friend had notified authorities that Kalatchi was missing. His appointment book was not found in his office.

Kalatchi often said he was well known in the talent placement community, a secretary in a neighboring office reported. She could not pinpoint what kind of work he found for his clients. She said that she often redirected visiting actors to his office.

Police said they confiscated various film-making equipment and will determine if any saved recordings are relevant to the investigation.

* * * * *

Chapter Nineteen

Resting comfortably means what, exactly? In bed, with a comforter over her head? In the presence of slaves tending to her every need?

According to the Brunswik police reports, Mrs. Lassiter swallowed a few chestfuls of smoke and fainted. She probably was still experiencing some discomfort, a sick feeling in her lungs, every time she breathed. If she'd been much more affected, she'd be in Brunswik Hospital, not her condo.

I was curious what her theory would be about who and why the Festival's bathroom was arsonated. I didn't want to question her just yet. She seemed like a nice person, and I didn't want to beat her with a rubber hose, unless it was absolutely necessary. Especially since making her upset might cause her to relapse.

I called Elliot from the station towards the end of the day. Newly on duty, he was, undoubtedly, fiercely observing the parking lot of Mrs. Lassiter's condo building. Sitting with rapt attention in his less than new/probably a wreck of a car, watching the comings and goings of the wealthy.

More likely, studying, or playing one of those portable video games.

"Yeah. I'm here," he said. "Just like I'm supposed to be. I've gotten friendly with the security guy, Roberto, and we've been having tournaments with my hand-held. He's pretty good. He's the guard in some fantasy kingdom and I'm the wily thief. So far, I've stolen enough from underneath his nose to buy some advanced weaponry and some spells."

Interesting? No. "I really want to know what's going on with Mrs. Lassiter, not what you are doing instead of studying to get good grades in the courses I'm paying for."

"Don't underestimate the creation of a good working relationship. I've found out a lot from the guard."

"For instance?" I asked.

"Mrs. Lassiter is a wonderful tenant. She is not noisy and causes no problems. Oh, when her grandchildren are with her, like now, there are a few complaints from neighbors. Running down the corridors, shouting, playing the television speakers at maximum. Nothing so bad or something I wouldn't do."

The "nothing I wouldn't do" standard seemed to allow for considerable mayhem.

This reminded me that I should find out how their mother, Jayne, was, upon whom some mayhem had been visited. She ought to be almost done with her convalescence. Maybe she was already home in her own condo, and the kids were still at their grandmother's, just to give their mother a day more of additional peace. That would mean that, of the two, Jayne remained the most ill. This was another indication that Mrs. Lassiter was mending well.

"Has Mrs. Lassiter received any visitors?" I asked.

"Several. The first I observed was a man named Edison and a woman too young to be his wife or girlfriend. Maybe she's his daughter. In any case, he carried flowers and the young woman carried a bag, which was filled and which I assumed was dinner."

"How did you know who they were and that they were going to Mrs. Lassiter's?"

"Easy. Visitors must talk to the security guard at the entrance of the parking lot, give at least one name and say who they want to visit. Then the guard calls up the tenant for permission. If the guard gets the go ahead, he directs them to guest parking, and, if I'm there, he calls me with a heads-up."

Pretty good system. Elliot was doing well. "What did Edison look like?"

"Full head of white hair, tanned face, looked like a leading man in the theater in the round productions Ma dragged me to get some culture."

A romantic hero? "And the probable daughter?"

"Young, nice looking, well dressed. A little irritated, I thought, that she'd been dragged to visit a sickie. The bag still had the bill stapled on it, so she didn't cook whatever it was."

I hoped the probable daughter snatched off the bill before they reached the condo. She'd do that unless she was hostile and wanted Mrs. Lassiter to know she was being forced to be sympathetic.

"Did they stay long?"

"No. It was dinner time and they didn't have enough dinner for themselves in that bag. Probably just enough for Mrs. Lassiter, her caretaker, and the children. They brought up the bag, talked briefly, I guess, so they wouldn't wear Mrs. Lassiter out, then went back to their car."

"Other visitors?"

"A guy named Phillip. I have his last name written down somewhere. Do you need it?"

"No." He must be Rusty. To confirm: "Red hair?"

"Kind of faded reddish color."

"Did he bring anything with him?"

"No," Elliot said. "Just himself. Wearing a light jacket, because it was chilly out. Seemed to be in a hurry."

"How long did he stay upstairs?"

"Longer than Edison, but not long. Maybe he was wordier."

Speculation from the baby police officer.

What Elliot said made some sense. Mrs. Lassiter had endured a visit by an old friend and a second visit by Rusty. That latter fellow probably only wanted to check on her condition so he could report to the Opera Board. To make sure it didn't need to elect a new chairperson.

Not bringing flowers for Mrs. Lassiter, certainly indicated that Rusty and Mrs. Lassiter were not close.

Or maybe Rusty was in a bad mood and couldn't be bothered with other people's problems. He must have been unhappy with the result of the fund-raising aspect of the Ravenna appeal. Gasping and chocking while they were being carried out could not have bestirred the charitable spirit. I wondered how many hadn't asked for their money back. I hadn't. But I hadn't spent hundreds on a Pavilion seat.

What was next, a charity wrestling match at the United Center?

Rusty had already raised a $100 million for the building renovation. Was it odd or suspicious that more was needed because of the arsons? Couldn't they just cut some other facet to gain the additional money? Buy a few cheaper windows? Don't put in such good light fixtures backstage?

I had a distant memory of discussing renovation of a church as a member of the Lay Council. No renovation job is finished precisely on the penny or anywhere close. Cost overruns are taken into account, and some money is usually kept in reserve, unless the planners are idiots. Architects are always coming back with work order changes found necessary by the reality of actual construction.

Why wasn't $100 million enough? Had Rusty dipped into the renovation funds to meet his own current expenses?

It was the Chicago way. The classic commingling of funds until no one but a forensic accountant has any idea where all the money went. Maybe Rusty himself had a motive for all these arsons? Maybe he wanted the renovation project to be delayed until he could go to a casino to win some money back.

"Other visitors? You said several."

"I don't know if coming all day and spending the night is a visit," Eliot said. "A Jenessa, last name not provided, spent all that time upstairs, the guard told me. Who's she? I figured she was a relative."

"Yes, she's Mrs. Lassiter's daughter-in-law. Wife of Mrs. Lassiter's son, Jonathan."

Kind of the classic gesture. The elderly mother-in-law is ill and the daughter-in-law takes charge to make the older woman comfortable. Because the younger woman loves the older. Not just make-believe so the world thought well of the younger woman. Honestly concerned about her mother-in-law's welfare. Very admirable. Ruth in the Bible. Wither thou goest, I shall go too, or something like that.

"Did the son, Jonathan, show up as well?"

"Not according to the guard, Roberto. He wasn't in the car with the daughter in law. Maybe he's just a busy guy."

I would visit you if you were injured and I were alive, my son said in my head.

I know, I thought. Too bad you aren't and can't.

I wasn't a Mr. Simmer. Vejr, my some-kind of son-in-law to be would show up with a bottle of whiskey if I were ill. Not quite the same thing as being visited by a son. Still, better than nothing. I should just be glad there were a lot of "better than nothings" about my relationship to Vejr.

Also, the many women in my life would take care of me. I wasn't planning on being ill just yet. Even so, a visit from the little ladies, far in the future when I was terminal, would cheer me up.

Take a deep breath, Vanek. This isn't happening to you. Yet.

Changing my own subject: I wondered why Jonathan hadn't visited his mother. Was he somehow angry at her? Like, for instance, Ma, you've got to choose a less dangerous hobby! Not something involving smoke, fire, and death. Can't you just take up crochet? Knitting? Cross-word puzzles?

What did it say about his relationship with his mother that he didn't visit? Was that important? Jonathan had argued with his father before his father's untimely death. Was he also estranged from his mother?

I imagined a further dialog between the two. Mrs. Lassiter would say, lungs permitting, you weren't nice to your father and now you're not a good son to your mother.

He'd say, Mother, please, someone has to do the work around here so that you can continue to live a life of luxury. So you can use up your old age planning parties you call operas.

You always resented my public service, she would say, just like you hated the relationship your father had with politicians. Beneath us, you said. You could use some public service yourself, at least some pro bono work, so that you don't become even more of a goddamn snob.

Perhaps Mrs. Lassiter was too much of a lady to say that last part.

* * * * *

Chapter Twenty

Anne Marie called to ask if I'd found out where her errant fiancé goes at midnight.

Where does anyone go at midnight? Out to get a cup of coffee. Out for a walk. Out to mug someone else who is out for a walk.

I signaled to Vejr in the next desk over to listen in. "Is it a nightly pattern or occasional?" I asked. If it was a nightly pattern, I would suggest that Mr. Fiancé is a vampire looking for victims. Or a man with a chronically upset conscience.

"More like occasional, once or twice a week," she said.

"Does he look different when he comes back?" I was thinking along the lines of him being disheveled. Perhaps he takes a tumble with a prostitute? What I also wanted to ask, but didn't, was, did he smell different when he returned? I didn't want to be crude.

"Does he smoke?" I asked instead.

I meant, does he smoke cigarettes? If he was actually smoking or on fire, I thought she would mention that upfront.

"No, he has no bad habits that I know of. Doesn't drink to excess. Doesn't smoke marijuana. Doesn't take pills unless he has a headache."

He has headaches at midnight? "Are headaches a problem for him?"

"He has an occasional migraine. He's usually able to avoid them because he knows what triggers them?"

"What triggers them?"

"He says wine gives him migraines. He says that going for too long without sex gives him a headache. Not having sex with a little something special . . ."

Enough! I interrupted. "I get the idea. Let's try a different angle. Does he keep up with his single friends? Is there an old ex that he talks about, wonders how she's doing?"

"There was one ex that must have meant a lot to him. They broke up and it was ugly, he said. He hasn't talked to her since. I'll bet it was, she was unfaithful."

If unfaithfulness bothers him that much, he's probably not unfaithful himself, I thought. Or, alternately, because people do the opposite of expectations, being a perverse species, maybe he is punishing himself by satisfying his own urge to be unfaithful, so he can also feel guilty.

"Have you ever caught him rejoining you in bed? Have you asked where he's been?"

She paused to remember. "I did once. He said he had a sick stomach and had gone to the washroom. That was an untruth because I knew he'd redressed and left the apartment, because I'd checked."

How does an untruth differ from a lie? "How did he dress that time you knew for sure?"

"Just like he'd been before we went to sleep. Same clothes. Shirt and jeans."

Try this. "Do you know if he's involved in some particularly strange law case? You said he was a lawyer-to-be."

"Really, he mostly files things at the County Building. He might do some research or come up with some questions before the lawyer interviews a potential witness."

Not really a helpful answer. "I tell you what. I'll have someone sit at the entrance of your apartment building for a few nights and if he comes out, my guy will follow him."

"Great."

I decided to reassign Elliot. Mrs. Lassiter didn't seem to be in any immediate danger. A condo was a dumb place to attack her, with so many possibilities of being seen or even recorded. I'd probably found out all I could about who visited her and her family relationships, speculatively speaking. Besides, the security guard at her condo seemed to be duplicating everything that Elliot was supposed to do or find out. Maybe I should just have a talk with the guard?

Not to miss an opportunity for gossip, I asked, "Is there anything new at the Lassiter Law firm?"

"Oh, yes. We've been talking about nothing else."

Good start! "Why, what's happening?"

"Jayne Lassiter is back and must have been thinking hard when she was in the hospital. She stormed in like nobody's business and had a knockdown, drag out fight with her brother."

"You don't mean really?" I asked.

"No, not really. That was just a figure of speech. They didn't hit each other, except with words."

Bad enough, I thought. Words can kill but policemen are seldom called for death by syllable. "Do you have any idea what they were fighting about?"

"Sure. It was a loud enough argument."

"Can you give me the highlights?"

"First," she said, "a kind of marathon listings of issues having to do with Jonathan."

Issues? Like of a magazine? No. Anne Marie must mean, in woman language, problems or faults that prevent a situation from being perfect. Issues makes it sounds like the problem can be separated from the person, denatured, and dealt with on a rational basis.

I wish that were true.

The faith of some people that "issues" can be solved is precious and adorable. Because people don't change just because you want them to. "Still not really understanding what you are telling me."

"Let's see. Jonathan has always been a bastard, Jayne said. A mean bastard. Jonathan is immature. Jonathan has no social skills. Jonathan is lazy. Jonathan is a taker, not a giver. Jonathan's friends are lazy, mean bastards and takers with no social skills."

Still nothing illegal here. If there was, all men would be arrested.

"And Jayne wants to solve these issues, how?" I asked.

"He needs to be replaced, she said. The firm needs new leadership. Needs to be insulated from his--what was the words she used?--fat-headedness."

"How did he respond?"

"You know this calm that's worse than screaming back?"

"Yes."

"He laughed in her face, which just got her more angry. I pictured her face getting so red her head would fly off. I really thought they would start hitting each other. One of the girls suggested calling 9-1-1. These things don't really happen at law firms, where we try to show decorum at all times."

"Then what?" I asked.

"Jayne said she has the same right as any partner to call a meeting and to, quote, remove the rabid dog from the street before he bites someone, unquote."

Kind of a citizen's arrest? Or a mutiny? "What did he say to that?"

"For a long time, he was silent."

I thought, maybe so many insults crossed his brain, he found it difficult to select just one or two. "And, then?"

"I don't know. His voice got too low to hear. I believe and the other girls think so too, that he told Jayne that she was a bitch. That she's always been a bitch. That she would always be a bitch."

Define bitch? A woman who asserts herself in any possible way, no matter how minor. It probably means something special or has a history if a brother says it to his sister. Jonathan probably could give her his own list of her bitchiness.

I love this stuff! "Then what happened?"

"Jayne stormed out and went directly to her office. She called in one of the girls and one by one, she set up a meeting with the partners. The memo sent out said that leadership of the firm would be the topic. All financial records of the firm would be audited before the meeting, as was her right in the by-laws."

Wowie! Audits and lawyers and by-laws. "When is this laugh-fest scheduled?"

"Tuesday, next week. An important court case should be finished by then, at least, the presentation from our side. Also, all the partners will be in town."

I wondered what the breakdown of support would be for Jayne among the partners. Probably the younger partners would be in favor of a "greener" firm, not meaning the green stuff you put in your wallet if you are lucky. Meaning issues of the environment, investments in renewable resources or any other of the current foolishnesses that is evicted from your brain as you age.

"Are the brother and sister talking? Did Jonathan try to get the meeting canceled?"

"I don't know if he did that, or even if he could do that under the by-laws."

There were those by-laws again.

I wondered if the meeting was going to be held at the United Center after the charity wrestling match. Would they set up a rink, like for hockey, and the partners in one uniform would try to knock out the teeth of the other uniformed partners? Were they calling in referees from the National Football League who would wear striped shirts and throw penalty flags?

I'd buy tickets for that.

Will you be at the meeting?"

"For sure."

* * * * *

Chapter Twenty-One

Vilareal and Polachek, good men, with whom I'd trust my life. Detectives in the Chicago Avenue Precinct, like me, for many years. If asked, I would award them my highest compliment: better men you cannot find, except for myself.

They'd been assigned the murder investigation for talent agent Rog Kalatchi. I knew this from the assignment book. As they passed my desk, mumbling to themselves, I called them over. Vejr was at lunch, which was just as well.

"I'm curious about the Rog Kalatchi case," I said. "I know someone who might have gone to him for representation."

It doesn't matter what ethnic persuasion a man or woman is, if they are cops, they act like cops. Villareal had a permanently skeptical grin. He was a Latino. He'd heard a million lies since he graduated from the police academy. He assumed I was lying.

"Oh yeah?" he said. "What a coincidence. Did you kill him? Just tell me now and save a lot of time for the both of us."

"Yes, I killed him with my little bow and arrow."

"Nah, that wasn't how he was killed." Polachek said. Polish like me, and, I believe, more suspicious of me than if I were of another nationality. It almost made sense. I ought to be held to a higher standard because I shouldn't bring shame upon the heads of my countryman. Polachek, like his partner, was in his 40's. He had sad eyes. He'd seen more than he wanted to see. "We aren't telling anyone how he died, in hopes that someone will call with a confession, and we'll have a fact to test them with."

Made sense. I'd done the same myself in several cases. "Are there any surveillance tapes?" I asked.

"Nah" said Villareal. The building manager admitted to taking a bribe to close down the cameras on that floor. Apparently, Kalatchi liked his privacy.

So not much to go on. "This fact you're withholding, could you reveal it to me? I take it back about killing him."

"I don't believe you," Polachek said. "You are the killer and you know he was killed with one of those metal spike thingies he kept on his desk to stick through paper. You know, to spear messages, so they don't go all over. The killer took the spike and, either with expertise or dumb luck, avoided Kalatchi's ribs and impaled him in the heart. Like killing a vampire, if Kalachi was one and the spike had been wooden."

"How much force would it require to do that?" I asked.

"Not much, according to the lab guys," Polachek said. "Let's try an experiment." He raised his voice but not enough for anyone to actually hear him above the din. "Does anybody have a sharp spike used for spearing messages?"

I was pretty sure that the policemen of my precinct aren't allowed to have pointy objects on their desk with which they could hurt themselves. Myself, I had an elaborate paper clip on an upright wire with a heavy metal bottom, so it wouldn't tip over no matter how many notes were clipped.

I decided without further experimentation, that a metal spike wouldn't need much more of a push than would a sharp needle. To confirm: "So you think this could have been done by a woman? It's not a question of strength?"

"Yeah," Villareal said. "We're searching the records for other spike killers, killers that use desk spikes. I'm sure there's a bunch, and we can interview them all. Even going back many years to nail all the spike killers in the Chicago area since, say, the 1950's, figuring everyone older is too feeble to raise their hands to kill someone."

I called Officer Smith to see if he'd made any progress on the surveillance cameras. I must have caught him at what would be breakfast for someone who works at night. I could hear the news in the background, apparently blasting from a kitchen television.

One of his children continued talking to him as if he weren't on the phone. Children do that. They don't think that the electronic interruption trumps a personal, face to face, conversation. Why should it?

"How are you?" I asked, to be polite.

"Still need more coffee. And to silence the background noise." I heard him move the phone and a muffled, "Quiet, please, this is daddy's business. We'll talk as soon as I hang up." There was a pause and the television news was turned off or silenced.

"I'm back with you," he said.

No more shmoozing is necessary, just ask your question, I thought. "Any progress on the surveillance cameras? Such as who set them up?"

"I learned one thing that might be helpful. Remember there are two sets of cameras, with the second set being more modern looking and smaller?"

"Uh-huh."

"Well the date those smaller cameras became available for purchase was after Lassiter was killed."

I reviewed the whole issue in my mind. Lassiter didn't want cameras to observe the back of his house, because people who came to him for advice wanted anonymity. It made some sense that the newer cameras were placed in the back when it was no longer necessary to protect a visitor's identity, after Lassiter's death. On the other hand, Jenessa firmly denied that any family member had done this.

The question: why the second set of cameras were also placed in front of the house, even though the older set of cameras there are still active? In other words, why two systems?

"So what's interesting," Smith said, "is that the two camera systems seem to be set to reach two different destinations. I had a lab guy, someone who's into all this digital stuff, and he said that the larger, older cameras are connected to a surveillance service. I have the name. The newer equipment is connected by wi-fi to the computer of Mr. X."

"Why?" I asked.

"Alright, Mr. Y, if you prefer."

Truck, that eternally elusive soul, called me at my desk. The uncharacteristic directness of his actions probably meant he'd bought a new burner phone at a local drugstore and wanted to use the old one more time, before tossing it in the garbage.

"Hello. I didn't expect to hear from you so soon," I said.

Or at all. I always expected Truck to be murdered in the time between our meetings. If he were a can of beans, I'd expect his best-if-used-before date had expired long ago.

I didn't expect to read about his death in the obituaries. Someone leading his life might not be even identified at the coroner's office. My prediction: after not hearing from Truck for a suspiciously long time, I would get curious about a John Doe, go to the morgue and find Truck dead.

"First the good news," he said.

"Yeah. Is there both good news and bad?"

"Yeah. Do you want to hear this or not? I'm a busy man."

Busy doing what? Panhandling, breaking and entering, blackmailing, rumor mongering, malingering, spreading disease, bribing, imbibing, selling drugs, corrupting the young and the middle-aged?

All of which was very useful to me. I made a mental note to ask him if he knew Rog Kalachi or if he knew any errant fiancés who wander at midnight. "Just tell me," I said.

"I've tapped my connections among the fringe groups, and I've found no group larger than one person mumbling to himself, who wanted to kill Lassiter."

