'But he got the shit beaten out of him. And his wife…'
'There's something else that bothered me,' he said. 'His injuries were bad, but not one of them was even close to life-threatening. Broken hand. Collarbone. Nose. Six weeks later, he was all the way back. Every blow Joyce took was to the head. They beat her fucking senseless with a crowbar or something. Her heart stopped three times before the medics stabilized her.'
'You think he wanted her dead?'
'I started out as a crime reporter. And one of the first things cops ask at the scene of a crime is, Who benefits? Whether the home invasion was Birk's idea or not, it left him free and clear of a whole bunch of things. He rose like a phoenix out of those ashes-maybe not as pretty as he'd been, but with shitloads of new cash. He moved himself into his own building, which doesn't cost him a dime, and his only expense is keeping Joyce in a nursing home. Ten, fifteen grand a month max. She used to spend ten times that much without buying a single piece of art.'
'Did you float this idea past the cops?'
'I asked whether the evidence pointed to anything but a crime perpetrated by persons unknown.'
'And?'
'The lead cop on the case looked at me like I was some kind of ghoul for even asking.'
'And that's where it ended?' I asked.
'Let me clue you in on a fact or three about the state of news gathering these days. Circulation is declining every year. Ownership is not happy about said decline. And good investigative journalism is the most expensive kind there is. Sometimes you invest days, weeks, months on something that might not pan out.'
'Fortunately,' I said, 'I have no such constraints.'
'Knock yourself out, m'man.'
'You remember the cop's name?'
'Tom Barnett.'
'Where's he work out of?'
'Bureau of Investigative Services. Detective Division. You planning on talking to him?' he smiled.
'Why not?'
The smile got bigger. 'Be interesting to see if he likes private investigators any better than he likes reporters.'
CHAPTER 30
Once I was checked into my room, I called Jenn and gave her the rundown on my day.
'You think Birk's ears are burning yet?' she asked.
'I'd bet on it. If the site manager didn't call him, Peter Stemko probably did.'
'I'm sorry I missed your act,' Jenn said. 'You being careful?'
'I'm watching my back while hoping he tries something,' I said. 'Because so far we've got nothing to hang him with. But there is something you could check.'
'What?'
'You have good contacts in the art world?'
'I'm gay, Jonah. I can't go to a party without bumping into four gallery owners.'
'Good. Simon Birk's house was looted two years ago.'
'I remember. It was in the package I put together for you.'
I told her what Jericho Hale had said about the convenient timing of the robbery, and his suspicion that Birk might have engineered it himself.
'Jesus. Is there nothing he won't stoop to?'
'For a change,' I said, 'there's no proof.'
'So what can I do?'
'I'm emailing you an article that lists the main items taken. Find out what they would have been worth on the black market. Ask if any have surfaced. I'll speak to the insurance company and see if they had any doubts.'
'I'm on it,' she said. 'So… your friend Avi help you at all?'
'He said he'd make some calls,' I said. 'I'm going there for dinner tonight, so maybe he'll have something for me.'
'It's good you have a friend there.'
'Yes.'
'What's he like?'
'Very different than he was in Israel-much more corporate-but I guess I'm different too.'
'But some things never change,' she said. 'I'm sure you have more in common than you think.'
'We'll see.'
'Anything else?'
'That's it for now. Except…'
'Except what?'
'Maybe you ought to work from home while I'm away.'
'Why? You think more goons might come around?'
'It's possible.'
'And you think I can't take care of myself?'
'Don't take it the wrong way.'
'I'm not supposed to worry about you but you can worry about me? Of all the sexist crap.'
'It has nothing to do with sex, Jenn.'
'Then what?'
I was struggling to find the right way to express what I was feeling-how much she meant to me as a friend and partner-when I heard a loud snort and a peal of laughter and realized I'd been had. 'Gotcha,' she giggled.
'You witch,' I said.
'Guilty,' she said.
'A guy tries to show concern…'
'I'm touched, Jonah.'
'In the head, you're touched.'
'I'm also at home.'
'What?'
'I felt creeped out at the office after what happened. So I forwarded the phones to home and I've been working here all day. In my jammies.'
'And still you give me shit.'
'I was a little bored here.'
'You're toast when I get back,' I said. 'You know that, don't you?'
'So get back in one piece,' she said. 'Then you can give me all the shit you want.' I hailed a cab in front of the hotel, the interior ripe with the smell of curry, and told the Sikh driver I wanted to go to West Montana Street-via the Gold Coast.
I could see his face light up in his mirror at the thought of the higher fare a roundabout trip would bring. 'Of course,' he said.
I gave him the address of Birk's old house on North Astor Street. He took Lake Shore north along Lake Michigan until Division, where he turned left and drove past North Astor to State. 'Astor's a one-way south so I must go around this way,' the driver explained. The houses grew grander in size and more grandiose in design, hundred-year-old mansions in all the styles popular at the turn of the century: Queen Anne, Georgian, Romanesque. The people who built these houses once ran the city: the publisher of the Tribune, the Wrigleys, the mayor, the guys who made money in steel, lumber, real estate and beer. Not many were family homes anymore. Like the mansions that lined the streets of the Annex back home, they were apartments or condos now, or museums or clubs. The biggest of all was the red sandstone home of the Archdiocese of Chicago; the second biggest, the old
