Show of Evil

'So has his wife.' Vail snapped back. 'You're acting pretty damn cavalier for a guy with a murder-one warrant in his pocket and a client on the run.'

'He's not on the run, damn it!'

'You accepted service, Paul. I'm putting out an APB on him.'

'Another four hours, Marty. I'll have him there by noon.'

'Four hours for what, a tutor session? What's it going to be? He was sexually abused by his mother and took it out on his wife, or he was afraid she was going to cut off his dick because he was running around with Poppy Palmer? The Menendez or the Bobbitt defence?'

'Damn you!'

'Get off it, Paul, don't pull that indignant shit on me, I've known you too long. We're going to find him. And Poppy Palmer while we're at it. And the deal's off. He's going to get the needle. Goodbye.'

Vail hung up. He looked at St Claire and Stenner. 'Darby turned rabbit, I can tell. I could hear Rainey sweating over the phone.'

St Claire rubbed his hands together very slowly, stared out the window for a few seconds.

'I want a search warrant for the entire farm,' Stenner said, keeping his eyes on the road. 'We've checked airlines, buses, car rentals, trains. Nothing so far on the stripper.'

'You think he off'd her, don'cha?' asked St Claire. When Stenner nodded grimly, he said, 'Well, it ain't like he's not up to the task.'

'And he thinks he's off the hook,' Stenner said.

'Unless Rainey's got 'im in tow, maybe working' up a new yarn to get by the shot sequence.'

Vail shook his head. 'No, I don't think Rainey's up to anything. He accepted service of the warrant. If he hides Darby, he could be disbarred. The case isn't worth it to him. He's got to be thinking we have more than just the tape and he knows Darby hasn't a sou to his name. You two better get started as soon as you drop me at the airport.'

'Yeah.' St Claire snickered. 'It's almost eight-thirty. Day's half over.'

He was totally bald with a tattoo of a lizard down the middle of his skull, its tongue arched down his forehead. The sleeves of a Hawaiian shirt were rolled up tightly against his machine-tooled biceps, from which other tattoos formed a tapestry of daggers, names, and pierced hearts down to his wrists. His trousers were belted by a braided leather thong tied in a sailor's knot just below his belly button. In place of a toothpick, he had a ten-penny nail tucked in one corner of his mouth while a silver tooth gleamed from the other side. He was checking the stock behind the bar.

At ten in the morning, the bar smelled of stale cigarette smoke, old sweat, and spilled beer. A sliver of sunlight slanted through the front door, revealing an unswept floor littered with cigarette butts, wadded-up paper napkins, and dirt. Stenner held up his ID.

'I'm Major Stenner, Chicago DA's office. This is Lieutenant St Claire.'

'Major. Lieutenant. A lotta weight fer two guys,' the bartender answered with a lopsided grin.

'Is the manager around?'

'Lookin' at him. Mike Targis.'

He held out a melon-sized fist and shook hands as if he was trying to inflict pain on the two cops.

'Yer lookin' fer Poppy, I told you people all I know. She split day before yesterday, didn't even come by, called it in.'

'What time was this?'

'I dunno, lessee… One, maybe, one-fifteen.'

'She have any money coming?'

'Yeah. Three days, three bills.'

'She sneezed off three C's, she was in that big a hurry?'

Targis shrugged. 'Easy come…'

'Does she have a car?' Stenner asked.

'Whaddya think? She pulls down three, four K a month in tips, plus a hundred a day salary. She's my big attraction, gents. A red mustang ragtop, last year's model.'

'Know the tag number?'