I joined him in the thought that this was good news. No one likes to think some gang of loonies have been emboldened enough to knock off public officials. Don't they know, anyhow, that there's always another politician with his hands out, the Chicago way? That we would never run out of such public-spirited men?

"Who are the singular mumblers?" I asked.

"The population of the Chicago-Joilet-Naperville Metropolitan Area is approximately nine and a half million disgruntled souls."

"The bad news, then?"

"I wouldn't rule out any of the people you've contacted in the last few weeks. I wouldn't rule out anyone just because he or she happens to be a woman."

I wasn't overwhelmed with gratitude by this advice. What I was, was curious how Truck knew my activities. "How do you know who I've talked to?"

"I get around," he said.

I was sure he did. I was also sure he'd never reveal anything about me or my activities to others. I just knew this more on faith, because, if he'd told anyone of my activities in the past, I would have been fired or killed.

One comes to trust one's snitches.

Elliot gave me a huge yawn over the phone. Elongated to show how tired he was and how much I should be grateful for his efforts. "Yyyyyyyaaaaaaawwwwnnn!!!!!."

Actually saying what you're doing is kind of silly. I knew someone who made a big show of saying "Ah-Chew" when he sneezed. While saying the actual words "Ah-Chew."

"I hope you appreciate my diligence and stick-to-it-tivity," Elliot said, still expending air.

"Oh, I do. I most certainly do," I said. "Any luck in following the errant fiancé?"

"Yes and no. I saw him leave the building on foot. I got out of my car to follow him. He walked for several blocks and then got into an automobile and sped away."

"Uh-huh."

Continuing, "To provide relevant background so you better appreciate my work, it's hard to park in that neighborhood and this was probably the first space he'd found. It's easier, later, so I had a spot close to his building. Anyway, to make a long story short, by the time I returned with my car, he was long gone."

"So?"

"Next time, I will unobtrusively as possible on an empty street at midnight, follow him slowly in my car, wait until he gets into his car, and then follow him to whatever woman he's probably pursuing."

I had a mental image of three people walking in a circle, Elliot, Errant, and Probable Cooperating Woman, following each other, around and around.

* * * * *

Chapter Twenty-Two

Trying to keep a tremor of fear out of her voice, Mrs. Lassiter, Janice, said, "It's about Jayne. No one has heard from her in the last two days. Not me, not, Mr. Ugh, her ex-husband. None of her friends. No one at the law firm."

Vejr and I sat in her condo, there at her request. Vejr seemed absorbed in other problems, so it was up to me to ask questions. The traffic below on Lake Shore Drive was a hum. Mrs. Lassiter's grandchildren were watching television loudly in the other room, both them and the television being loud. Of course, I thought, Jayne's children are still with their grandmother while she, Jayne, is among the missing.

I took some time before I spoke, wanting to ask the right question.

I asked myself, first, was Jayne hiding or had she been kidnapped or what?

Was she out of sight because she feared being assaulted again?

Or, another possibility, she had escaped and voluntarily joined the legion of the lost who are never found? Missing husbands, wives, children. The world must be filled with them. From a policeman's point of view, one out of every two persons is missing. Some of them are dead, of course. Some have ingenious new identities.

I couldn't picture Jayne with a new set of identification papers and pristine passport living in Seattle as a barista at a coffee house. Was that why these coffee places became so popular? Because they existed to give jobs to those in hiding?

Not quite returning to the here and now, I thought about Mrs. Lassiter's voice.

It isn't true that the rich talk the same as everyone else. You hear it most on advertising for luxury cars. A kind of bored, oh me, oh my. Damn, I'm smart and rich beyond imagination. Sorry I am to live in the same world as those whose grandparents didn't have the foresight to buy a utility.

Watch it, Vanek, you don't like poor or middle-class people any better.

I decided Mrs. Lassiter's accent was neither arrogant nor pretentious. Actually, she sounded educated and cultured.

What else was different about her?

Mrs. Lassiter, I conjectured, must have led a pampered life. Must have gone to one of those college in the east, the sister schools, six—-no, seven—-of them and I can't remember their names either. I pictured her as a young girl laughing and having a good time in a sorority, talking about new clothes and boys. Kind of superficial.

On the other hand, I wasn't giving Mrs. Lassiter enough credit for being a talented musician. An artist. Someone who takes the boring, mundane written notes and breathes life into them. Able to move a crowd to tears by the sheer beauty of the music.

What had I, humble policeman that I am, done to make the world more beautiful? Taken some uglies off the street?

I couldn't dislike her. Nothing about Mrs. Lassiter seemed mean. She existed to make the world sing a harmonious song. She did no harm, like the lilies of the field or however that quote goes. She was a person apart, in a different place, a different universe from my own.

I had to admit to myself that I had a rare, positive feeling, vibe, about Janice. I'd have been very proud if she were my sister. I should be so lucky

Then there was me. Enough about her, let's talk about me. What in the world does she think of me?

She didn't make any comment about me. Why should she? She was worried about her family. "I don't know why we are having all these difficulties." I could still hear a slight rattling in her lungs, the residuals of her gulping smoke. She looked tired and older than in our previous face-to-face.

"Perhaps, we can find out," I said, including myself in the "we." I think she noticed. "I'll ask and you tell."

She almost smiled. A very sad smile, showing some gratitude. "I'll try."

I didn't want to get right to the point of asking her if her son, Jonathan, had kidnapped, falsely imprisoned, separated Jayne from the rest of mankind, just long enough to avoid a partners meeting. I didn't think that suggesting an animosity or even anger between siblings was the right way to start. She might become defensive.

Be more subtle than that Vanek. "Has Jayne indicated that she'd been threatened?"

Janice gave me a surprised look. "Aren't you already investigating the violence done to her, that put her in the hospital?"

"Yes, of course." I was embarrassed. My investigation had gone in many different directions, far from the original purpose. I restated what I saw was my goal. "Jayne believes the violence towards her had something to do with the murder of your late husband. She felt it was payback by persons unknown for her suggesting that the wrong man was convicted of that crime. My focus has been on finding out who killed your husband, or proving the right man was convicted. Now we're talking about a new or secondary problem."

This was going in the wrong direction, interrogating me and my motives. What I wanted to ask was, did her son have Jayne beaten in the first instance and kidnapped in the second?

"What does Jonathan say about why Jayne is missing?"

Breathing uneasily, but breathing. "He believes she has gone off to be alone, so that she can write an opening statement for the partners meeting."

So Janice knew about the partners meeting. That either simplified or complicated things. "Do you know what the partners meeting is about?"

She smiled a mother-knows-all smile. "More or less. Jayne keeps her own counsel. I think she wants to redirect the firm. She is my daughter, the idealist. Jon is my son the realist. I'm so proud of them both."

I certainly didn't want to engage in an ideological or political discussion about what was wrong with the world. I'm just a dumb cop.

Might as well get to the point, indirection failing. "How do Jayne and Jonathan get along?"

"Wonderfully, I think. A loving relationship."

What did I expect to hear, that their mother thought they wanted to kill each other? Do mothers ever admit hatred between siblings? "They don't argue?"

She didn't seem disturbed by the question, because she had a ready answer. "Oh, of course they argue. Don't all children? Don't all adults? If they had the same opinion on everything, I'd think that was odd."

Change of pace. Try anything. "Has Jayne argued with displeased clients, perhaps, or employees of the firm?"

"No, Jayne gets along well with everyone."

I knew that wasn't true. However, losing a case or irritating a secretary isn't usually enough to get someone beaten or kidnapped.

None of what I'd discussed with Mrs. Lassiter had been particularly helpful so far. Giving up, I asked, "How are you feeling? I was there at Ravenna that night and I've read the police reports."

Was she pleased to be asked a personal question or did she feel her privacy was about to be invaded? I couldn't tell. Was I presumptive to be asking what a friend might?

"Thank you for asking," she said. "You are very kind."

Is she talking about me?

She went on, "I'm better, just very tired." That sad smile again. She'd responded like I was another human being.

Can't have any of that. Having been pleasant for an instant, I felt encouraged to ask something unpleasant. "Do you have any idea why someone would want to sabotage that evening at Ravenna?"

She changed positions on the couch. Signaling an actual change of persona. Now I was talking to the chairman of the Opera Company's board, and I would get the official line. "None. I'm amazed, appalled that anyone would attack a festival that only exists for the pleasure and edification of the community."

"I suppose that your friend Rusty was very disappointed in the fund-raising aspect of the evening."

"Very upset."

I noted that she didn't deny he was her friend.

Using my previous thoughts on the subject: "I don't have a lot of experience in these matters of construction and renovation. I'm under the impression, though, that some monies are kept in reserve for changes found necessary during the actual work. I know $100 million was raised. Isn't that enough even if the arsons made things a little more expensive? I mean, couldn't corners be cut elsewhere?"

"You don't know Rusty. I'm afraid he is a perfectionist. He's done his professional estimates, and he knows these things down to the penny. I trust him about this and the Board trusts him. He says we need another fund-raiser."

"Where?" Finally, my chance to suggest a wrestling match! Or how about a raffle at a busy airport? A performing clown at a shopping mall, or anywhere where large crowds gather, jostle about, and don't notice bomb-throwing anarchists?

"He wants to have a fundraiser at Orchestra Hall."

If I were the arsonist, my mouth would be watering, or whatever part of the body is involved in wanting to burn things down. By all means, let's burn down Orchestra Hall!

"Is this set up already?"

"No. The Opera Company is going to discuss this, next week, actually the same night as the Partners meeting."

* * * * *

Chapter Twenty-Three

I spend a great deal of time dropping the other shoe. In this case, I needed to drop a shoe on Jonathan. Hear his side of the story.

I wasn't eager. I'd been fed a lot of negatives about Jonathan. Was this a fair assessment of him? I hadn't felt all that negatively about Jonathan that time I talked to him with his sister at the precinct, when Jayne's husband was arrested on suspicion of killing their father. Jonathan seemed like a detail oriented man who wanted to know the truth. A good son.

I called for an appointment. When that didn't work—-because Mr. Lassiter was in conference the whole day, week and forever, according to his secretary—-I just showed up at the law firm and invoked my right as a police officer to gain any person's attention at any time. Because what I was doing was a matter of life and death and more important than anyone's convenience.

Jonathan was not pleased to see me. I must have represented to him the other part of the world, the unpleasant. I could see, as I entered his office that he was a little red faced, pissed off, that I'd insisted on seeing him.

While I approached his desk, Jonathan dismissed a young man standing there, with a few curt orders to continue what he was doing. I wondered if this was the Errant Boyfriend. I didn't get a particularly good look at him or get an impression, except that he rolled his eyes at me after he turned away from Jonathan and aimed at the door. Was he hoping to find an ally against the martinet?

"I can't imagine what is so important that you have to interrupt my day," Jonathan said. There was that accent I'd been thinking about. The one used in luxury car commercials. Ah, there, Vanek, I said to myself, give the man the benefit of the doubt. Being rich isn't a sin. Sometimes it's a curse.

"I've just talked to your mother and I need to clear up some questions." I hoped he interpreted this as being an order by his mother to help this large, obnoxious man, myself. Because if he did help, he'd again be a good son.

He said nothing, but watched me, reconciled to his fate. He still hadn't invited me to sit.

I continued. "I know you want me to get to the point. So the point is where is your sister?"

He looked startled and may have jumped a fraction. A tightly wound guy, for sure.

He shouldn't have been shocked by my question. His first thought when I tried to make an appointment, should have been that I, too, was looking for his sister. I concluded, he was so wrapped up in himself that others were not important.

"I don't know where Jayne is. I'm worried about her mental stability. She has been making some very . . . aggressive demands for the firm." The word he was looking for was "bitchy."

"Why is that?"

"You'll have to ask her. Sibling rivalry, perhaps?"

Not the clash of opposite world views. Not idealism versus realism? Just, mommy, Jayne is making fun of me. And Jayne would say, Jonathan is making faces at me!

Was their conflict something childish?

Not to him. To him, anyone could see, anyone with any intelligence could see his position was the only one that made any sense. He believed he was the adult in this situation.

"You think that she's in some kind of snit?" I asked.

"That's one word for it. She's acting like a spoiled brat."

Get serious. "Your sister has been beaten up recently and now she's missing. What do you think is going on?"

"She insisted on reopening my father's murder and made waves. She wouldn't shut up about it and someone took offense. Maybe it was you."

I hadn't considered this a possibility because I knew I hadn't beaten up Jayne. I could see it, though. A detective who thinks he's convicted the wrong man wants to reopen the case so he has a family member beaten. I was a suspect and should interrogate myself.

Or was this a not so veiled a threat that he could go to my superiors and complain of harassment?

Jonathan continued. "As for her being missing, she's probably hiding to get more attention. Like she will appear at the last moment and go 'boo!'"

I asked, "Do you think the right man has been convicted in your father's murder?"

"Either him or someone who took orders from him. He didn't hesitate to kill others."

"Do you know anyone who has a grudge against your sister?" I meant, besides himself.

"You mean like a client who is upset she lost the case? You have to understand, most of our clients are corporations. If they lose a case because a jury is sympathetic after an accident caused by the corporation's product, they just take the settlement out of the corporation's reserves. They don't lose sleep over a court decision so long as it doesn't affect their Christmas bonus."

So Jonathan could be a little cynical about the corporations he represents. This didn't sound like a person who was a complete toady. Or maybe that's what he wanted me to think. That he's even more clever and important than his clients.

"Are you looking for your sister?" I asked.

"Yes, we have an investigator for the firm. You know, sits outside of a claimant's house to see if the man actually gets out of his wheelchair when no one is looking." Such a cynic!

"Do I have your permission to talk to him?" I didn't need his permission. I just wanted to give him an opportunity to be cooperative. That would show something. That he wasn't a complete bastard.

"No," he said. "I think talking to me is a sufficient drag on the functioning of this office."

Pleasant and cooperative!

I grew silent. I didn't like Jonathan anymore. I had a totally different second impression

Was he at least nice to his wife? "I've met your wife, Jenessa. I understand she's been taking care of your mother. Does Jenessa have any theories about where Jayne is?"

This really upset him, his face reddened and he frowned mightily. Was I going behind his back to poison the opinions of his wife and to make him look bad? Tattle-telling to his authority figure, substitute mommy?

"Let's leave Jenessa out of this," he said. "She's worried about her sister-in-law and has her hands filled with helping my mother and taking care of Stevie."

Enough from Jonathan, I thought, after receiving so little. I prepared to take my leave. He'd never asked me to sit and my legs were tired. I gave him a curt nod so he would not be in doubt how much I valued his opinion of me.

He didn't say good-bye either. Just let his eyes go down to his work on the desk, as if he'd succeeded in swatting a pesky fly and could now go back to his important business.

Inside the offices of the firm, I decided to wander, both to get an impression and to find the law clerk who might be the Errant Boyfriend.

Around one corner, I found Anne Marie at a computer terminal. She was first startled to see me out of context and then pleased. She looked around to make sure we wouldn't be overheard.

"Oh, hi, you're the last person I expected to see today."

"But a pleasant surprise?"

She laughed. I was much more successful in elevating the mood with Anne Marie than I'd been with Angry Brother.

"What's up?" she asked. "Have you found Jayne? That's all we've been talking about."

"What's the gossip?"

Eyes narrowing conspiratorially. "We all think she's hiding because she's afraid someone will stop her from speaking at the partner meeting."

"You mean physically stop her? Beat her up?"

"No, well, yes. That too. I think she's afraid that she'll be served with some kind of papers, an injunction or something to stop the meeting."

I'd need to consult a lawyer to find out if this was possible, under the sacrosanct imprimatur of the firm's by-laws. "Off topic. Is your boyfriend around? I just want to get an impression of him, you know, in connection with you know what?"

I didn't want to be more specific because the walls have ears. I could have been referring to a need for some personal information so I could make a toast at her wedding.

"Yes, I just saw him." She actually blushed. Embarrassed. Had he given her more than a nod, perhaps a caress in a private place? "He went that-away." She pointed.

I said good-bye in a polite and civilized way and went that-away.

I found the law clerk who'd been in Jonathan's office refilling a copy machine with a whole ream.

"Are you Anne Marie's friend?" I asked.

"Yes." He didn't want to talk about that. He was apparently still too amazed I had the nerve to walk in on Jonathan. "Mr. Lassiter was none too pleased we were interrupted by you."

"Tough." I showed him my badge.

His eyebrows went up. "I'm Ethan."

No effort to shake my hand.

What was the right question to ask? Why do you wander out at midnight from the cozy warm bed of Anne Marie? That was really none of my business, of course. Nevertheless, I needed to fulfill a promise. "You and Anne Marie are getting married?"

Startled by a personal question. "Yes, are you friends with Anne Marie? She's never mentioned she knows a police detective."

"I interviewed her on a recent case, before she joined the law firm."

Now he was really suspicious. I sensed my opportunity to catch him in a voluble mood had passed.

Maybe Elliot would have more luck.

* * * * *

Chapter Twenty-Four

"We're going to open Rog Kalatchi's rental locker. Do you want to come, along?" Villareal asked.

"Yeah, come on" Polachek said. "You seem interested in the case, and we'll stop and get donuts."

How could I resist? I looked over to Vejr to see if he wanted to join us. He held up some paperwork he needed to complete and shook his head, no.

The three of us walked down to the precinct's parking lot and piled in.

I felt constricted in the car's back seat. I couldn't demand they put up their seats to accommodate my knees because this was their case and their car and they were being generous, doing me a favor, in taking me with them.

I did my best. At one point, I took a very abused knee out of the well between the front seats and tried to put my troubled joint at an angle on the seat next to me. Unsuccessfully. Anatomically impossible. The parts of people having been designed before modern transportation.

Good to their word, they stopped at a donut shop parking lot. Polachek asked my preference. I said, "Cherry filled."

"What if they don't have cherry-filled?" he asked.

"Then any kind of filled," I said.

We stopped at a microphone disguised as Mr. Wacky Donut. Polachek shouted our order for two dozen mixed and especially cherry-filled.

Advised of the lack of cherry-filled by the teenager's disembodied voice in the box, Polachek shouted that we'd accept any kind of filled.

At the window, the donuts were traded for cash. The box was quickly ripped open.

Polachek handed me two donuts over his shoulder. He didn't hand me a napkin. Apparently fastidiousness wasn't necessary. Crumbs be damned and one's sleeve is good enough to wipe away the viscous fruity liquid that may have once been an actual strawberry.

We resumed our journey, like a caravan that stops at an oasis only long enough to stock up on precious water.

"How do you know about the storage unit?" I asked.

"We found some papers in Rog's desk," Villareal said. Apparently Villareal was on a first name basis with the deceased talent agent.

We drove for a few more minutes, until I saw an orange Storage sign. What has the color orange got to do with storage? Another unsolvable mystery.

Nothing was special about this storage facility, a typical franchise, enclosed, so heated inside. Which meant what? Was there something perishable inside Rog's locker? A comic book collection, perhaps, which, I'd been told by Elliot, needs a constant temperature or the paper disintegrates? Or a butterfly collection?

Perhaps Rog's locker held the remains of the student I was looking for at Emily's request? No, she, Paige, would have stunk by now, even threw the roll-up door. Someone would have noticed.

Unless she was in some kind of airtight container. Do talent agents have access to said containers? Buy them wholesale? Or did the storage company have airtight containers for sale in case a patron wants to hide a dead body?

I didn't see any such for sale, just boxes and packing, as we entered the office and presented our search warrant.

The owner must have opened storage units for the police many times before, because he did not seem concerned in the least by the prospect. Maybe he was bored. Just a big guy with a big stomach who sits all day waiting for people to drag in old furniture for storage or to come back to drag the junk out again.

Ah, there, Vanek, you shouldn't make judgments about this man. Maybe the owner is secretly a genius, I thought, or maybe he has a feasible plan for world peace.

Up on the third level, we found the locker. We'd brought our own lock-snapping pliers, of course, but the owner's pliers were extra large, like him, so we used his.

There was an audible click in protest, as if the insides of the lock felt disrespected.

A moment of excitement and curiosity. There's something about opening a storage unit that's like opening presents at Christmas when you are a kid. What great toy would be inside?

What was really inside would be disappointing, usually. The eager kid pulls off the wrappings and ribbons and discovers only more clothes. Not something he can show to the guys. Not what he wanted.

The gate went up into the mechanism and the light from the corridor flooded in. Polachek took out a flashlight for close work.

What was there was a history of computer memory. A few amputated hard drives, also floppy disks, cassettes from ancient digital movie cameras, CD's, VHS's, DVD's and finally those tab things.

The disks and so on were in some order on a group of shelves at the back of the unit. Rog must have wanted to keep track, for some undoubtedly nefarious reason. We went to these shelves, with each of us looking at a different computer epoch.

I was in the Pleistocene, which was CD's. A marker on each jewel box noted a female name.

Instantly, my sharp detective insight told me a story. These must be recordings of women in states of undress. No need to hide thousands of movies from family vacations. Rog was a pornographer.

I wondered, do people still buy dirty movies, or do they only watch them on the Internet? I didn't see any finished product in garish DVD boxes promising extreme pleasures of the flesh. Maybe Rog just passed the porn to a supplier who gathered them into a "greatest hits", copied them and sold the movies under the counter in third world dives. In countries that didn't have one computer per person.

Satisfied with my findings and unable to view the information encoded, I went through another box which apparently was from Rog's personal life. His high school yearbook, letters. Spirals filled with class notes I was surprised to see so much written material from a man who obviously learned best from visual and audio media.

My father, in my head, said, this guy was a no-good. Didn't he have a father?

Apparently dad thinks that the only reason a son does well in life is because of the example of his father.

He's right. I think so too. Rog's father must also be a mope.

"What now?" Villareal said to Polachek, as if I wasn't there. "We don't have enough space in the car for all this junk. Even if we leave Vanek behind, we still couldn't get all of it in."

"I don't think it's a good idea to leave Vanek behind," Polachek said. "Too tempting. He might try to sell this stuff on the street."

"Call for back-up," I suggested, being the senior man on the job.

A few calls, a half hour, and a police van arrived.

Taking all this crap from one storage locker to another. Finding an eternal resting place in a police warehouse, instead.

Villareal took a few DVD's to examine personally. "I'll log these in," he said, "and then we can take a look at the precinct."

A good plan. With gloved fingers, he put the DVD's gingerly into an evidence bag, as if he wasn't certain whether the evidence or himself would be contaminated.

We went back into the car where I spent endless minutes in excruciating discomfort and agony. Next time, if there was such, I insist on driving and push my seat way back, so I could subject one of them to similar torture.

An hour at my desk, and Polachek reappeared before me. "Come on, we've got a DVD from the storage unit set up for our examination."

Why shouldn't I take a look? Cops aren't immune to salacious entertainments, although otherwise they are selfless heroes and fine examples of virtue.

We walked to a room usually used for training purposes, where an overhead video projector fulfilled its duty onto a screen. Villareal and I sat and Polachek operated a computer with a DVD drive.

On the screen, a bored voice explained to a wide-eyed girl of barely legal age that the owner of the voice had many contacts in the movie industry and that this recording would serve as her audition tape. The girl would be hired, the voice hinted, if she made a good impression, one that showed her talents, and, of course, her attractiveness and enthusiasm.

Rog's face was never shown. He was a disembodied voice and, later, a partial body with a crotch.

Some of these---I have to call them girls because to me they were still children---were smart enough to leave when it became readily apparent what Rog had in mind. Some stayed, though, and these must have been either the most ambitious or the most desperate. One young girl in particular looked like she hadn't eaten recently. I wondered, what was her story.

I suppose that these girls cannot be considered totally innocent. Going to one of these "auditions" must certainly be suggestive of what might, must occur.

That doesn't matter. These girls are victims. What was going on is just plain wrong. An insult to their integrity and humanity, their personhood. A stain on the conscience on all us men.

What did occur, occurred over and over. These surely must be movies taken over a period of time, separate days and weeks, because no male could possibly have performed the sex act this often, no matter how talented Rog might have been.

Was there a DVD somewhere in the evidence locker that had the name of Paige Nicolson black-markered on it? I hoped she was one of the girls smart enough to make a face and run out of the room when Rog suggested revealing all of her assets?

She probably stayed. All I really knew about Paige was that she was desperately ambitious. She'd been contacted by a talent agent, who'd I'd guessed was Rog, the geography and timing being right. She, of her own free will and being an adult in chronological age, entered Rog's office/studio/pleasure pit. Once there, Rog must have suggested to Paige that some calisthenics be recorded, and I don't mean forming a cheerleader pyramid.

Over and over on the DVD, Rog asserted his connection to movie-makers. Did he have any such connections, or, more likely, did he sell some of this stuff on the Internet himself?

Once on the Internet, these clips have an eternal life of their own. Years later, after these girls have responsible jobs like being a teacher, someone, for instance, a male student would see her in action on the screen and send a copy to the school board. The teacher would be fired for doing something really stupid when her brains hadn't completely formed as yet.

Worse, were the girls from good homes forced to pay to get back their visually recorded indiscretions?

Was Paige Nicolson being blackmailed? Did she kill Rog?

If I had a daughter, she would have.

* * * * *

Chapter Twenty-Five

From an article with a headline: "Long-Time Resident Perishes in Fire, Possible Suspect in Recent Arsons."

A person of interest in recent arsons at the Opera House downtown died Monday afternoon in the Lakeview neighborhood when his home caught fire and burnt to the ground.

Craig Mitshuss, 70, a long-time guard for the Opera Company, had been questioned by police investigating the two arson fires in the Opera House earlier this month, which left one person dead and caused "considerable but not devastating damage," according to police reports.

A police spokesmen said Mithuss was one of several employees investigated about the arsons. An army veteran, Mithuss was considered a suspect both because he had dealt with munitions while he was on active duty and because of his apparent resentment that he would soon be involuntarily retired after renovations were completed in the Opera building.

Fire inspectors theorized that Mithuss may have been experimenting with flammable materials in the basement at the time his house caught fire, consuming him and leveling the upper two story residence.

Mithuss' scorched body was a charred mass, according to spokesman for the County Coroner's office. An autopsy will be performed to establish, if possible, how and why Mitshuss was overwhelmed by the fire he may have accidentally set himself.

No other family member was present at the time of the fire. Mithuss' son and one granddaughter also lived in the home. His son was reportedly at work and his granddaughter was at school at the time of the fire.

Mithuss worked nights at the Opera Company building and had done so since retiring from military service. He was known to have many debts, according to his neighbors. In statements to the police, nearby residents said Mithuss' home was heavily mortgaged and might be foreclosed when he stopped working.

Neighbors said they never would have suspected that Mithuss was an arsonist. He often helped them with repairs and was thought to be a fine family man. He was very proud of his military service and had retired as a sergeant.

I also hadn't pegged this man as an arsonist when I visited the opera company building after the fires. I certainly hadn't formed an impression that he was of the homicidal persuasion. Also, if he knew munitions, wouldn't he also know how to protect himself from accidental death?

I wondered why the article only mentioned the two arsons at the building. Why were the police who investigated so sure that Mithuss hadn't also blown up the bathroom at the Ravenna Festival?

Most likely, suburban police investigated only the Ravenna Festival and the Chicago police concentrated on the fires and death in downtown Chicago. As if miscreants are only allowed to miscreate within the investigator's home jurisdiction. As if, the two different police forces needed to find two different suspects.

I arrived in the Lakeview neighborhood, along with Vejr at about 8 p.m. The house was rubble, with an occasional surviving pipe and charred pieces of furniture. Wherever the fire began, it managed to go up to the ceiling and collapse the second floor onto the first.

The house's mostly wooden structure must have burned fast. Mithuss did not report the fire. By the time neighbors noticed, it was too late, according to the fire department report.

I discovered little by walking around the perimeter of the house. Judging by adjacent houses, the home had been an architectural amalgam, Midwestern urban old house. It probably had a screened in front porch and a small back yard. The kind of house that was big enough for several generations after rooms were added on the sides and in back.

I saw radiators, so the house must have had steam heat when constructed. That didn't rule out that the heating system was later converted to something more modern. Maybe, the radiators were left as relics. I saw the remains of air condition units, which were probably from windows on the second floor.

The house next door had a basement that wasn't completely underground, and the Mithuss house appeared similar. Half windows let some light into the lowest level.

Someone could have thrown an incendiary device into the basement. I couldn't rule that out.

Directed by a uniformed cop, I found Mithuss' granddaughter having coffee in a neighbor's home. She looked like she'd taken a shower, had a towel over her head and wore a man's bathrobe that made her look even smaller.

Zoey Mithuss was 18, and a student at the University in Brunswik. She had a pleasant face, was thin and elfin.

Briefly, she didn't know Emily, or, ugh, Ash. She hadn't chosen a major yet, so was examining her options, she said.

I apparently wasn't asking questions fast enough, so she made up her own. "You want to know if I think my grandfather would burn down his own house? No. He loved that house and spent all his spare time keeping it going, like an antique automobile. All of the repairs were done by his own hand."

"Do you think he may have wanted to end his life?" Vejr asked.

"No," she said, "he never ever mentioned suicide. If he read about a suicide in the newspaper he would say the man should have had faith that life could get better."

Another question along these lines and she'd be weeping, so I gave Vejr a glance that said, lay off. Instead I asked, "Did the house have steam heat?" I wanted to know so I could at least find out that much. I hoped to confirm my speculations.

"Grandpa put in a gas unit with a friend who's a heating contractor and refitted the house with vents. We couldn't afford air conditioning yet, so had some old units upstairs. Grandpa left a few radiators because he said he liked them. Reminded him of his parents."

Ha, I'd been right!

Zoey had regained her composure while reminiscing. I still wanted to know more about Mithuss, so I asked, "What was your grandfather like?"

She paused, as if she were being asked to come up with memories for a eulogy. "He was a very solid man. He was very proud of being a veteran. He had a VA pension but it really wasn't enough. We had difficulties with paying the mortgage. My dad works, of course. He's divorced and not a well man. He earns a salary working at a big box store. He gets fired once in a while, or downsized, but always manages to find something."

"How are you able to afford your tuition?" Vejr asked.

"I'm on full scholarship, except for board and living expenses. I commute. I also work in the cafeteria of the student union about eight hours a week."

I asked, "Did your grandfather keep anything around the house, like gasoline?" Besides burning down his house, I wondered if Mithuss carried gasoline into the Ravenna Festival.

"We had a mower," Zoey said, "so he would keep a gallon in the storage hut he'd built behind the house. I know what you're asking. Did he keep anything around, even in the basement, that might be used to set fires? The answer is no, not that I ever saw."

If she was going to interrogate herself, I could just sit back and listen.

"You also want to know if Grandpa was stable emotionally? Well, he was. He was our rock. He was strong enough to work beyond retirement age. I always thought of Grandpa as being extra strong. Even so, his health wasn't what it used to be. He was getting more arthritic. He complained about the night shift sometimes, even though he was so upset that he might lose that job. He wondered what it would be like to have a more normal life. He hated the thought of losing the house to foreclosure. In fact, he talked about also working days, a second job. He thought this would help him make a transition after he lost his job at the Opera Company."

"Was there someone he particularly didn't like at Opera Company," Vejr asked.

"That guy they call Rusty. He thought Rusty was a crook."

"Was he going to do anything about it?" I asked.

"Grandpa wasn't a complainer, and he wasn't good at expressing himself with words. One day when I was emptying the trash, I found a bunch of scrunched up papers. He'd started to write a letter to Mrs. Lassiter, who he liked and respected and who's on the Board of the Opera Company. He'd start, then cross off most of what he'd written, then ball up the paper and throw it away."

"What was the gist of it?" Vejr asked.

"Grandpa didn't believe the estimates for fixing up the old building were correct. He thought Rusty was lying and somehow stealing money. I'm not sure how he would be cheating that way. Grandpa used the word 'skimming.'"

The Chicago way.

"Did he ever send that letter to Mrs. Lassiter?" I asked.

"I don't know. Maybe. Wouldn't something have happened if he did?"

Maybe something did happen.

"Do you think we could talk to your father?" Vejr asked.

"He should be home soon from the store. Look, I'm in trouble here myself. I'm sad about Grandpa but he would have wanted me to carry on and do what is practical. I'm taking some courses this summer. I've lost some class notes and some textbooks in the fire. I've got to arrange for a funeral, tell our relatives, and keep my father calm. Also, I don't know where we can live. Our neighbors will put us up for a while, then we'll need to make some fast decisions"

"Did your grandfather have any insurance on the house?" I asked.

"I think he had some fire insurance, that it was required by the mortgage company. I don't know how this works. If the insurance company thinks it was arson, will they pay?"

* * * * *

Chapter Twenty-Six

A simple multi-faceted, three part question, whereas most questions I try to solve are at least five-faceted: was that letter sent and received, and, if so, was that the reason Mithuss' house was destroyed?

Another facet: My instincts told me the letter was somehow important to several of my investigations, but how? And who might know?

I'd just talked to Mrs. Lassiter and she was still convalescent and upset about Jayne's disappearance. She'd already told me that she believed Rusty's estimates of costs for the building renovations. I decided to make her the source of last recourse.

I could call Rusty.

No, better to leave him out at this point, so I could arrest for embezzlement, arson and murder, and browbeat him later into a confession, if it turns out he is guilty. Besides, I didn't want to warn him of my suspicions and give him time to burn documents and find someone else to blame.

That left the third board member of the Opera Company Board, Edison, who'd been mentioned by Emily as being a favorite of the chorus.

According to Emily, rumors had the widower, Mr. Edison, and the widow, Mrs. Rasmussen romantically linked. I knew that the handsome Mr. Edison saved Janice during the Ravenna mess. Also, Elliot said Edison visited Janice soon after she became convalescent.

Edison probably knew if the Opera Board had been advised of a Mithuss letter.

I called Edison's phone number, which was reverse listed as being an address I knew: a very pricey, very high high-rise condo overlooking Lake Michigan. I interpreted the address digits as indicating a residence on the 88th floor. At that height, skyscrapers are built to sway a little in the wind. I wondered if I would get sea-sick way up there.

I rarely got high anymore, having given up on serious drinking in my youth and only imbibing on special occasions, such as the onset of the Summer Solstice. And on St. Patrick's day. Of necessity, I honored another country's saint because there is no analogous Polish saint of over-imbibing.

There is, of course, the Polish revolutionary war hero, Andrzej Tadeusz Bonawentura Kościuszko (a/k/a Andrew Thaddeus Bonaventure Kościuszko) for whom I will raise a glass. I assumed he drank, because I've never heard different.

Edison's reportedly surly daughter, Marta, answered the phone. She was irritated and irritating from the get-go. I could tell by the asperity in her voice when I identified myself. She didn't have time for Chicago Police, even though they "serve and protect."

"Dad is not home. I'll take a message. I'm expecting an important call, so if you hear some clicks, it's me picking up on the other line. Just assume I've said good-bye."

"Is your father available anywhere else, such as at his office?"

"He said he was going to the Opera Company to talk to the Board secretary and prepare for the meeting next week." I heard clicking and she was gone.

I called the Board's secretary. She sounded hassled and distracted. "Mr. Edison? Yes, he's here but not in my office. He said he'd be walking around the building. He likes to do that. Do you have his cellphone number?"

I did not. The Board Secretary started to tell me, thought better of it and said, "I'm not supposed to give out private numbers to anyone."

"I'm sure that doesn't include the Chicago police," I said.

"I suppose." She was still doubtful. "Please don't say you got this from me."

I agreed. I could be as conspiratorial as the next person who joins in a criminal effort to perform a felonious act. She gave me Edison's number and repeated it twice.

I called and met him at the Opera Company building.

Mr. Edison, Lawrence, was everything I expected and more. Handsome, tall, tanned, square chinned, with a full head of brilliantly white hair. What I didn't expect was that he was a very nice man.

Very cordial, he shook my hand respectfully, like I was a precious commodity, instead of crushing my fingers to show his strength. "Mr. Vanek, I've heard a lot of good things about you."

We sat where I'd found him, in the orchestra pit. We faced each other on metal chairs with little upholstery. Maybe musicians play best when slightly uncomfortable?

Occasionally my elbow would hit a music stand, which would rock back and forth, threatening to topple over. Would it ever be possible to invent a music stand that wasn't top-heavy?

"Thanks," I said, "I'm trying to do my job, the best I can."

"And we on the board appreciate it greatly."

I was surprised. Only rarely on the job do I get courtesy and even some praise. Edison seemed like someone I could be friends with in real life.

He was open and willing to talk about anything. A slightly older man than myself, he had a way of opening people up, drawing people out. I found him oddly fatherly, apologies to my father.

Accepted, my father said in my head.

To go on, Edison was a good listener. He seemed sincerely interested in what I had to say and my life.

From my notes:

Seems like a nice guy. Born rich but made his own way. Went in a totally different direction and distinguished himself. Why he got involved in the opera company: he always wanted to be a musician but sadly had no talent. Likes musicians, loves opera.

Being friendly, Edison asked about my family. No reason to hide them, so I talked at some length. He thought they were great. He sounded a little envious.

Reflecting on his own life, he said, "I had a good time being young. I'm a gregarious guy. I'm sure you've noticed that. I'm pretty sure I dated every available single woman in Chicagoland, as the Tribune likes to call it. I got to know everyone. From the CEO's to the mail clerks. I was a joiner and still am. Every charity, every theater group, every orchestra and chorus. I was having such a good time, I forget to get married until my 40's. That's why my daughter is in her early 20's."

I waited to hear if he would criticize his daughter, because I already had a bad impression of her.

No, Edison was not a complainer and appeared to be a loving father. "She's sometimes a handful, I'll admit. But she's a great girl. A lot like my late wife."

He must have decided I could tell him something useful. "So, you said you were a widower for a long time. How did that go for you?"

"Honestly," I said. "I was lonely. I missed my wife terribly. I missed the peace and order she created. The little things she did to make things special."

Wow, lots of sincerity from me and all at once.

"And eventually, you found another mate?" he asked, prompting. Like my experience was useful and he could follow my lead.

"Yes, someone from the old neighborhood."

Which launched a discussion of the Northwest side of Chicago. He'd owned a factory there at one time, and some of the names I mentioned sounded familiar. We did have a mutual friend in the late alderman and mayoral candidate. Edison was surprised to hear Anton Marchette and I grew up together and were best friends. Of course, he'd met Anton many times and was saddened, he said, when Anton unexpectedly died before the election.

I enjoyed our conversation. Shocking! I guess most felons I talk to on the job aren't conversationalists. In talking to Edison, I should have been paying the police force for my time instead of the other way around.

Remembering I was on duty, I forced myself to find out the information I needed. "Tell me about Mrs. Lassiter. Are you a friend or just an associate?" A hopefully subtle way of asking.

"Much more than an associate. I've loved her for a long, long time. She and her husband, and my wife and I were best friends. Oh, they would go to dinner or a movie with other couples, too, of course, but we four really got along well. I miss Lassiter very much. You know, when old friends go on as long as we did, I think it's because the husband in the one couple secretly loves the wife in the other couple. I mean, when each of the husbands loves the other husband's wife. I don't mean infidelity. I mean love and respect."

I still wasn't sure I understood. "Isn't that kind of awkward?"

"Janice and I wouldn't allow it to become awkward. I loved my wife and she loved her husband. Our families were paramount, and from my side, I would never have done anything to threaten either of the marriages. I was just so pleased with her friendship, so pleased she would listen to me about the problems in my life. She'd call to talk to my wife, and I'd be able to slip in some 'us' time. Her advice strengthened my marriage. I'd tell her about the problems I was having with my daughter and get good advice. I'd tell her about some decision I was insecure about at work, or, for instance, a rival in the business and how to get along with him, and she'd give me good advice."

"What now?" I asked, getting to the point. "Are you two romantically involved now that your respective spouses are gone?"

"Maybe. I don't really think so. Men tend to think that interest from a woman is romantic. Men overestimate and women underestimate. Janice thinks of me as a dear old friend. Someone she loves as a dear old friend. We're probably too similar in any case. Opposites attract. That saying is true. Janice and I both need a mate who is an anchor to reality. We're both too social and up in the air. We'd drive each other crazy."

That topic asked and answered, I went on. What about the Mithuss letter? "I need to know something for my investigation. Did the Board or Janice or you receive a letter from Mr. Mithuss?"

"Tragic. I was so sorry to hear about the fire. I don't believe he killed himself. He was a good man and I enjoyed talking to him. I don't believe he had anything to do with the arsons at the Opera House that led to Statsmeyer's death. Mithuss loved the old building as if he owned it. He spent all his hours at work protecting it. Nothing will convince me he would do anything to hurt the building or anyone in it."

"About a letter?"

"Yes, Janice received the letter as Board chairperson. Accusing Rusty of some kind of malfeasance. Honestly, all kinds of mail comes in from unhappy people. Rusty, I'm convinced, has been nothing but transparent and aboveboard in coming up with his estimates. He doesn't need to embezzle money. He's already rich. He is a friend of the Opera Company, takes responsibility for it and glories in its successes."

"So the Board ignored the letter?"

"Not at all. It was scheduled to be topic one at the meeting on Tuesday. I personally thanked Mithuss for the letter and assured him that if we see anything at all untoward, the rest of the Board will take action. I also told him to call me if he felt any blowback as a whistle blower."

"Was he pleased with your response?"

"Very. He was very much looking forward to the meeting."

Does that sound like a person who wants to kill himself? I decided, no. It sounded more like a person who was about to find out that flames grows more intense with blowback.

* * * * *

Chapter Twenty-Seven

"I think I can help you find Mrs. Walchek. Actually, she's back to calling herself Ms. Jayne Lassiter." This from Anne Marie. She'd called in the morning, before I'd consumed my first dose of caffeine. She must have been alone in the law office and felt she wouldn't be overheard, because attorneys arrive more like mid-morning.

"What have you got?"

"Well, I was sitting having lunch with the girls, when I saw Jayne's administrative assistant, you know, secretary, go by the diner window carrying a briefcase."

"And?"

"I thought to myself, I bet she's going to Jayne with some papers to help in the cup."

"Kew," I corrected. I immediately felt guilty. I shouldn't correct people. I am not the pronunciation police. People are free to pronounce words anyway they choose. That's the essence of democracy.

"Yes, that." she said.

I wondered if two coups would be coup-coups, and if instituted by crazy people, would be coo-coo coup coups?

"So you feel this confirms that Jayne is still in the Chicago area?" I asked.

"Yes, because the secretary, whom I don't particularly like and who has never been very nice to me, was on foot, walking. That meant she was going to one of the downtown hotels or law offices within a few blocks. Because if it were any further, she'd need to take a taxi."

"I see," I said, admiring her logic.

She continued. "I suppose she might walk a little further than usual because taking a taxi, the cost would need to come out of her own pocket. Because she couldn't put in for reimbursement. Because she'd need to put on the expense account statement where she needed to go on law firm business. If that were discovered, Jayne might be found in time to stop the meeting next week."

Believing I'd caught the mistake in her logic, I asked, "Couldn't Jayne just reimburse her when she arrived at this hotel?"

"Possible, but you have to realize, very little money is in the pockets of these lawyers. They have cards and all the modern ways of paying without actually using cash."

She had me there. An attorney, arrogant by definition, wouldn't think of keeping a little cash around to reimburse underlings. Maybe lawyers also worry that their clients will rob them.

Of course, untraceable cash remained the ideal for bribery.

I asked, "Have you any idea where this secretary walked with the briefcase? Could you see her as she went down the street?

"No, that's why I jumped up and told the girls I would pay them back for lunch and followed the secretary, Margaret."

Good thinking, Anne Marie! "Where did she go?"

"The Luxembourger Hotel on Washington."

"Did you go inside to try to hear the room number? For instance, to hear if Margaret asked the clerk to call upstairs?"

"No," she said, "I went inside but she didn't stop at the desk. Margaret just got onto an elevator. I could see the lights above telling where the elevator was, what floor. It stopped several times, so I couldn't be sure which floor she stopped on."

"Thank you for telling me this," I said. "At the least it indicates. . ." I stopped because I didn't want to upset her with any supposition that Jayne might be dead or kidnapped. "Thanks a lot. I'll follow up on this." Changing the subject: "May I ask you a few questions about your boyfriend? For instance, what's his last name, again?"

Fortunately, she couldn't see my embarrassment in not knowing.

Lord, Vanek, I thought, you don't even know his full name? Had she told me and it slipped my mind? No, she'd mumbled it and I got off track and forgot to ask her again.

"Dately."

Meant nothing to me. Didn't even sound Irish. Of course, his family may have changed their name from Daley, so as not to be confused with that dynasty.

No, that would be stupid. Being a Daley was still a plus in Chicago and Cook County. "Maybe I'm not hearing his name right. Could you spell it out?"

She did and it was still Dately.

Her attention must have riveted immediately on her boyfriend. Jayne was of secondary concern. Anne Marie gathered information for me only so I'd find out things for her in return. "Have you found out where he goes at midnight?"

"Not yet," I said. "I'm always working on a timeline. I think you told me Ethan's in his last year as a law student, right? Law school usually takes three years, if the student goes straight through, with summer breaks. Ethan must have joined the firm as a clerk, when?"

"I think he started in his first year at law school."

I wasn't sure what the protocol for law clerks was. It might be unusual to hire a very new law student. He wouldn't even know where the courts were, would have no idea how to file things. That kind of stuff.

Maybe Ethan had some clout, knew somebody who knew somebody, used some pull to get a clerkship with a fancy law firm. A good clerkship can make a legal career. Think law clerk to a Supreme Court Justice.

Maybe Ethan's old man had done old Mr. Lassiter a favor once? Maybe a political connection?

In any case, timewise Mr. Dately, assuming he started in his first year at law school and was presently in his third, was at the firm before the late Mr. Lassiter became late. "Has he ever talked about the deceased Mr. Lassiter? He must have seen him around at least."

"He said he liked him."

That didn't sound right. Old Lassiter was accessible but only about politics and campaigns. For a law clerk in his employ, though, he would have been both legendary and ancient, someone Ethan would want to avoid, lest Lassiter got on his case. If Old Lassiter took any interest in Young Mr. Dately, he most likely owed a favor, a big one, to his father, Older Mr. Dately.

What more could I find out about Ethan? "Is Ethan a friendly guy?" I hadn't really thought so that time I'd talked to him at the law office.

I asked because Ethan could be practicing on his future advocacy style. Some lawyers figure they'll get further by angering people than by being smooth and conciliatory.

Maybe these nasty lawyers are right. Nobody wants a namby-pamby divorce lawyer, for instance. A client in a divorce usually wants a lawyer who will rip out the throat of the opposing lawyer, to spite his ex. As in, no one's going to take advantage of me and this animal I've hired will bite.

On the other hand, mere nastiness has its limits. It sets up a dynamic where the other lawyer tries to outdo the first in nastiness. Compromise must become difficult.

Anne Marie interrupted my reverie. "I wouldn't say Ethan is friendly, exactly. I'd say he can be difficult. Not all the time, just sometimes. He has some strong points of view. He's really good at winning arguments, I'd say. That's a good thing for a lawyer."

This wasn't what I expected to hear from a woman during the engagement and honeymoon period, when the typical marital amateur usually insists her intended is the best of all possible boyfriends and is certainly the best lover.

Later, like all wives, Anne Marie would complain bitterly about the terrible treatment she receives from her dumb, oblivious husband.

"Does he lose his temper?"

Reluctant, I supposed, being unable to see her. "Sometimes."

Uh-oh! "Does he get violent?"

"Heavens, we're talking about Ethan! Do you think he hits me over the head? No. Just sometimes he raises his voice and sounds like a spoiled brat. He knows he has a temper and is immature in some ways and he always apologizes after."

That more or less described me, too. On the other hand, I'd intervened in a number of domestic fights as a uniformed cop and what she was telling me is how abuse starts.

Her turn to ask questions. "What are you doing to find out where Ethan goes?"

"I've got a man outside your apartment at around the time Ethan goes missing at night. He followed Ethan to his car and he drove off. Next time, my man will try to follow in his car."

"Good. It really bothers me not knowing something about the man I love and will marry."

A thought. "Didn't you tell me he had a bad breakup with a former girlfriend?"

"Yes. That's about all I know. He doesn't talk about her much. A few times, he's said he'd been at a restaurant before, and I knew he wasn't going into detail because he must have been there with his ex."

"Do you know her name?"

"No. Maybe. I can't recall at this very moment. I've probably pushed it out of my mind. I try to imagine she never existed. Is it important?" She feared the worse. "Is that where you think he goes, to his old girlfriend?"

Of course, she didn't want this ex to be his destination. That he would leave her warm bed for the warmer bed of another. Besides, his cheating would ruin all her plans.

To reassure her, I said, "It's only one of the possibilities. I'll get back to you about this."

Mollified because she wanted to be, she changed the subject. "What are you going to do about Jayne? I wouldn't want to feel that what I've told you would get her in some kind of trouble."

A little distrust from Anne Marie. Good, she should be a little suspicious of devious old me.

"I'll send someone to the hotel to check it out. Maybe have him sit in the lobby for a while. See who comes and goes."

I meant Elliot, even though I wasn't sure he could work both at midnight and during the day at the hotel. The logistics weren't in my favor. Elliot had to go to school sometimes.

I decided to check out the Luxembourger Hotel, myself.

* * * * *

Chapter Twenty-Eight

"A voyeur, a pornographer, a liar, a creep who took advantage of innocent women, a blackmailer," Villareal said loudly, as I attempted to leave the precinct.

I'd decided to leave Vejr to his marital details. He planned to take Amanda for lunch and decide on the menu for the wedding. More likely, she'd decide, he'd agree.

I was distracted by Villareal and Polachek who were obviously listing the faults of the dead and unlamented Rog Kalachi to a man who was old enough, and probably was, his father. The man was half out of his seat and leaning over Villarreal's desk in his outrage, his face red with anger. He was short and wide like he'd once been a wrestler.

I instinctively wanted to help. In their list of invective, they'd forgotten to mention that Rog was also over-sexed. What was a good word for that? The male equivalent of a nymphomaniac? A male sexmaniac? Satyr? Lech, libertine, Lothario?

"Oh, so, because you dislike my son," the man screamed, "because you do not think he was as good and blameless as yourselves, you think he was not important enough for you to catch and punish his murderer! He was a good son to his mother and me, despite what you say, which I will write down and use against you."

Police learn how to handle this situation.

Either the victim or family member begs for action or else he threatens. In the first case the family member is cooperative and appreciative. In the latter case, the threat is that the policeman will be reported to his supervisors for his lack of enthusiasm in pursuing the investigation.

Neither strategy works.

Any and every policeman is soon burned out on the subject of immediate action. If the case isn't solved in the first quarter hour, the investigation becomes real work, painstakingly hard and time-consuming drudgery.

Thinking about the honeymoon period for wives and husbands, this was the equivalent. There is only a short time between the ideal, sincerely taking the oath to be the best possible policeman, and the real, the realization that no one can do anything but struggle through, trying to find a bit of the truth.

I unintentionally hovered around Polachek's desk a bit too long. He waved me over. Probably wanting me to take a share of the threatened punishment, so it could be divided by three.

"Look here, Mr. Kalachi," Villareal said, gesturing in my direction. "This is Detective Vanek. He's one of the most experienced policemen on the force. A highly decorated police veteran. A man of unparalleled instinct and accomplishment. He's familiar with the case and will tell you how thorough and professional our investigation has been."

I nodded because Mr. Kalachi was making no attempt to shake my rancid hand. "These are good men," I said. "No finer police officers ever pursued a murderer."

Well, except for myself. I refrained from saying that because I didn't want to brag.

Kalachi Senior welcomed the thought of complaining to yet another policeman. "Are you their superior? Haven't others criticized their lack of lack of progress?"

Probably, continuously. I didn't want to answer the second question, so I answered the first. "Yes, I am their superior [unfortunately true], and they are performing in the best traditions of the Chicago Police Department [also unfortunately true]"

The Limburger, I mean, Luxembourger Hotel, is a place for extra privileges and utmost discretion. If one must run away from home, it's the right place to go, not the forest and a sleeping bag. Might as well live in luxury while on the lam.

One of those concierge-VIP places, this hotel is where only the elite and traveling movie stars, the famous and would be famous, stay. Where the privileged can get any imaginable extra, the best security, and room service for anything requested, from caviar to diamonds.

Also, it's about a half-block from the Water Tower on North Michigan Avenue. And within spitting distance of the crisscross girder 100 story John Hancock Center, with its observatory and restaurant at the tippy-top. Also, on the street level, there is the Water Tower Place mall, very upscale or a tourist trap, depending on the attitude of the observer.

Michigan Avenue, itself, running from the Outer Drive to the Michigan Avenue Bridge, is loaded with expensive shops, hotels, and restaurants. It's like the front entrance for the downtown Loop. Subways are constructed underneath, and I'm not sure how much of Michigan Avenue was formerly Lake Michigan before it was filled in.

I was observed when I walked through the door, assisted by a uniformed doorman.

At what point, I wondered, is someone so debilitated or rich that he cannot even open a door for himself?

A man who looked like a cop--dark 3 o'clock shadow with the appropriate shabby suit--approached me almost immediately. He knew me. He'd retired as a cop in his early 40's, after running afoul of internal investigations. He'd eventually been cleared but too late to continue his career in law enforcement.

"Hello, Vanek. Something you need?"

That's the right attitude. "Looking for a woman who has something to hide."

"Don't they all?"

Enough fancy patter, he directed me to the front desk.

The desk clerk was a nervous guy. Even before I talked to him, he acted as if anything he said, incorrect or correct, could trigger off alarms and he'd be carried away to a dungeon.

He was a young man in a dark blue, almost black, company sports jacket with a logo on the breast pocket. I showed my badge and told him I wanted to ask about someone who'd registered at the hotel.

His stock answer: "We try to maintain the privacy of our guests."

Everyone has a word for the people they serve. Lawyers have clients. Teachers have students. Politicians have constituents and taxpayers. Cops have citizens and representatives of neighborhood groups who are voicing their legitimate concern. Sometimes, neo-vigilante hotheads hungering for the blood of an erring policeman.

No, there was no one named Jayne Walchek or Lassiter registered at the hotel, nor had there ever been, he told me.

Did she register under a different name? I tried to describe her. Sex, age, hair color, dressed expensively, lawyerly disposition.

He lowered his voice significantly, so no one would hear, the truth needing to be whispered and lies shouted. "Someone like that checked out just as I came on duty. I don't know if she's who you mean. She wasn't using either of those names. You know, we always ask for a credit card, so people must present their correct names when they check in. If she knows the manager, though, and has some good reason, like escaping from an angry spouse and she also tips enough, the manager will make exceptions."

"Please get the manager for me." I said.

The clerk seemed relieved to pass the buck. He looked around, told the other clerk taking check-ins to cover for him, and went to find the manager.

The manager looked about five years older than the clerk. He had a thin mustache, obviously meant to make him look older and more responsible. This assignment was a plum, I thought, and, if he played his cards right, his next might be in a world capital, like Amsterdam or Athens. Obviously, a young man on his way up to the top.

He didn't quibble or be deceptive, which was a change of pace for me. "Yes, Ms. Lassiter stayed here. She left strict orders not to be disturbed by anyone or even to tell anyone who inquired that she was here. We usually try to honor such requests."

"Was she disturbed?" I asked.

"In what sense?" he asked. A careful man.

"Upset."

He nodded that he understood. "I only saw her when she checked in and I don't know if I'd call her upset. She just wanted to get the formalities done extremely fast. If you mean mentally unbalanced, I don't think so. She did seem to be extremely focused and unsocial. That's all I know. I had no further contact. She never came out of her room to my knowledge. Ordered all her meals from room service."

"Did she want anything else that was special or unusual?" I asked.

"She wanted a business suite with computers and fax machines, which we can easily accommodate. We also have a fully equipped business center on the first floor."

"Did she have any visitors?"

"Hard to say. If someone was told her room number, he wouldn't need to stop at the front desk." Pausing because he hadn't actually answered my question fully, and he wanted be a good citizen. "I can tell you that one of our clerks politely turned away a man who came in the next day after Mrs. Lassiter checked in. He asked about her, demanded to talk to her. The desk clerk described him as being belligerent. She was sure he'd need security, until the man just walked away."

"There must be surveillance cameras at the front desk," I suggested.

"Sorry, you'll need a subpoena for that," the manager said. "These people pay for their privacy."

Which is where I was stuck. It's not illegal to ask a desk clerk if someone is checked in, even asking obnoxiously. It's not a crime to hide from your brother. What exactly would I tell a judge? That I was nosing around and am curious?

The belligerent askee could have been the law firm investigator, I thought, who I had not met in any case and wouldn't know by sight. Or Jonathan the angry brother, or anyone else somehow involved. Such as Ethan, perhaps sent over to investigate by Jonathan.

Maybe I could do this the old fashioned way and get a description? "Was this man old or young?"

"The clerk described him as forceful and big."

How big would depend on the size of the clerk. "Is the clerk here?"

"Not on this shift. I can give you her name and number. I can call first and tell her to cooperate."

"Please do that. Did Ms. Lassiter leave a forwarding address when she checked out?"

"No."

"Really?"

"Really. There's no legal requirement that a guest provide a forwarding address, is there? She only stayed here for a few days. Perhaps she just went home?"

Nah, that would be too easy.

I couldn't reach the clerk on my cell and when I called her again, she gave me a description that fit every man in the Chicago area, from adolescent to advanced age.

* * * * *

Chapter Twenty-Nine

The best thing about a wake is the booze.

People who come to such things are not called boozers. They are called mourners.

Mourners are people who have brought booze and left it in their cars while the minister mumbles.

After the formalities, mourners go to their cars to collect the liquor and regather in the funeral home's basement or some such, depending on ethnic tradition, to raise a glass in honor of the deceased.

A good time is had by all, except the deceased, who doesn't know and doesn't care. In this case, the casket was closed, there being so little left of Mitchell Statsmeyer, the Opera Company board member who'd perished in the second arson.

He was a widower, twice over. I knew this because his obituary so stated. He had an adult son, who was pretty much comatose from the booze by the second half hour of the wake.

Statsmeyer must have been a friendly guy because there were many willing to drink away an afternoon in his honor. Actually, a fun, social way to pass the time with a built-in list of topics: What a great guy! I loved him like a brother! I was just talking to him last week and, whoops, he's gone!

Wakes for policeman are much more solemn affairs. For one thing, no matter what age the officer was when gunned down, he was too young. He'd inevitably have a widow and children who'd had lost their father. There'd be money to be collected for the funeral and thoughts given to how the widow's pension could be supplemented enough so the children wouldn't end up on the streets. They'd need money for college, too, and somehow it would be raised over time and through the union or through scholarships, set up expressly for that purpose.

Mine own wake, may it occur later rather than sooner, will be a jolly affair, and I'll be happy to attend. I'll make every effort to smile from my casket.

Statsmeyer may have been smiling from within the closed casket. We'd never know. Between the charring of his body and the autopsy incisions, he probably was more surgical suture than sinew and had no muscles left to smile.

Not really being a mourner, since I'd never met the man, I kept quiet and watched.

The only three I knew from my investigation was Janice Lassiter, Edison and Rusty.

I'd noticed that they'd sat together at the actual funeral. The two men had surrounded the lady and were very attentive to her. I could see her tilt her head, first one way and then the other, giving both men a turn to make observations and comments.

At one point, before the minister yammered, all three laughed. The laughable comment came I believe, from Rusty. I wasn't offended by this insult to the solemnity. No reason why people shouldn't have a good time at a funeral.

At the wake, these three hung out together, glasses in hand, in one corner of the room.

My attention was drawn to the only ones really mourning. Statsmeyer's adult son was drunk and sad. His wife, the daughter in law, also seemed inconsolable. She put the soul in inconsolable. Friends came up to them, trying to say something appropriate.

During the actual funeral, the bereaved young couple sat in the front row with their two children. I wondered where their children were, a little boy and an older girl. Apparently, someone thought they shouldn't be attending such an adult event as a wake. Probably they were with a grandmother somewhere off-site. Too bad the little ones had to be exposed to death at such a tender age.

Edison peeled off from the tight little group and, smiling, came over to shake my hand. Noticing both of mine were empty, he said, "Hello. Aren't you drinking?"

I shrugged at the injustice of it all. "I'm still on duty."

Satisfied with that exchange, he asked, "Have they made any progress in finding the arsonist who killed Statsmeyer?"

Which meant Edison still didn't believe the culprit was Security Guard Mithuss. Edison alone had stated his belief that Mithuss could not be the arsonist. He'd also refused to believe Mithuss committed suicide or was overcome while planning an arson.

Answering a question with a question. "What's your theory? Who would want to kill Statsmeyer?"

He swirled his drink to give himself time to think. We were just like two old friends, commiserating in a bar. He was a little tipsy. "Don't know, really. Wrong place, wrong time?"

I'd already used up the "wrong place, wrong time" theory of sudden death on the victim in the washroom at the Ravenna Festival. Two such coincidences strained credibility.

"Perhaps you are right," I said, being agreeable. Might as well push to get some details. "Did Statsmeyer have any reason to be wandering around the Opera House that night?"

Edison laughed. "Statsmeyer was a great guy, liked the ladies very much. He never cheated on his wives while they were alive, I think. In any case, the rumor was that he had a sweetie in the chorus."

First time I'd heard that one. I made a mental note to ask Emily if that was so. I was doubtful. I couldn't offhand understand why lovers would choose an empty opera house at midnight for a tryst when hotels are a lot more convenient and have beds.

Maybe Statsmeyer didn't want to be seen in public with someone? Did that make sense? He was a widower and an adult. He could go to hotels with whomever was willing.

Was the problem on the side of his lady lust? Perhaps she was afraid to be seen with him? That opened up the possibility of a jealous husband or boyfriend. About whom, if he existed, I knew nothing.

Anne Marie's fiancé, Ethan, entered the room. My jaw would have dropped if I didn't have superior facial control.

Ethan gave me a surprised look. He made no attempt to greet me. He went over to talk to his stepbrother and sister-in-law. Was he as disoriented as I was to find the two of us present? What was he doing at the wake? Trying to mix me up?

"Who's that?" I asked Edison. I knew who he was, basically. I wanted to know if he knew.

Edison needed to focus his eyes. The room wasn't brightly lit. Out of respect for who and what? Did death require dimness? One thing was certain. It would be very dark where this body was going.

"That's Ethan, Statsmeyer's stepson, the son of his second wife."

My first thought was, where was Anne Marie? Doesn't a man take his fiancé to his stepfather's wake? Doesn't etiquette so require? Knowing Anne Marie, if she knew of the wake, she would have insisted on attending or been very hurt if excluded. What kind of man hides that information from his beloved?

More proof Ethan wasn't a prince among men.

Also, Ethan's presence reawoke my suspicion that he was hired by the Lassiter law firm because old Mr. Lassiter owed Ethan's father, make that stepfather, a favor.

"Were Statsmeyer and the late Mr. Lassiter friends?"

"Yes," Edison said, "good friends. Golf buddies, and Janice liked Statsmeyer's first and second wives. They were always at Lassiter parties and events."

At least, I was filling in the gaps in Janice's social life, if that was relevant.

"What's the stepson like?"

"Old beyond his years, kind of humorless. Maybe it's because he lost his own father at an early age. I understand that can color an entire life, losing a parent early."

And, I thought, losing one's child early, is even worse.

I saw Rusty wander off to fulfill some social duty across the room and Janice, herself, wandered over to us. She too was a little drunk.

Drinking make some people worse. Releases the stops. The imbiber reveals his true self, which inevitably turns out to be someone to avoid.

Apparently, Janice was one of rare ones who, with drink, become even more human and friendly. "Good afternoon, Vanek," she said. "I didn't expect you to be here. I'm glad you are."

She made an effort to grab my hand. I took hers gently. My big paw over her little, like she was a delicate child. I still couldn't think of one reason I shouldn't like her. She was a sweet person. So rare!

"Thanks, all in a day's work," I said. "My condolences." At least take this opportunity to find out something, Vanek. How to start? "I understand that Mr. Statsmeyer was a member of the Board for the Opera Company?"

She frowned at the thought. "A friend too. One's friends melt down to a precious few as one gets older, I'm afraid."

True. Being last to die must be awful. I had no intention to be the last of my friends to embark on that boat that crosses the River Styx.

I suppose this is a conflict for everyone. Not wanting to die and not wanting to be left behind. Hopefully, if I become so old that all my cohorts and buddies are gone, I'd have dementia and be unaware of my loneliness.

A thought I had: why do we need to be born at various times?

Is that a weird question? Isn't part of the difficulty in getting through life that some are older than you and some younger? The old don't take you seriously, and the young don't understand you.

Wouldn't it be easier if we, for instance, were like seventeen year locust and everyone around us was the same age? We'd all emerge from the earth at the same time. All be classmates, marry, live our lives and then all go to the same bug-heaven at the same time. No confusion, no conflict of generations, no references to songs and movies that no one else understood anymore.

Observing again, I remembered Edison's comment that Ethan had no sense of humor, and realized that, in fact, he seemed to be in a good mood.

"Was Ethan adopted by Statsmeyer?" I asked Janice.

"Yes, I believe he was."

So Ethan probably would inherit from Statsmeyer. No wonder he was so cheerful.

The funeral director or whoever wrote the obituary had the facts half wrong about Statsmeyer's survivors.

Half is a very good percentage. In talking to witnesses so much, I'd realized that people only remember about 10 per cent of what is said or happens.

Remembering more is a curse.

* * * * *

Chapter Thirty

Villareal and Polachek invited me on another field trip. This to the far South suburbs, 28 miles south of the Loop, to visit the angry elder Mr. Kalatchi. They'd decided that they would get more information out of him if his personality were leavened by the presence of his wife. Dragging along their superior, me, might also loosen him from the grip of his animosity.

I drove. I'd insisted. Villareal was in the back seat this time, not struggling nearly as much as I had. He was a good six inches shorter than I, hence probably had much less length in the legs. He sat behind Polachek. My seat was, of course, pushed back to the max.

Our destination was Park Forest, which was a planned community for the returned veterans of World War II. More than 3,000 families settled there by 1950. Honored as an "All American City" in 1954 and shortly thereafter received an award for leadership in racial integration.

Solving that problem, forever.

This led me to think that the elder Mr. Kalatchi, whose ethnic extraction I had not yet guessed, was the son of a veteran and the late, dead younger Mr. Kalatchi, the grandson.

Based upon the "chi" part of their name, I decided that the ancestors of Mr. Kalatchi and son came from somewhere in Eastern Europe. They, most likely, shortened their name from some really unpronounceable one.

In fact, I wondered if the name had previously been Kolatchke, as in the pastry. Perhaps one of their ancestors invented the tasty morsel? Probably not. I didn't think Mr. Kalatchi the elder was of Polish heritage. He would have been a nicer, warmer, better man.

That meant he was from one of the countries not far from Poland. This did not reassure me. Although my family was from Eastern Europe, I'd heard many times from my father that you can't trust a ______, fill in the blank.

Don't blame me for my prejudices, my father said in my head. Every nation looks down on another.

Which reminded me of the time a Japanese fella told me that the Koreans were difficult to deal with, clannish and were always trying to take advantage. Another time, a Korean fella told me the Japanese had these same faults.

Thus it goes, around and around.

Racial characterizations are invidious and get in the way of knowing the real person. I'd decided long ago that if a person is from Chicago or the surrounding area, he is automatically fine and worthy, a great deal better than the residents of other cities. Until, of course, that person becomes a criminal. Then he is worthless.

This took less mental effort. Either a person was a good citizen or a perp.

I observed. The Kalachi home was upscale, big and not so different from mine or a home in Brunswik. It had a lawn, which meant it had someone who cuts the lawn. Maybe it was the late Rog.

We parked on the street and walked up the driveway. I suppose this was because I didn't want my car trapped in front of someone else's. I'm always worried I may need to leave quickly. I didn't know how many lived in the Kalachi residence and didn't want to take the chance a teenager would park behind me on the driveway and block my exit. Also, if I wanted to leave, I didn't want to take the time to politely ask the teen to move his damn car.

Is this a form of claustrophobia? I've never heard it mentioned as such.

Mrs. Kalachi, alone, greeted us nervously but graciously at the door. She must have dressed for the occasion. She even wore a necklace, as if she were going to a party. She was in, I thought, her late 40's, and may have been good looking at some point in her life.

Her voice trembled. "You are the men who will find out who killed our son?" She looked like she would soon cry. She took a deep breath to regain some control.

"Yes," Polachek said. "We need to ask you some questions. Your answers will be very helpful. Your husband has only been somewhat helpful and forthcoming."

Great, I thought, tattletale on Mr. Kalatchi. That will put him a good mood, not.

Mr. Kalatchi himself came up to the door and gave the three of us a scowl. He must have heard Polachek's comment.

He looked like a man making mental notes. His eyes would drop occasionally as he processed the latest insult to his dignity and planned his revenge.

Mrs. Kalatchi led us to their formal living room, where the furniture was too good to actually use. Somewhere in the house was a room where people lived sloppily.

Villareal and Polachek sat on an uncomfortable couch. It had permanent creases, which, to me, meant that it had spent its first 30 years covered by plastic. Now that the kids were grown or almost grown, the couch might survive unshielded.

I sat in a large chair with wooden feet. I decided that if the chair was in danger of collapsing, that Mrs. Kalatchi would ask me to sit somewhere else. After all, I was the supervisor checking on the performance of these horrible men and should not be subjected to the indignity of picking myself off the floor.

Villareal started: "Perhaps it would be best if you just told us about your son." In other words, get the weepy part out of the way.

Mrs. Kalatchi said, haltingly, "He was as fine a son as anyone would ever want."

Nuts, I thought, my son was several light years ahead of Rog in quality.

The opposing counsel in my brain, said, a pornographer and black-mailer versus an adulterer?

Yes, my son had committed adultery. No, there was no excuse for it. He hurt his wife and family and died for it. Rog, on the other hand, hurt many, many women and died for it.

I didn't plan it, my son said in my head. It just happened. It wasn't deliberate. I did everything I could to hide it from Amanda. I didn't want to hurt her. That wasn't my intention at all. It was like I was someone else.

Tell it to the judge, I thought. That was a little harsh so I added that He has compassion for all.

"Did you know what Rog did for a living?" Polachek asked.

"Yes," Mr. Kalatchi almost snarled. "He was a talent agent. He helped young people start their career in movies and shows. He got many contracts for television commercials. He was a good and productive member of society."

"You did or didn't know he filmed pornography and lied to the women he recorded?" Villareal asked.

"None of those women were underage," Mr. Kalatchi said. "Each of them knew exactly what they were doing. He was upfront with them, he told us. If they wanted to start their career, this is what they needed to do to audition. How is this different from any of the stars who perform in the nude?"

Neither the detectives answered that question, nor I. We were the ones asking questions and could safely ignore his.

Anyway, to attempt an answer in my head, the sex act isn't usually portrayed so completely and graphically in legitimate films, and no one thinks the actress is exploited. A distinction without a difference? I didn't think so, but I wasn't going to debate with this hothead. He must think the world should make sense.

Mrs. Kalatchi added, "These were not high quality women. Most of them signed waivers about the use of their pictures and videos. The rest didn't care if he used the movies on the Internet, Rog said. He'd ask them to sign a waiver and they'd say it was alright, they didn't want to sign anything. Maybe they couldn't read, anyhow. Dyslexia, you know?"

"Right," Mr. Kalatchi said. "Don't you think if these women, not girls, objected, they would have raised a stink if their pictures were put on the Internet? They had boyfriends, fathers. Rog would have been attacked and beaten by these people if they didn't like what Rog did on his webpage."

Yes and no.

I wondered what, for instance, were the chances that one of these girls even knew they were being exhibited on demand? If their names weren't used, and I was sure they weren't, how would they find their image among what I assumed was the massive amount of pornography available to anyone with a computer and a browser?

Even so, someone obviously did object, strenuously enough to kill Rog.

Another thing. This was the first I'd heard of a web page. I'd look for it, with Elliot's help. Or not. I didn't want to explain to Debra that I had her son looking at pornography, even if it was to help in an investigation.

"Did Rog live here at home?" Polachek asked.

"Yes," Mrs. Kalatchi said. "You know, it's hard to get started in life, these days. After college, he stayed here. Why not? Everything he wanted was here. I washed his laundry, I cleaned his room, I made his meals. He had his video games. He went out drinking with his friends and spent a lot his money on liquor and . . ."

"That's enough," Mr. Kalatchi said. "He wasn't any different from any of the young people we know."

"Did he pay rent?" Polachek asked.

"He paid rent, enough to pay the mortgage," Mrs. Kalatchi said.

I wondered if, in fact, Rog, the good son, actually supported, was the source of the income for his family and, provided for everything. Business must have been good. No wonder Mr. Kalatchi was so upset. Losing one's meal ticket is hard.

"Did he edit his video's here?" Villareal asked.

I could see in Mr. Kalatchi's eyes that something was going on further back in his brainal area. He was wondering if somehow he and his wife could be charged with criminal conspiracy.

"No," Mr. Kalatchi said. "He must have done all that in his office."

"Did Rog have any brothers or sisters."

"Just one sister," Mrs. Kalatchi said. "She's still a teenager."

My sensibilities began to spin around.

Rog had a mother who took care of his every need. He had a sister who was growing up in a hostile world. How could such a man take advantage of young women? How in the world had he managed to separate what he did from the feelings he must have had for the female relatives in his life? You kiss your mother with the same lips that . . .? I pushed away the thought of what he did so often with those lips.

"Did he have any enemies?" Polachek asked, taking up the usual line of questions.

"I don't know," Mr. Kalatchi said. "Actually, no he didn't or Rog would have said something."

"He never came home bruised, or anything like that," Mrs. Kalatchi said.

Did he ever come home with a guilty conscience?

* * * * *

Chapter Thirty-One

"My video game console is dead," Elliot said.

Where do I send my condolences?

I could see where this was heading. Elliot, for a price, would do what I asked: (1) He'd check for a picture of the missing girl, Paige Nicolson, on all the social sites. In the unlikely event he couldn't find any pictures there, he'd look on the University website to see if it had, to coin a term, a book of faces. (2) He would, without telling his mother, find the Rog Kalatchi website. (3) Using the picture he'd found, if he found it, he would try to find a video of Paige Nicolson on the website. (4) If he found such a video, he would, sparing me the "oohhs" and "aahs," give me a transcript of what was said on that video.

I hoped this would (5) spare me from visiting the website myself and depressing myself and (6) give me some clue where Paige was hiding.

"And then (7)," Elliot said, "you'll give me the money to buy a new video game console."

Wasn't watching all the naked ladies enough incentive?

Or was I wrong about that? Maybe female nudity wasn't what interested Elliot? He hadn't really been very successful with girls.

Nah, he slobbered over women the same as any other heterosexual guy.

I reluctantly agreed about paying for the video system. Because I would end up paying for it, one way or another.

It was Sunday night. I told him I wanted the information by later Sunday night.

Not wishing to waste the rest of the night in rest and contemplation, I drove to Janice Lassiter's condo building and, with my car parked in front of the entry gate, engaged in conversation with the security guard, Roberto.

He became tired of bending to talk to me through the driver's side window and sat next to me in my car. Fortunately, no one else chose to enter the building's parking lot while we conversed.

Roberto was young, early 20's, an efficient and conscientious Latino. He was amused to find out that I was the stepfather who'd sent Elliot to watch his parking lot.

"Has anyone been around asking about Jayne Lassiter?" I asked.

"Yes, earlier this evening. Said he was Jack Sprat. Ha-ha! Said he worked for Ms. Lassiter's law firm and was trying to give her some paperwork to sign. I played dumb and wouldn't tell him if she was upstairs or not. Ms. Jayne Lassiter gave me strict orders not to tell anyone she was there."

Of course, I thought, you've just confirmed to me, a complete stranger, that Jayne is upstairs.

He went on: "I told him it was too late to call upstairs. It was already about 10:45. He was annoyed but said it was fine, he would come back the first thing in the morning."

"Are there any surveillance tapes I could check to get a look at this guy?" I asked.

"Not without a subpoena. The tenants don't want anyone to know their business."

Same problem as at the hotel. What crime was I investigating? No threats had actually been made to Jayne by this mystery guy. An interest in her present whereabouts wasn't illegal, exactly.

The mystery guy could have been the same man who inquired at the hotel. He could be the law firm investigator. He could have been Ethan, sent by Jonathan. He could have been someone hired by anyone. Only, he couldn't be Jonathan, because the guard would have let him in.

"What did he look like?" I asked.

"White, well-dressed. Kind of a chilly individual, a creepy guy. I thought he was capable of being mean. Older than me. Not that much older, though."

Creepy described a lot of people I talk to on a daily basis, including policemen.

"Have you told Jayne yet that she had a visitor?"

"No. I'll tell her if she comes by in the morning or if I see Mrs. Lassiter. Is the daughter in some kind of trouble?"

I nodded.

"I almost forgot," he said. "This guy also asked me for the unit number of Mrs. Lassiter's condo. Which I thought was kind of suspicious if he really was performing some kind of ordinary job at the law firm. I mean, if he was for real, wouldn't he already know the unit number? I thought, maybe he was serving a summons. I wouldn't give him the unit number. I told him that information was private."

"Then what?"

"He pulled out of the driveway and went about his business. I didn't see him on the monitor in the front entrance, so I guess he left the area."

The cat was probably already out of the bag. I guessed the guard had unintentionally revealed all the mystery man needed to know about Jayne's location.

Should I call Janice to warn her that her daughter might be in danger?

No, it was late and she would become upset. I didn't think there was an immediate threat. I could wait until morning.

I asked Roberto to call me if anyone else arrived looking for Jayne or if anything suspicious occurred.

Driving off, I still worried. Who was the mystery man who wanted to know about Jayne?

From my car, I called Anne Marie, hoping to ask the simple question, did your boyfriend go out tonight? I unfortunately woke her and, of necessity, listened as she resumed consciousness. "Where are my glasses? What time is it? Who's calling again?

"Vanek. About midnight. I was just wondering if Ethan is with you."

"Ethan? No, he's not here. I think he went out shortly after I fell sleep. I think he mumbled something about going back to the law office. Maybe you can reach him there, if it's important."

"So he left about what time?" I asked.

"I went to sleep at 9:30. Tomorrow is what day?"

"Monday."

"Yes, I always go to sleep about that time on a night before a workday. So he may have gone out, Ethan, after 10 p.m. Hey, I thought you had someone watching to see where he goes."

"He was busy on a special assignment."

So, I concluded, if Ethan departed from Anne Marie at the time she indicated, he had enough time to go to Mrs. Lassiter's building to quiz the security guard.

Could I locate Jonathan?

If I woke Jonathan from a sound sleep, I thought, he might let down his guard and tell me he'd sent someone to find Jayne

I called the Lassiter home in Brunswik and only succeeded in terrifying Jenessa Lassiter.

"What? Why are you calling? Has something happened to Jonathan? Is it Jayne or Janice?"

"So far as I know, they are all fine," I said.

At least, I'd learned something. Jonathan wasn't home.

"Give me a second to open my eyes," Jenessa said. I was glad she didn't cuss me out for calling. She did want to help. First she voiced her immediate concern: "I hope this call and commotion hasn't awakened Steven. He needs to get some sleep or he can't function tomorrow at school. He has a test and he's been studying all weekend."

So I knew that much, Steven had a test tomorrow.

Maybe the mystery man called Jonathan to tell him he'd located Jayne? "When did you last talk to Jonathan?"

"About 8 o'clock. He was at work and said that he might need to work all night. He's preparing for the partner meeting on Tuesday."

I thought of and then rejected the idea of finding out Jenessa's opinion about the partnership meeting. She would, out of duty, support her husband. She'd keep her opinions to herself, or at least would not air them in public if she supported Jayne's position.

So Jonathan was at his office, was he?

I called the number of the Lassiter law firm. I listened to the recorded message about the hours of the firm.

If I were Jonathan Lassiter and in the law offices so late, would I pick up the phone, wondering if a client was calling in an emergency? I didn't think so. It wasn't that kind of a law firm. Corporate problems can wait until morning, whereas lawyers who represent crooks are available 24 hours a day, at least in theory.

No answer also meant that I still didn't know where Ethan was.

My anxiety about the Lassiters in the condo grew, probably irrationally. Or was I just tired and everything struck me as odd and ominous?

I decided to call Edison and lay out the situation for him.

As an old friend, he knew Janice much better than I ever would. He'd know whether or not Janice would want to be warned about even the smallest possibility of harm to her family. If Edison thought she would, I could blame him about waking her up and avoid any personal responsibility.

The sleepy voice of Edison's daughter asked, "Who is this? Has something bad happened?"

"Vanek. Chicago police. Is your father at home? I want to talk to him,"

"What is this, like curfew enforcement? My father is out. Maybe he's drinking with friends. I don't know. Sunday night is as good a night to go out as any if you are retired and have outlived your spouse."

A little resentment there. Would she prefer that her father was also dead? And why was she giving me an explanation of why someone would be partying at midnight on a Sunday night, if she didn't suspect something was off, odd?

I called Rusty. Because I just wanted to know if he was home and in bed and a threat to no one.

A man answered who wasn't Rusty. He said he was Rusty's aide-de-camp. Confirming that at least one of my people of interest had employees and even co-conspirators.

Is an aide-de-camp what they call a valet or a butler these days?

Where is Rusty? The aide thought that Mr. Rusty was at the Opera House, checking on his estimates for the Board meeting on Tuesday.

Where were all these guys really? At the same party? Why wasn't I invited?

Driving home, I called Elliot on his cell phone for a progress report. I didn't want to disturb his mother, the little ladies, or Amanda by calling the house phone number.

"Do you have any other assignments like this?" he asked.

"I take it you were able to find a picture of Paige Nicolson and are looking at the website. Any luck finding her video?"

"No. Of course, it's hard sometimes to tell if an undressed woman is the same person as a dressed woman."

Right. Women can look dramatically different in a formal portrait than in a cheesecake shot. And just being in different make-up can be a disguise.

Elliot was obviously enjoying himself. "I found videos of girls about her age. You know, in college. Regrettably, I didn't find any of my classmates. That would have really been something."

Not finding a video of Paige might be as significant as finding one, I thought.

If she, for instance, killed Rog—-and I still had no evidence directly implicating her—-would she have done so right after her "audition" was taped?

Not likely. She'd still hope that this all indignity and goosebumps would lead to fame and fortune.

She probably killed him, if she did, after a blackmail attempt. Which might mean Rog was only threatening to make the video public and it wasn't yet online.

Or, another possibility, she removed the video file from Rog's website after killing him. Just because I didn't know how to do that, she might.

"I'm dedicated," Elliot said. "I'm going to stick with this job and watch every video I can. There must be at least a thousand." He paused. "Just a thought. There are instructions how to order the complete recording of some sessions on DVD. I suppose some idiots are still sending in checks or charging for these DVD's on their credit card. Someone should check that?"

A good idea from Elliot. Knowing Villareal and Polachek, though, they must have already checked on Rog's accounts to find out the identity of those purchasing his dismal product.

I was tired. "I'm coming home. Don't stay up all night watching pornography. Tomorrow is a school day."

Is that what a good father would say?

* * * * *

Chapter Thirty-Two

Approaching the precinct Monday morning, I almost couldn't drive down Chicago Avenue. Traffic was bumper to bumper. When I was close enough, I saw what caused the jam. Those odd vans, from network and cable channels that congregate around big news, surrounded the precinct. Men with cameras on their shoulders jostled each other around. Gawkers gathered, pointing.

What was the big deal? Was an Illinois Governor confessing to corruption and turning himself in? Getting it over with now, rather than when he is no longer in office?

From a news bulletin:

A person of interest in the murder of talent agent Rog Kalatchi surrendered to police custody this morning, causing a traffic jam on Chicago Avenue, in the River North neighborhood.

Accompanied by a local broadcaster, the suspect, Paige Nicolson, 19, a student at the University in Brunswik, surrendered to police as newsmen watched.

An estimated 50,000 morning commuters heard the broadcast of Nicolson's surrender, narrated simultaneously by the broadcaster, Pitch Perfect. An estimated 500,000 people in the area and nationwide watched a live video broadcast.

In a formal statement, Perfect, a news reader for WCCM who has a history of aiding those sought by the police, said Ms. Nicolson contacted him out of fear of police brutality and asked that he accompany her to the police precinct headquarters.

Kalatchi, 29, was found dead in his office last week, apparently the victim of violence from one of his clients. A talent agent by profession, Kalatchi is rumored to have dabbled in pornography.

A video taken by Kalatchi of Nicolson was allegedly used in an attempt to extort blackmail payment. It is speculated that the novice actress, or, a boyfriend or relative of Nicolson, murdered Kalatchi.

Kalatchi's parents were unavailable for comment, as were Nicolson's parents. Police officers in charge of the investigation of Kalatchi's murder said they could not comment on an ongoing case.

Perfect, who most recently accompanied alleged mercy killer, Martina Tomita, to the police, voiced sympathy for Nicolson and demanded that press coverage spare her and her family, because of her age.

" _She is an innocent victim," Perfect said, "a victim of a predator who preyed on young women."_

Nicolson denies killing Kalatchi, according to Perfect, and will reveal the murderer's name after plea bargaining. Spokesmen for the State's Attorney's office refused comment.

Nicolson is a theater major. She appeared in several television commercials as a child actor and has performed in small roles at the University's Theater in the Round. Classmates describe her as very talented and beautiful.

The coroner's report, issued last week, indicated that Kalatchi was stabbed through the heart and died instantly. Further details of a possible weapon were not specified in the police report. A police spokesman, who asked not to be identified, indicated the weapon was a knife.

I walked through the crowd, nodding occasionally at newsmen of my acquaintance. Inside, I found Vejr, looking grim and standing at his desk as if he feared the precinct was under attack.

I did not get a glimpse of Ms. Nicolson, who'd apparently been rushed into one of the interrogation rooms in the back of the precinct. Where she was sure to be questioned politely by Vilareal and Polachek, two men who most certainly would not hit a pretty young woman with a rubber hose. She'd never been in any danger of police brutality.

Eventually, I thought, she and Perfect would be joined by her parents, her attorney, and a state's attorney. Newsmen and spectators would hang around in front of the precinct entrance until they grew tired or hungry or needed to go to the bathroom.

I knew I wouldn't get to sit in on the interrogation until things calmed down. Which was fine, because I planned a busy day.

I needed to act immediately. Tomorrow was the partnership meeting of the Lassiter law firm and the meeting of the Opera House board, chaired by Mrs. Lassiter. If someone wanted to stop either of these meetings, he or she needed to take immediate action.

I needed to find the damn IBM Selectric, the maddening ball-revolving letter-press precursor to word processing. It was still kept in storage for use if a form was not online and the blanks needed to be filled manually.

The damn thing was heavy, and I dreaded carrying it for a quarter of a block from storage to my desk. All the dust from its insides flew up in my face and I coughed as I walked. I passed my Lieutenant who, amused, asked how many pounds I could bench press.

I crawled underneath my desk to insert in the three-pronged plug for the antique machine. I touched the machine's on-button, and I heard the dreaded whine of a hidden engine. It probably drew enough power that the Chicago grid flickered.

"What's up?" Vejr asked.

"I'm going to need you to not look at what I'm doing," I said.

He knew enough not to protest. He knew I'd fill him in at the proper time, if ever.

"Fine," he said. "Don't observe that I am addressing thank you notes for shower presents. I'm signing my name, Amanda. This must be what married life is like. There is no masculine or feminine work, only joint work, except I get to do more of it. Most of it."

You haven't the faintest idea what's in store for you, I thought.

The little ball on the Selectric reset itself, eagerly awaiting my push of a key. To set it spinning and jumping to impress letters through a special, expensive ribbon to leave a charming, slightly raised imprint on paper. Where it would look really, really professional and would be, hopefully, untraceable.

I already had on plastic gloves so I'd leave no prints. I experienced some difficulty in grabbing the heavy paper stock I'd saved for, oh, 20 years, if I ever needed it. I awkwardly seized the top sheet. I adjusted the page in the rollers, like my mother fed clothes through a ringer. I was ready to type.

Typing by touch is my only talent. I'd taught myself to type between graduation from grade school and high school. I took a book out of the library that folded so it could be stood on one end, enabling the student to view the suggested practice lessons without fear of the pages flipping back. SSSSSSSSS, the book told me to type. Now try, sssssssss. Imprint the letter on your fingers and in your brain.

I began to write. I referred several times to my notes. I looked up various addresses on my computer station. I checked my spelling before I typed any word I didn't know offhand. I was thankful the Selectric would not check my spelling or distort the meaning of my words by supplying fanciful and embarrassing substitute corrections from hell.

I told myself this work of correspondence did not need to be perfect, unlike the radio broadcaster. In fact, its imperfections would be noted and would add to the veracity. After a false start of a sentence, I put X's over a word that was no longer in the right place. Had I been a legal secretary of the 1970's and 80's, I would have backtracked on the ribbon and used the special white part of the ribbon to cancel the word, so I could go back and type over it. The machine could do that. Amazing, but I didn't want to bother.

Finished, I drew out an envelope with my plasticized fingers and typed a name on it. I did not put on a return address.

"I'm going out for a while," I told Vejr. He just waved at me in acknowledgment of having heard. He was in the middle of a flowery thanks to some woman who'd been smart enough to read the bride's department store list of desired presents and to buy that exact model and brand. Years later Vejr would ask Amanda who gave them the electric can opener and she would actually know. Women can do that.

Only a few of the mobile broadcast trucks were still on the street. Illegally parked, but immune. No policeman would risk being recorded giving them a ticket. Police harassment, you know.

A fine day, I walked briskly. I drew fresh air in my lungs. I appreciated the occasional green spot around trees that poked out from concrete squares.

About five blocks from precinct, I found a carrier delivery service. I found the letter-sized delivery package, which I withdrew from a display with my plastic hands.

I filled out the delivery order in block print. I reversed two of the "S,s" of the name I selected out of the air. I wanted to be thought of as a dyslexic.

The boy behind the desk was about 16 years old. He took my package and weighed it. I didn't want to start a conversation, because I didn't want to be remembered. I paid by cash.

Really not necessary. I didn't think the boy would remember me. Distracted, probably thinking of something important, like whether Emmy Lou would let him put his hands under her blouse.

I walked back to the precinct. I felt energized by the walk.

After a long cup of coffee, a uniformed officer handed me a letter-sized package. "Here, this just came for you."

* * * * *

Chapter Thirty-Three

The letter:

I am the arsonist you are trying to find. I started that fire in the Opera House and the second one that killed that guy, Statsmeyer. I started the fire in the washroom of the Ravenna Festival, killing that old guy whose name I can't even remember (wrong place, wrong time). I set fire to the house of that obnoxious security guard, Mithuss, who, sad to say, didn't escape.

All of them dead, burnt to death, charred I'm sure.

Here is a special treat for you idiots. Tonight at Midnight I will fry one of the following people, listed below. I won't tell you which one because that would be too easy. You won't know where I will strike and that strikes me as funny.

You've been snapping on my heels, Detective Vanek. This will prove what a fool you are, what a stoop, what a joke. Some time I'll burn you too.

I'll be setting a fire at one of these addresses, hoping to kill one of these people."

[On the numbered list]

1. The condo resident of Mrs. Janice Lassiter, on [address].

2. The condo residence of Mr. Charlie Edison, on [address].

3. The Brunswik residence of Mr. Jonathan Lassiter, at [address].

4. The residence of Mr. Phillip "Rusty" Hastings, at [address].

5. The Opera House and maybe the train station behind it.

Lieutenant Elston pushed back on his executive chair. His back had been bothering him, I knew, and a brief twinge crossed his face. Or was it that the letter was a pain in his ass.

Elston was a very smart man who usually talked little face to face, although he could be loquacious on the phone, to use a word I don't get to use too often. Very well connected politically is the Lieutenant named Elston.

He'd called in the brain trust (me, the next most senior detective, the watch commander, the sergeant who knew everything and everybody in the precinct) to read the letter and decide how seriously it should be taken.

"Is this on the level?" the practical sergeant asked. "All these people he named in paragraph one, these people all died?"

"Yes," I said, "the man who died in the Ravenna washroom was named Terrance Toffler."

"Why do you think," the watch commander asked, "this guy is so polite that he calls everyone 'Mr.' or 'Mrs.'? Does he feel inferior to them? Maybe we can find the one person in Illinois who is inferior to all the listed people? Someone they all don't like. Maybe something they all have in common."

"I've met all of them," I said, "and what they have in common is liking music, especially opera."

"Maybe this arsonist's mother played opera music when he was in the womb and he didn't like it?" the next senior detective suggested.

Elston asked, "What do you make of the physical evidence?"

"He must be dyslexic because of the reversed letters on the delivery order," the sergeant said. "I've met a few like that. Instead of 'dog,' they write 'god'. It doesn't mean they are dumb. In fact, some of them go onto be President of the United States. It's just some kind of trick in the wiring of his brain. It does make it harder for them to learn to read. Maybe that's why this guy is angry and wants to burn people?"

"This might be just a crank letter, meant to upset the entire force," the watch commander said. "From somebody who hates cops."

"I think we have to take this seriously," the next most senior detective said. "I mean the guy even wrote down the addresses. He wants to make a fool of Vanek. Like he isn't a fool already." Everyone laughed and I laughed too, to show I was one of the boys.

"Seriously," I said. "If we don't take at least some precautions and it gets out that we had knowledge beforehand, we'll look bad."

"Especially," the sergeant said, "since we're already the focus of insinuations about police brutality. Like we'd beat up a girl who's not even 20."

I wondered at what age it was alright to beat up a girl.

"Getting back to the physical evidence," Lieutenant Elston said, speaking at unusual length, "the letter looks like it was typed with an IBM Selectric"

Uh-oh, I hadn't fooled Elston, and he wanted me to know it. He looked at me but didn't say anything further on that subject. "We must take some action," he continued. "Vanek is right. If this gets out that we knew, we'd be in big trouble. I'll assign everyone possible to evacuate these places named, get help from other precincts, even the suburbs. We're not going to wait until Midnight. We can do an inch by inch search as soon as possible."

He turned to me. His glance said, if this is all a silly hoax, you are up shit's creek. "Do you think that's the right thing to do, Vanek?" he asked.

Pushing my luck, I said, "Yes, I do. And maybe we should tell the FBI about the threat to the train station,"

Time speeded up. Procedures and protocols exist to deal with threats. Revealing these in detail isn't a good idea. Suffice it to say, these included strategic evacuations and heightened security.

No one thought it was necessary to create a panic by emptying an entire condo skyscraper or two. Two floors up and two floors down from the threatened condo was sufficient. Besides, news of a complete evacuation would be on the Internet almost immediately. At least with a limited amount of people to be moved, the chances of the media finding out too quickly could be minimized and, possibly, controlled.

No one, and especially the local FBI, would ever empty a commuter rail station on the basis of a Vanek recommendation. At least more cops would be stationed there and would be watching for anything out of the ordinary.

My cell phone burbled.

The hastily commandeered Officer Smith said, "You might want to see this, Vanek. Just not get too close to it,"

"What"

"There's something incendiary in this guy Edison's building."

Was I a prophet?

Vejr, seeing my jaw drop, asked "What?"

"Nothing." I wanted Vejr involved as little as possible before the wedding in anything life-threatening. Proximity to contraptions that go boom was definitely not a good idea. "It's just a request for me personally at one of the evacuation sites. That they know the complainer is threatening to call a cable news station and he knows me. I've got to go. You stay here and continue to coordinate."

I drove maniacally to Edison's condo building. I parked where a parking space had never been. I found Edison, bemused, leaning against a wall in the lobby, getting a briefing from Officer Smith.

Edison shook my hand. "Busy day, huh?" he asked.

Ignoring that, I asked the logical question, "Where's your daughter?"

Still amused. "I sent her to be with relatives. In Florida, because that's where she choose to go. There's no one else up there in my condo. We do have a cook, who's also a maid. I sent her home."

Smith briefed me. "We were doing an inch by inch, and just to be sure, we went upstairs and found a condo with one of those real estate boxes on a door. You know, the real estate salesman gives you the code for the lock and inside is a key to the door. So potential buyers can visit the property without the salesman being present."

"Did you call to get the combination?" I asked.

"No, we snapped it off the lock and broke through the door." Officer Smith said.

That's one way to do it, I thought. "And?"

"Inside was a device with explosives and a blasting cap connected to a cell phone. The lab boys say the device is probably similar to that one that went off in the washroom at Ravenna."

I was beginning to think I'd planted the bomb, just so people would believe my letter. "The bomb wasn't hidden?" I asked.

"No, in plain sight," Smith said. "I guess whoever left it there didn't believe it would be found before he set it off. The nutty guy would have just called the device at Midnight."

A heavily armored member of the bomb squad came through the vestibule door. He had the incendiary device in his thickly gloved hands.

"Back up," he said through his clear facemask. He was expressionless.

We—Edison, Smith and myself-- backed completely out of the building and out onto the lawn, about 50 yards away. We watched as the brave but clearly insane member of the bomb squad carried the device out of the building.

I imagined myself being patted on the back.

I received a call from Vejr.

I'd never heard him so excited. His voice had risen a few octaves. I couldn't understand what he said the first, second or third time. "Calm down and tell me slower," I ordered.

"Your house is on fire!"

* * * * *

Chapter Thirty-Four

Smith put on the siren.

I did an inventory in my head. It was too early, thank god, for the little ladies to be back from camp. Debra usually arrived even later from the day care center where, in summers, she worked with her future kindergartners. Amanda was at work. Elliot was in summer school.

The question was, was Mrs. Mischevski on the road to fetch the little ladies from camp or at home, cleaning and cooking?

Mrs. Mischevski. Everyone's grandmother. She wasn't all that much older than me, but I thought of her as my grandmother too. She had a way of gathering everyone to her ample bosom for a good, consoling hug.

She loves my family.

Mrs. Mischevski had her own family and loves them too. She had plenty of room in her heart for them and us. The thing was, she only had sons and a grandson. My granddaughters had become the light of her life. She must have gloried in the thought that long after she'd gone to heaven, her little ladies would fold their towels as she'd taught them and sing her Polish lullabies to their own babies.

Why hadn't I asked her more about her background? I always assumed she'd come to this magic land from somewhere else. She had a slight accent that reminded me of my mother's. She must have come over as a child, because, except for the lilt and the way she pronounced some words, she talked pure Chicago.

Always on strict order to call me, the important detective, only in case of a dire emergency, she called me whenever she wanted. Apparently, everything was an emergency if I was the remedy. Such as, Amanda is sad. The girls need new dresses for a party. She is not receiving enough in food allowance to put decent meat on the table. The upstairs window sticks.

Usually, I hated to hear from her, because her voice over the phone meant trouble. The need to take immediate action. Even if I did not think the crisis was anything more than trivial. If it meant a lot to Mrs. Mischevski, I had to take it seriously.

I needed to be informed loudly and repeatedly, she believed. Because men are oblivious. I heard her say that many times. How many times, I don't know because I'm oblivious.

Smith drove his squad car.

Off the expressway, I scanned the sky for black smoke.

I stopped breathing. I saw an ominous cloud over my neighborhood.

The ability to focus on one thing is like a spotlight at the theater. A wonderful trait of our brains.

We made the so-familiar turn onto my street.

I saw changes in a structure I thought was eternal. Parts of the roof were black. I saw flames licking through.

When the fire goes up that high in a house, I knew from experience, it is already hopeless. Even if the fire can be put out the damage is already too great and repair will never be enough. The smell of burnt everything would never be expunged. Might as well tear it down and start over.

The circling lights on a pumper truck hit the house every few moments. Giving it a spectral image. A pulsing house.

The front of the house did not look so bad, I thought. The fire must have started in the back.

That's how I would have done it if I were the arsonist. If you can go to the back yard without being seen or challenged, you can take your time and spread the accelerant. Maybe put gasoline through a window into the basement, like at the Mithuss house.

If you are challenged by a neighbor, you just say that you're from the electric company. That wouldn't make it too suspicious even if the meter had been upgraded into some kind of long-distance sensor. Just say, I'm here to check the wiring. Wiring always needs checking.

A steady stream of water tried to dampen the entire roof. Logistically though, the peaks made this difficult, and the stream really needed to be from both the front and the back. Maybe also from the sides. Couldn't the fire department bring in a snorkel unit? Probably they didn't use one of those rubber-necks for a simple house fire. Needed to be a multi-story.

So many stories in my house. The one I'd shared with my first wife and now Debra. Where I'd brought Michael home from the hospital, that little pink, squish-faced infant. The party after Michael and Amanda returned from their honeymoon. When the shy little ladies came to stay.

I could smell my house, reverting to its carbon origins.

I jumped out of the squad and ran forward.

"Someone drove that car onto the driveway," I heard a fireman say. "Whoever it is, must still be in there,"

"Must be trapped," the other fireman said.

They splintered the front door. Good-bye to the pleasant door that greeted the friendly visitor. Axes in their hands and oxygen tanks on their backs, they rushed inside the house.

My impulse was to follow behind them.

Officer Smith said something and I knew it was "Don't." He grabbed me and put himself between myself and the house. No self-immolation today.

I felt a hand on my shoulder. It was the man down the street who restarted the pilot light on my furnace so we wouldn't freeze one awful winter. Next to me was the woman who cooked me a meal after my first wife's funeral. Another, the young woman next to her mother, was the little girl I'd observed from her infancy, through her first teeth, the first day of kindergarten at the bus stop, her grade school graduation, high school graduation, and college graduation. Here was the man who cleaned off my snowy driveway when I threw out my back. Without asking and never mentioning it again.

I heard another fire engine with a screeching siren, coming from a distance. I wondered if that meant my house was a two or three alarm fire. The number of the alarms had something to do with the number of trucks needed to put out the fire.

Time plays games when you are waiting. Time being the most elastic thing in the universe, apparently. When you are enjoying yourself, time speeds up. When you are waiting for the ax to fall, it takes forever. Only moments passed as I waited to see if the firemen would find Mrs. Mischevski. Which felt like hours.

Was she dead or alive?

How long does it take for a first degree burn to become a third degree burn?

How long does it take once the edges of your hair catch on fire, until the flames engulf your head?

I once got too close to the burst of flame when I started a barbecue and singed some of my hair in front. It didn't just fall out but became a kind of blond, crinkly stuff. I got tired of looking at it and cut it off.

Think about something else.

Who was the arsonist? At this point, who wasn't the arsonist? I only had suspicions, and doubts outweighed suspicions. I should already know enough, at least subconsciously, to know which one.

Why was this happening? All of it. Maybe I should talk to Suzanne about the motive? She was always helpful. Unfortunately, I'd end up talking to her awful husband, Ash, as well.

I thought of that phony letter I'd written so that all involved would survive the arsonist another night. In it, I'd said something like, I'll burn you (meaning me) sometime as well. My subconscious was telling me something and I wasn't listening. Of course, I was a possible victim too. I just didn't hear my own warning.

Out of the door, running, flame and smoke behind her, came the Wagnerian Valkyrie.

Mrs. Mischevski. More like an old bat out of hell. In one arm she carried the priceless family pictures and baby books and the candlesticks from Warsaw. In the other arm she clutched stuffed bears, bunnies and dollies, so the little ladies wouldn't be lonely in their new home.

* * * * *

Chapter Thirty-Five

"I can't tell you," Paige Nicolson said. "All I can tell you is that I complained to my boyfriend, whose name I can't tell you, about being blackmailed, and he went over there and killed Rog Kalatchi. When I found out, I got really scared. I was afraid to go to the police, because my boyfriend said that I'd be charged with murder as an accessory."

Villareal tried to speak. Paige's lawyer, a short, aggressive man with a Three Musketeers Van Dyke, interrupted.

"Before you ask Ms. Nicolson the same questions multiple times, I wish to point out for the record that she is only providing information to you, out of an admirable spirit of cooperation, while the state's attorney gathers his thoughts about immunity from prosecution. Therefore, the usual multiple requests for information, looking for inconsistencies, will not be tolerated. Moreover, after the first round of questioning, we reserve the right to take a break until the afternoon."

The two detectives responded as I would have. They nodded, just acknowledging they'd heard, not agreeing to anything verbally

I was there because Villareal and Polachek let me sit in on the interrogation out of the goodness of their hearts or to share blame and cover their rear ends. Maybe they wanted another witness to their non-brutality.

I didn't think I could add much to the interrogation. I'd slept poorly on a neighbor's couch after the fire. Debra used the other couch in our neighbor's living room. Amanda and the little ladies stayed at Mrs. Mischevski's house. The girls thought they on vacation.

Tonight was the two meetings. The two meetings were tonight. I hoped Paige's interrogation would distract me. Maybe even stimulate some new theories about the arsonist by concentrating on a different case. Sometimes that works.

Paige looked refreshed after a good night's sleep. She didn't need much make-up at her age to look like a movie star. All eyes were drawn to her. Her face told stories without words. Feelings spilled out of every emotive crevice. Surely this girl could embody the dreams of adventure and romance for her generation.

Was she a genius? No.

Paige had brilliant blue eyes, with even darker blue circles around the pupils. What were the odds of such eyes? Not so much among my folk.

Eyes are more important than brains in life, my father said in my head.

"I'm having some difficulty with your story," Villareal said to Paige. A choice of words that recognized the situation.

Here was a beautiful young woman who had already become famous in the eyes of the media. Whereas Villareal might have said to an ordinary perpetrator, "You lie, you bastard," Paige instead got the aforementioned, which was more like an apology. Villareal was sorry. He was at fault because he did not comprehend the awesome celebrity's words sufficiently.

"How do you know your boyfriend was telling the truth about the murder?" Polachek asked.

She lifted her head to look at him. "What do you mean?" See, she wasn't the problem. It was these policemen who didn't know what to ask.

"I mean, did he come back to his apartment after the murder with his hands all bloody?" Polachek asked. "Did he burn his clothes or throw them in the city dump?"

She was amazed at the thought, once it sank in. "No, nothing like that. He just admitted to the murder."

"Did he confess before or after the news of Rog's death became public?" Villareal asked.

She thought about this. "You know, he admitted to the murder after I asked him whether he killed Rog. I was already at his apartment because I couldn't go home and admit the blackmail to my parents. So he must have confessed after Rog's death was reported, otherwise how would I have known to ask?" She thought some more. "Of course he committed the murder. Why would anyone admit to killing someone if it weren't true?

Why, indeed? People falsely admit to murders all the time. What's their motivation? Notoriety, the need for attention, feelings of guilt that must be given voice. Cops are taught not to take voluntary confessions too seriously.

"Maybe," Polachek suggested, "he just liked having you around in his apartment and totally dependent on him. He didn't lock you up, did he?"

"No. I wouldn't have allowed that."

"And," Villareal said, "I suppose he needed a lot of comforting after he did the dirty deed. He needed you close. He'd saved you from being blackmailed and he was your hero. Is that it?"

She shook her head at the thought of being used and servile. "I was grateful, that's all. If Rog put my audition tape on his website and my parents saw that, they would just die. Cease to breathe. Have a stroke. My mother would need to be hospitalized."

"So you stayed in your boyfriend's apartment after the dirty deed," Polachek said," and attended to his every need?" Teasing her.

"Yes, but not like you're hinting. Anyway, he would only come and visit his own apartment late at night. He was living with his current girlfriend. He waited until she was asleep."

I inwardly shook my head. It made no sense. Why would a man kill for his ex-girlfriend?

Maybe his current girlfriend wasn't beautiful enough, too ordinary, too Chicago, and he needed the fantasy of a beautiful lover?

Or maybe Paige was a little young for him and he felt guilty about it. Showing Paige to his family might have incurred his father's wrath and threatened his inheritance.

Unless he removed that threat, too. Removed two impediments to his marriage to Paige.

"Then what?" Polachek asked. "Why did you turn yourself in?"

"I was so lonely, I couldn't stand it anymore. I needed to talk to my friends. I was going to fail all my courses if I didn't get back to school soon. I even missed my parents, if you can believe it."

If we can, I thought.

I drove to Brunswik where Suzanne had moved with her awful husband, Ash, and her two beautiful children. I'd set up an appointment with her at a snack shop near her office. My thought was that informality would be more conducive and sometimes these little spots serve a good hamburger.

I looked forward to seeing her. Suzanne, a wise woman, a psychologist. More mature, certainly more in the here and now than Paige. Remade, I supposed, by the problems of her patients and the responsibilities and burdens of being a mother to her children. Also changed, strengthened, by coping with her idiot husband.

I hoped Suzanne, as she had in the past as a police consultant, could give me some insight into the arsonist. She was often good at pointing out motives.

I got more than I bargained for, when Ash, her ass of a husband, was also with Suzanne when I entered the shop. I almost turned around and walked out. I didn't need more conflict and aggravation. A professor of logic and statistics at the University, Ash gloried in insulting me.

"Hello, shit for brains," he said when he saw me. He did not stand to shake my hand. Instead, he gave me a wave that ended in him thumbing his nose at me. Very mature.

"Hello, you silly excuse for a human being," I replied.

The niceties completed, I sat at the square table, and ordered a cup of coffee from the hovering waitress.

Looking to Ash's side of the table, I saw the equivalent of a fetid swamp where a huge alligator swam. Looking the other way, I saw a heavenly glow, the promise of morning and sunshine.

I addressed myself to angelic Suzanne. "I've got a problem. I'm hiring you for one session to give me some idea what's going on. Any idea will be of immense value and could possibly save a few lives."

Ash: "Every time you screw up, you come around like a wet dog and beg for scraps."

I was a wet dog and, to me, Ash was an alligator, and Suzanne was an angel. I was making progress. Classifying, giving names, is the first step towards enlightenment, a truism I'm sure someone uttered sometime.

"Tell us your problem." Suzanne said, getting right to the point.

"I have an arsonist who's already killed three people in the last few weeks. He may have also killed the County Board member Lassiter as well, but that's a question for another day."

"How do you know all the three were killed by the same man, you dummy?" Ash said.

"Because they were all killed by fire and all had something to do with the city's opera company."

"Can you spell that out so even our children could understand?" Ash asked.

"One died, a member of the Opera Company board of directors, in an arson at the Opera House. One died in a washroom fire at the Ravenna festival during an Opera House fundraiser. One was an employee of the Opera Company. He was killed when fire swept through his home."

"Are you sure that you've linked up these deaths sufficiently?" Suzanne asked. "You know, the biggest mistake is to tie things together that aren't connected in reality, coming up with a narrative that's nothing more than the work of the investigator's imagination. For instance, could any of these deaths have been mere coincidence? Why kill the man in the washroom?"

"Alright I'll grant you that," I said. "I do think the man who died in the washroom was the victim of circumstances. I think, though, that the fire was set to disrupt the fundraiser for the Opera House renovation."

Was I right about this? Had I not thought this through? Who benefited the most from that crisis?

"Tell me more about this renovation," Suzanne said. "Was it also the reason for killing the employee?" Suzanne asked.

I said. "Maybe. The man who was burnt in his house had an objection to the estimates for the renovation."

"I read about that death," Ash said. "Don't they think he could have committed suicide or accidentally died when he was preparing another bomb? That's what the police thought. Could he have also been the one who set off an explosion in the Ravenna washroom?"

"I don't think so," I said. Mithuss, physically, could have been the one who set off the explosive at Ravenna. My instincts just told me different.

I'd rejected the idea that Mithuss accidentally died while making explosives in his home. This conclusion was only on the basis that I believed Mithuss was a good man. Also, that would mean there were two arsonists. Mithuss couldn't have been the one who put the explosive above Edison's home and torched my home. Because, obviously, Mithuss was already dead before those two events.

Two arsonists, three, a thousand?

"Tell us about the first casualty," Suzanne said. "We haven't discussed that. Maybe that could be very helpful. Setting the pattern."

"Statsmeyer. He was a board member of the Opera Company." I said.

"Was he for or against the renovation?" Ash asked.

"For it. Not against it." Actually, I didn't really know and didn't want to admit my ignorance. The minutes from the Board meetings would have told me. Why hadn't I asked to see them? I'd just assumed he was for the renovation, and if he had any objections to it, he would have voiced them to someone I'd interviewed. Maybe Statsmeyer had secret reservations about the project? If so, the secret died with him. Maybe that was the point.

Ash: "Who's in charge of the renovation?"

"Some guy on the Board named Rusty."

"Do you suspect him?" Suzanne asked.

"Yes, of course. He could be trying to cover up some kind of illegality."

"So why haven't you gone after him?" Ash asked.

Suzanne agreed. "Right, some people would kill rather than admit a fraud."

When it got right down to it, I just didn't think Rusty had the balls to kill someone. I was trusting to my instincts again, a bad idea. Also, Rusty would have been acting against his own self-interest to some extent. He should have wanted the renovations to go through without further difficulty. He wouldn't want the books to be examined any more than they'd already been.

That was the whole point of today's Board meeting. It became necessary to meet because of doubts about the financing of the renovation. Rusty wouldn't have wanted damage the Opera House, because it would require more fundraising. He would just have wanted the project finished as soon as possible.

Or was I wrong?

A thought occurred to me that might explain Rusty's motivation. Was it the same as those who falsely admit to murder? "Do you think that Rusty might have been trying to draw attention to himself?" I asked. "Not just that he was covering up a fraud. He wanted people to think about him, take him seriously."

"Maybe," Suzanne. "Whose attention would he want?"

A good point. He was getting plenty of attention from me, negative attention. Also negative attention from the Board.

I still felt I was on the wrong track. It must have shown on my face. Suzanne asked, "Is there something about the case that particularly bothers you? Something you can't explain? Something you've spent a lot of time on and you don't know why?"

"Lots. For instance, I've been trying to figure out why someone set up surveillance cameras around the Lassiter house, after Lassiter was already dead."

"This just gets better and better," Ash said. "I don't believe you've told us nearly enough for us to come up with an independent theory."

What had I left out? I shrugged my shoulders.

"Someone was observing the Lassiter house after the murder," Suzanne prompted. "What does that suggest to you?"

"A continuing interest in the Lassiters." I said.

"Who was interested in the Lassiters?"

"Lassiter's murderer, I assumed. That he was driven by paranoia to continue to observe the Lassiters' coming and going."

"Stalking can be for love or hatred," Suzanne said. "Is there some other information you've unearthed, that you didn't really want to discover? That you come back to over and over even if you don't want to?"

I thought before I answered. "Yes, I keep finding out more and more about Mrs. Lassiter's social life."

* * * * *

Chapter Thirty-Six

Back in the precinct, I was privileged to hear Villareal and Polachek ask Ms. Nicolson to repeat her story.

Her attorney looked like he would jump up and demand a duel at their nerve, chutzpah, temerity, in the face of his demand that they could only ask once.

Getting into the spirit of the confrontation, Paige said, "I told you everything I could the first time."

"Alright, I'll ask different questions," Polachek said. "Let's take a different angle. You're nameless boyfriend must have brought home the knife that was used to kill Rog Kalatchi or hid it somewhere. Do you know where?"

"I never said he killed Rog with a knife. Did I say that? I don't remember staying that."

"She didn't say that," her lawyer agreed.

Paige gave the detectives an I-know –something-you-don't-know smile. "He did stab Rog, only not with a knife."

"How then?" Villareal asked.

"He said he killed Rog by pushing a paper spike—-you know, the pointy metal kind you keep on a desk for loose stuff—-through his heart. It wasn't planned, just my boyfriend was angry and the spike was there."

Both Polachek and Villareal perked up as if they'd been told by their master that it was time to go for a walk and maybe play fetch the ball.

A lot of dog analogies here, because police are determined, dogged in their efforts.

So, her boyfriend really did kill Rog. No one had revealed to the public that Rog was killed with a desk spike through his heart. The only way she could know about the spike would be that she was told by the actual murderer.

Never mind that this meant the homicide was spontaneous and therefore, not premeditated, lowering the charge to manslaughter. That would be for the judge and jury to decide. The main thing was, Paige Nicolson was telling the truth.

I picked up a piece of paper and wrote down a name.

Sometimes, you just know who done it. There's that little leap that comes out of your unconscious, a conclusion that it must be so. Like Einstein thinking his famous formula, without really showing what went into his guess. Not that I'm comparing myself to Einstein.

Well, maybe.

In this case, I thought of midnight visits, a former girlfriend, and a surly lawyer doing bad by Anne Marie.

"Does anyone have an envelope?" I asked.

Just to get this over with, Paige's lawyer searched through his briefcase and found a nearly bent-in-two old envelope. He unfolded it and handed it to me.

I ostentatiously folded the paper with the name on it, placed it in the envelope and sealed it. I signed my name on the envelope.

I said, "I know who killed Rog Kalatchi. I've written down his name and put it into a sealed envelope. If I've written down the correct name---and you'll know after Ms. Nicolson trades the murderer's name for immunity—-I want you two to agree to contribute $500 each to the Policemen's Relief Fund. If I'm wrong, I'll contribute $1000."

"Agreed," they said at the same time.

"Who should keep the envelope safe and untouchable?" Villareal asked, suspiciously.

"I'll put it into evidence and sign it in," I said. "No one will be able to get to it without signing it out.

"Fine," Polachek said.

Some day, long after I am dead, policemen will raise a glass to me and tell this story.

I walked into the board room of the Opera Company with one thought spinning around in my head: no one has the right to endanger my family. I had to act now, before the arsonist tried again to harm the people I love.

I hadn't invited Vejr to come with, because he would soon be family by marriage. My responsibility was to protect him as well.

Think fast, Detective Vanek.

If, I told myself, it turns out that Rusty committed even a small fraud in the Opera House renovation plan, I would immediately arrest him for murder.

Even though I was somewhat conflicted in my thinking. Even though my gut feeling was that Rusty didn't have the intestinal fortitude to kill anyone.

I could only hope I was right about his guilt. Covering up fraud was the only credible motivation for murder I'd found. Suzanne, who I trusted, and even Ash, brilliant but an ass, agreed with me. At least that's what I decided I'd heard from them.

Therefore, I'd brought handcuffs with me. Also my gun, in case I needed to shoot Rusty.

If he was cooperative, I'd say "I arrest you for the murders of" and then I'd give the list of who he'd killed.

I didn't think Rusty would be cooperative. At the least, he was sure to make a scene, loudly protest and hurl verbal abuse. At the worst . . . I didn't know.

I knew I was staking a lot on a little. I would be taking a chance, maybe the biggest in my career. Making a bad arrest would ruin my reputation forever. I'd be known, as my legacy, as the man who arrested a member of the Opera Company Board without any physical evidence connecting him with the murders.

"Remember old Vanek," generations of policemen would say in bars at the end of their shift, "he ruined himself by arresting a man who was obviously innocent. Boy, did that guy raise a stink, from the Governor on down. Vanek's badge was taken away, and his pension was withheld pending an investigation. Publicly humiliated, he died a husk of his former self. Let this be a lesson to us all!"

I sat at one end of the long conference room table and Mrs. Lassiter sat at the other end, as chairperson. I thought she nodded at me and smiled. I smiled back. Maybe this would be the last time I smiled.

The other board members sat around the sides of the table. Edison gave me a wink of recognition. I was afraid if I winked back, someone would think I was peculiar.

Rusty made believe I was not there at all. He hunkered down, hiding behind several large files, filled, no doubt, with receipts and work orders, he would use to defend himself.

I studied him. He seemed nervous. Was it his guilt or my presence?

Motive. Motive. What truly sets a man on an inevitable course to murder? It must start early. I again asked myself why anyone would allow himself to be called Rusty. Was that it, the true reason for all these murders? He hated the name Rusty and wanted to kill everyone for using that name. Maybe, it all went back to being beaten up in a schoolyard.

I tried to use my x-ray vision to see if Rusty was carrying a weapon. Then I remembered, I don't have x-ray vision.

Best case scenario: Rusty would draw a gun and attempt to kill me and the board members. "I had to kill him," I'd tell my Lieutenant. "It was either him or us."

This was a much better outcome than a bad arrest and public humiliation.

"Before we get started," Mrs. Lassiter said, standing, "I wonder if I could beg your indulgence by making an announcement." She really is a charming person, I thought. I like her. What's she going to say? That she's resigning? Nah, why should she? She hadn't done anything wrong. Is she about to tell us that the President of these United States would soon be visiting the Opera House? Maybe.

Edison stood, smiled and joined Mrs. Lassiter at the head of the table. He slipped his hand around her waist. She smiled at him. They were a handsome couple.

Edison spoke, "Janice and I want you all to know that we've decided to marry."

Clapping arose spontaneously from the other Board members. A few "congratulations," and even a "Mazel Tov," was expressed.

I stood too.

I walked up to Edison and said, slipping on the bracelets, "Charles Edison, I arrest you for the murder of Robert Lassiter and for the felony murders of Mitchell Statsmeyer, Terrence Toffler, and Craig Mithuss."

* * * * *

Chapter Thirty-Seven

What follows is the oral confession of Charles Edison. Present are Edison, Detective Vanek, Detective Vejr, and Edison's lawyer, John Marshall:

Vanek's voice, gravelly: Mr. Edison, you've been advised that anything you say can be used in a court of law against you. Is that correct?

Yes.

And your attorney is present to advise you?

Yes.

Are you making this confession of your own free will and without any coercion or promises of leniency?

Yes.

Do you confess to the murder of Robert Lassiter?

Yes.

Would you please put that into a sentence, so it is absolutely clear?

I murdered Robert Lassiter.

Tell us, from what you consider to be the beginning, why you killed Robert Lassiter. In your own words.

I came to love Janice Lassiter. It didn't happen all at once. My late wife and I were social friends of the Lassiters. I slowly fell in love with Janice. Her grace, her kindness.

I had looked all my life for someone who would be my perfect mate. I'd married my wife because, looking back, it was convenient and I'd convinced myself she was right for me.

I was so wrong. When the honeymoon was over, the honeymoon was really over. She made demands on me, my time, and my good humor. I found myself, every day and, worse, every weekend, catering to her every need. I learned to hate her.

She liked nothing about me and criticized me continuously.

My life was filled with regret. Especially because I could see that Robert was enjoying the life I did not lead. He had the perfect wife, Janice, and I had that bitch of mine.

Often Janice's eyes would meet mine when we four went to the opera or other social event as couples. I just knew, could sense, that she wished also to be with me. She loved Lassiter in a way, I'm sure, but realized, understood, believed I would be an even better husband. I was someone she wanted with all her heart. Someone who would fully appreciated her.

It was a blessing when my wife died from cancer, because it opened an opportunity for me to marry my true love. All my senses told me that Janice wanted to be with me, and would have come to me, if only she weren't married to Lassiter.

I made a late night appointment to talk to Lassiter in his home. I told him it was something important that couldn't be said over the phone

He'd always had been friendly to me, although I can't say that a social friend is the same thing as an actual friend. Instead, I hated him. He was an impediment to my happiness, an obstacle.

I came to his home at the appointed time and entered through the back of the house and parking lot, assured by Lassiter that I would not be observed. How foolish of him, typical and arrogant, to create a perfect way for an enemy to approach him unnoticed.

It was a strange conversation. He didn't understand what I was saying or choose not to understand. We talked at cross purposes. He thought I was complimenting him when I praised Janice.

When I told him I loved Janice, he thought I meant that I loved her as a friend.

I became angry at his obtuseness. Obviously, he had no intention of stepping aside for the better man.

I killed him.

I do not feel any guilt about it.

I did make one mistake. I assumed that as soon as Lassiter was out of the way, that Janice would be mine. That she would turn to me in her time of need and realize that I was her heart's true desire.

It did not happen. She sought comfort in others, her family and, worse, Statsmeyer. I had no idea I would have a rival for Janice's affections. I was very angry. I hoped she would come to her senses and come to me. She didn't.

I needed to see Janice every day, to have a taste of that sweetness.

I went by night and set up surveillance cameras around her house. I needed to know when she was at home and when she was out and about. I rankled when Statsmeyer picked her up for some social event. I would see her on camera and be given a tempting taste of her beauty and kindness. Later, I even taught myself how to tap her phone and gloried in her voice.

Tell us about your daughter.

Must I? [Inaudible huddle with his attorney]. My attorney advises that it is best to speak about this, although I do not believe that my daughter understands the consequences of her actions or right from wrong. She is more to be pitied than scorned and should receive mental therapy in a clinical setting. I also reject any notion, which I can see going through your head, Detective, that I directed her actions in any way.

Go on, your daughter?

I learned to my dismay that my daughter has a problem with fire. Oh, she did the customary experimentation with matches that all children do. Quite innocent, in my opinion, like playing doctor. I had no idea the obsession had progressed until that night she set a small fire, really nothing much, in the Opera House.

I was horrified when she admitted to this.

For some reason, she was very focused on the Opera Company and its building. Perhaps, she felt that harming the building would be hurtful or be a punishment to me. As you know, I've spent many years on the Opera Company's Board and love the institution. Maybe she felt I had not given her enough time when she was growing up because I spent, sometimes, several nights a week on Opera Company business. This, I must admit, was mostly to avoid my wife.

I, of course, admonished my daughter about setting the fire at the Opera House.

This led to a lengthy discussion. Unfortunately, in retrospect, I talked too much about how badly I felt about Statsmeyer and Janice. I don't know how we got on this subject, but I'm afraid my daughter came to the conclusion, apparently, that the world would be a better place without Statsmeyer in it. Which was true.

Of course, I was horrified when Statsmeyer's life ended in flame.

For a while, I did not admit to myself my suspicions that my daughter, Marta—- named after my father-in-law Martin, whom I did not like--had taken some kind of action against Statsmeyer, to, in a distorted way, help me.

Vejr: Did you discuss Statsmeyer's death with her?

Not directly. I just told her I would be going to his wake when his body was released by the police.

Vanek: Tell us about the fire at the Ravenna Festival.

If you're asking if my daughter was involved in that, that's absurd.

Vejr: She didn't put an incendiary device in the bathroom, which killed a man and smoked up the pavilion?

No. That was pure happenstance, a matter of coincidence and bad luck. Some other person with a grudge against the Ravenna Festival must have exploded the bathroom. That man who died was simply in the wrong place and at the wrong time.

I did benefit from the fire, only in a sense. I was able to carry Janice out after she fainted from the smoke. She was very grateful. I was her hero. I felt it boosted my chances with her.

Tell us about the arson at Mr. Mithuss' home.

Yes. I received a separate letter from Mr. Mithuss, one not sent to the other Board members. Mithuss seemed to think that writing letters was a good way to voice his suspicions about people. Maybe, he just didn't like the confrontation or maybe he feared reprisals. Anyway, either he saw her, Marta, or he must have guessed that she set the fires at the Opera House. That she had, accidentally I'm sure, or at least inadvertently, killed Statsmeyer.

In any case, Mithuss threatened to go to the police about Marta unless his job was somehow saved after the renovation.

So your daughter knew of the threats of Mr. Mithuss?

Yes. I must have mentioned it in passing.

Did you tell her to burn down Mithuss' home?

Certainly not. I never suggested it.

_Did you tell her_ not _to torch Mr. Mithuss' home?_

I'm sure I did. Yes, now I remember. I forbade her in the sternest way.

How did she learn of Mr. Mithuss' address?

I may have his left his letter on my desktop at home.

Vejr: Did you or your daughter write a letter to Detective Vanek, which threatened to burn down the homes of a number of people named in the letter?

Certainly not. This is a prime example of what I'm getting at. My daughter is not capable of writing such a letter. The language is far too complex for her. Anyway, why would she write something that would so obviously get her into trouble or start the police looking for her? No, someone else, for reasons I do not know or understand, sent that letter.

Vanek: Were you contacted by the police after the letter was received, because your address was in the letter as a possible target for arson?

Yes, as I understand it, I was contacted almost immediately, right after the letter was thought credible. I was ordered, forced, to leave my condo before a certain time in the early evening. This was in the afternoon, and I found it damned inconvenient. I complained to my daughter. I also told her to leave the premises and suggested she go and visit relatives down South.

Vejr: Then what?

I thought she was headed out of town. Apparently, though, she went immediately upstairs and set up some kind of incendiary device.

Vanek: Why would she do that?

Who knows what was going on in her head? Perhaps, she thought the device would be found and would deflect suspicion from me.

[Shuffling noises] Vanek: My superior, Lieutenant Elston has entered the room and will proceed with questioning about the torching of my home. This is being done so that I am not involved personally in any prosecution for that arson. Lt. Elston, will you proceed?

Thank you. (Clearing throat) Did your daughter tell you she wanted to burn down Detective Vanek's house?

Absolutely not. No and no. I'm certain she did not.

Did not what?

Did not tell me.

Do you know how she may have known Detective Vanek's address.

Do I need to do your job? I suppose, if she did burn down his house, she may have followed home one day.

You've said in past statements that you thought she left home to go visit relatives.

That is correct. I believed she was at O'Hare Airport at the time of the fire at Detective Vanek's home. Later we discovered she took a midnight flight through St. Louis. I do not know where she went from there, but, as I understand it, St. Louis is the midpoint for flights to any part of the country. I hope you are able to find my daughter, I should add at this point, so that she can be given the kind of treatment she deserves.

* * * * *

Chapter Thirty-Eight

I dreamt.

I was at Vejr's and Amanda's wedding. We were at church and the priest stood calmly, awaiting the procession. The cathedral-sized church echoed the chatter of guests and participants.

On Amanda's side, were all my relatives. I mean all of them. My father, my son, my grandparents, visiting from the land of the dead. Possibly that very old wrinkled woman, whose back was so severely distorted and stooped from scoliosis, was my great-grandmother. My possible great-grandfather was very tall and looked like he'd bitten into something that tasted bad.

All my relatives back through the centuries were there and some of them were pretty damn skinny. All the Vanek men had gnarled, twisted hands, from years of trying to eke out a living from our little plot of land on the good, green earth.

Michael, my deceased son, cried. These were happy tears, that made me happy, too. He was glad that Amanda found a new husband who loves her and the little ladies.

I was very proud of him.

Jessup, my deceased partner, was there. What a good man he was! As long as he lived and as long as he lives in my memory, I will know that good men do exist even in a world filled with hatred, meanness, and sorrow.

Jessup sat with his wife and children and gave me a nod and a smile, like he had in life.

The little ladies were resplendent flower girls. They beamed in their frilly dresses. They held, with some difficulty, their rose petal baskets, ready for their trip down the aisle. They were old enough and would remember this wedding and talk about it to their children, god willing.

Truck, the mysterious phantom of the city, arrived in a crisp, business suit, looking spiffy and his plus one who was gorgeous. A nod and a smile.

All the guys from the precinct were there. Vilareal and Polachek. They'd brought the money for the Policemen's Relief fund. I was right about who murdered Rog Kalatchi.

Right again, Detective Vanek.

All the officers from all my cases over the years, were there. All the friends I'd made on the force. Even the dead ones, killed in the line of duty.

Oh, let's not get carried away by romanticism. Some of my past co-workers were idiots, but I'd invited them anyway. Incompetent, trigger happy, foolish. I forgave them their human frailties. Even that Agent Madison.

Whole rows filled with the boys who'd befriended me in our youth. Debra's brother was there. I missed him. He was happy for me. Was it him I missed or being young with endless summers?

Who do I spy but Anton Marchette? He of the anglicized Polish name, who was, in life, my best friend. Next to him was his wife, Mayor Angela Marchette, looking a little guilty or did she just dislike the dress she'd picked? Were the closets too small where she was in the afterlife?

Too bad the both of them wasted the brief time we all have between inception and death.

There in the back rows, the victims of murders I hadn't solved. They cried out for justice. Too bad, too late. I was only given a few days to find each of their slayers and I failed.

Ha, there were the murderers I didn't catch. The ones who spend their days congratulating themselves that they evaded punishment. Or are they worried that someday old Vanek will knock on their doors?

What sounded like a heavenly chorus began, their combined voices as close to perfection as possible. The chorus of the Opera Company and Emily, soloist. How nice that they had come to the wedding.

Maybe Janice Lassiter sent them in gratitude. I'd saved her from a marriage with a lunatic. What had failed in her woman's radar about Edison? Women are usually better detectives that me.

The procession began, feet advancing with the rhythm of the wedding march. The little ladies were adorable and cameras snapped to save the moment forever.

Our turn to march, Amanda and I stepped forward.

Amanda insisted that I give her away. She had some distant uncles. She said I was her adopted father. How kind! She'd decided to keep her married name of Vanek, because, she said, she did not want to mix up the girls. Or was it in honor of me? I like the second reason.

Vejr came down the aisle, looking suitably uncomfortable. Of all the people in the world who I could hardly tolerate, Vejr was the least intolerable.

The stupid babies took their vows. They'd never be this young and naïve again. Good for them, well done, savor your happy memories.

My cell phone woke me. It was Elston.

"You're not going to believe this one," he said.

The End

* * * * *

Other books by Leon Shure:

Dr. Adam Karl Mysteries

The Baba Yaga

The Bogeyman

North Shore Mysteries

Fatal Sisters

Presumed Alive, a Kate Wehring Mystery

Deep Lucy, a Kate Wehring and Tommy Mystery

Sport of Death, a Kate Wehring and Tommy Mystery

Cal Hodges Mysteries

The Search for Hanson Sted

Deathbed Confession

River Cruise Murders

City of Brunswik Mysteries

Audition for Murder

Littlemayor

Panic Parade

Coming soon: Crone's Bones, an I.S. Blut Mystery

#Conversationstoppers:

#Conversationstoppers: Puns, _Non Sequiturs_ , and Impossible Scenarios

#Conversationstoppers 2: More Puns, _Non Sequiturs_ , and Impossible Scenarios

#Conversationstoppers 3: Even More Puns, _Non-Sequiturs_ , and Impossible Scenerios

River cruise murders,

A Cal Hodges mystery

Copyright © 2015 by Leon Shure

Chapter One

"My sister married the most despicable, obnoxious, evil, greedy man who ever lived."

Unfortunate, thought Cal Hodges, chief investigator for the law firm of Benson, Benson, and Frawley, but hardly that which requires my services.

Unless she expects me to replace her brother-in-law. Something I cannot do, because I already have a wife and a child. Their picture is right here on my desk, if she cares to look.

"This repellent man, my brother-in-law, forced my sister to commit insurance fraud."

Better, getting closer to a reason to exercise my expertise, he thought.

"I also believe he killed my mother."

Bing! Bing! Bing! You have successfully captured the interest of the chief investigator!

"Actually physically killed her?" he asked. Thinking, maybe her brother-in-law killed her mother with kindness?

His potential client leaned forward, confidentially, and whispered, "Murdered."

When she'd pronounced the dreaded word, she'd wrinkled her face to appropriately express the horror she felt. Cal supposed her future face would be permanently wrinkled, and this expression would be achieved in a much more natural manner.

He remained silent while he studied her present face. She did not seem to mind. Attractive and knew it. Used to being seen, popular, the center of attention. She was pretty, her brunette hair was cut short, and she was somewhere in age between 25 and 30. Older than his sister-in-law--his wife's sister--Taylor, but not by much.

He also noticed she had just a bit of a squint. Was it ill-fitting contacts or summer allergies?

Murder, she'd said. Of what species? Cal could not remember any term for mother-in-law murder. Not matricide, surely, possibly matricide-in-law?

Cal's mother-in-law was long deceased before he met Merle. His wife had a substitute mother, her aunt, called by all the family, Auntie Dear. She was not like a typical mother-in-law because she did not act as if she totally despised him. Deep down, possibly very deep, Auntie Dear loved him. At least it was possible.

Cal looked down at his desk. According to the note provided by Benson, this young lady's name was Kirsten Elison. Why, he wondered, had Benson, Cal's mentor and managing partner of the law firm, sent her to him? To solve the murder? Or to talk her out of trying to solve the murder, because the murder was probably only in her imagination?

Cal reviewed his cursory knowledge of current events and could not remember any recent murder indictments among the ultra-wealthy. For instance, for mercy killing, a not irrational possibility when discussing the death of an elderly person. "Has your brother-in-law been charged with the murder?"

A not so unusual question in Chicago. Any Saturday night in the big city is a fine time to kill someone. Are you looking at me with disdain? You deserve a shot in the brain. Are you an innocent bystander? You shan't be standing by much longer.

"No, he killed her in a manner that did not look like murder."

How did he do that? Did he allow her to die from a disease or old age? Did he ask her to fetch his hat which had blown upon the expressway, and she was hit by a semi? Her mother was thirsty, but her mother is no more, for what she thought was H20 was H2S04.

He could ask his assistant, Edwards, who knew everything, if he'd heard of a recent death of a very wealthy woman.

He assumed wealth because Kirsten was a quintessential resident of Chicago's North Shore, which is, of course, at the southern tip of Lake Michigan. She was fashionably and expensively dressed and would probably look this trim the rest of her life, if she continued to play tennis. Besides, Benson's personal clients were all rich and suffered from problems of being rich, like money.

This woman, Kirsten, what else didn't make sense about her, was inconsistent? What else begged for explanation?

First off, why hadn't her parents named her Kristen, which is the much more common usage? Was it to set her apart? Show she was out of the ordinary, special, unique, one of a kind? Did this daunt her, even overwhelm her with expectations she could never hope to fulfill? Was that the heavy burden she carried, when she wasn't enjoying her pleasant life?

Necessary to speak, he thought, or she'll think I'm daydreaming. "I'm sorry to hear about your mother's death. What was her name, your mother?" He'd need that information for Edwards.

"Jacqueline."

He wrote this down. "And your sister's name?"

"Kristen. Kirsten and Kristen. I know, weird huh? We're both named after Great Uncle Kris."

Like Kris Kringle, Cal thought. A man infrequently seen who brings you presents. Had this uncle bought naming rights, like a company that pays for the right to have its name on a stadium? Is that a thing now?

She continued. "We just call my sister 'Kay.' Like in OK, Oh and Kay. My family calls me 'Oh.'" She spelled out, "O-h."

Should I ask permission to call her Oh? That didn't sound right. Wouldn't it be: Oh, may I call you?

"You can call me Oh," she said, anticipating his question.

He wrote down all the names and nick-names. "And your brother-in-law's name?"

"Ryan Mather Zahn."

Did she hate him because his name wasn't Kristopher, and he didn't bring her presents? "Is Kay your younger or older sister?"

"My younger, and that's why I feel the need to protect her."

"Are you married or single?"

"Single. Engaged."

Now we're getting somewhere, Cal thought. Sisters. Sisters and the younger is married and the older is not. Contrary to the truth universally acknowledged that the homely older sister must marry before the comely younger sister.

That really couldn't apply. Oh, here, wasn't homely at all.

Perhaps this, whatever it was, was really about jealousy? Was Oh jealous of Kay, and was taking it out on the man who'd dared to marry her sister and not herself?

"Your brother-in-law Ryan, who you feel is a bad man? Is he a criminal of some sort, bad reputation, or what?"

"Not at all. He has an excellent reputation. Obviously, no one knows the real Ryan."

No one? Not even his excellent parents? "You have reason to dislike him?" Good question, not quite the same as saying, put up or shut up.

"Yes, besides the murder and theft, he seduced my sister."

Seduced her, did he, the cad, the beast? Again, not right sounding. Seduced and married? The phrase is "seduced and abandoned." Where Cal came from, Florida, the heartless and selfish enticing of a woman to the pleasures of the flesh is not typically followed by nuptials but by invective, backbiting, and paternity suits.

Unless it was a shotgun wedding. "I'm a little confused. Ryan didn't want to marry your sister?"

"No, yes, he wanted to very much and soon you'll know why."

Soon I will be enlightened, he thought. Will it change me? Will I be a better person?

Maybe if I try from another angle, he thought. "This man, Ryan, you say he killed your mother. How?"

"Smothered her."

Smothering, being a rather private act, how did Oh know this? One doesn't invite the neighbors in for tea and a smothering. If Oh was there, at the scene, then she should have been able to stop Ryan before he denied her mother the precious inhalations necessary for the sustaining of life.

Better not to make light of this, he thought. Go here with hesitation and restraint. The departure of the soul is always something to be examined carefully, not a triviality to be taken lightly.

Ending the life of a sick person, for instance, was fraught with social and legal implications, none of which he wanted to discuss with his potential client. He'd better wait and ask Merle, his wonderful attorney wife, about what, legally, it all meant.

To change the subject: "You mentioned insurance fraud. Would you care to tell me more about that?" Let her talk, maybe she'll say something that allows the ultimate determination that she isn't just a crank, pretty or not.

"Yes, upon my mother's death, a priceless diamond-encrusted stickpin was inherited by my sister. Shortly after, this jewelry was stolen, or more likely, secreted away by Ryan. Then he and my sister, Kay—-who has lost her mind out of love for a man not worthy of her and cannot be held responsible—-filed a huge insurance claim. Which was paid. They received a fortune. It's this that most directly brings me to you."

Oh, she also wants me to find the jewel or prove its theft by her brother-in-law. She clearly hasn't thought this through. If I prove a fraud, he thought, Ryan and Kay would be sent to prison.

Maybe he should caution her. Warn her. For instance, tell her, don't ask me to find out something unless you really want to know. A Cal Hodges-revealed truth usually made the truth-seeking person more miserable, not less.

Cal attempted to look wise, but probably just looked like someone trying to look wise. He cradled his fingers and sat back in his chair. "I see," he said. "Now I understand what you have in mind." Which is one of the things he'd say out loud, mostly, when he understood the least.

Maybe he should to clarify the situation a bit? "Let me confirm what you've told me. You want me to show that your brother-in-law killed your mother and that he and your sister stole a priceless object?"

Oh nodded calmly as if she received that question several times a day.

"I'm not sure what you expect me to do next," Cal said. "How should I proceed with my investigation? Are Ryan and Kay willing to talk to a representative from your law firm? You think I can get Ryan to admit he killed your mother? Do you think I can trace this piece of jewelry? Which was what, exactly?"

"Yes and Yes. What he stole was a diamond-encrusted 15th century hairpin."

Not likely that the diamonds were still encrusting in their traditional place, unless the pin had some historic value, worth more if still in one piece. Fifteenth century? That was the 1400's, wasn't it? Edwards would enjoy being asked that.

Oh went on while he cogitated. "The stickpin was owned by the wife of Henry the Seventh, not the Eighth, unfortunately. Marvelously priceless nevertheless."

Used probably, Cal thought, to impale the hearts of pretenders to the throne. The blood of would-be monarchs might still be stuck in its crevices. Not to mention the dandruff of queens, who used the pin for its actual intended purpose of pinning down hair.

Ugh. Did people even wash their hair in those days? Merle was quite particular about her hair, which was one of the things he most liked about her.

"To get back to what I was getting at," he said, "how can I meet the people involved? It's often not a good idea to be introduced to people as the investigator who wants to get them in trouble. People freeze up, become uncooperative, go on guard."

"I see the problem," Oh said. "We are about to embark on a river cruise through Northern Europe and you can join us, anonymously. My father is paying for the whole family to come along. Kay and Ryan, myself, and my new stepmother and stepsister. Also, my fiance."

Fiancés are always afterthoughts, Cal thought after.

A river cruise sounded like fun. Maybe Benson or this lady would be willing to also pay the fare for Merle and Taylor, and his assistant Edwards as well?

"Yes. I see. You want me to come with on your trip. Is that even possible? Is there, for instance, still room on the ship?"

"Yes, the last boat down the river unfortunately carried some germ, and there have been a lot of cancellations for this next trip."

Was it unwise to subject his family to dysentery?

No, but what they don't know won't infect them. He just wouldn't mention the possibility. Merle would really love to get away and Taylor would like the adventure and break from her job.

To introduce the subject of his family coming on the trip, he asked. "Would you mind if I brought my wife, Merle, her sister, Taylor, and my assistant with? It would confirm my identity as just another passenger and they could help in the investigation."

"Of course, no problem. I'll arrange it with Mr. Benson to pay for all of you."

Great!

A less generous thought from Oh: "Is your sister-in-law unpleasant?"

She's probably also worried that Merle is an unfit traveling companion, he thought. She just can't think of a polite way of asking. It's alright to ask about Taylor. People assume you hate your sister in law.

"No, quite nice, really. Her sister, my wife is an attorney with this firm and could help in the investigation."

Wait till Merle hears about this!

