get him to say. What’s happening with Morrell?”
My stomach tightened. “He’s off on some hot lead that he didn’t want to reveal on-line.”
“And you’re angry.”
“I’m angry. I’m supposed to weave tapestries while he does God knows what, in God knows whose company.”
The priest gave his wheezy laugh again. “You weave tapestries, my girl? You ain’t the passive waiting type, so don’t sit there feeling sorry for yourself. Get off your tail and get to work. I have to finish my sermon.”
I blushed in embarrassment and stood up. Father Lou saw the flash of pain across my face from my shoulder. I tried to make light of it, but he led me through the church to the school on the far side. Even on a Saturday afternoon, the gym was filled with kids, some shooting baskets, but most working out on boxing dummies. St. Remigio’s routinely won state boxing titles, and every boy in school dreamed of making the team.
Father Lou stopped to correct one boy’s arm position, set another closer to the bag, and warned two others not to bring personal fights into his gym. They all nodded solemnly. Father Lou had the magic touch of believable authority in this world. He might chew out his kids, but he never let them down.
He took me into a small infirmary built off the gym. He handed me a towel to use as an improvised robe and told me to take off my sweatshirt. I sat on a stool with my back to him, draped modestly in the towel, while he ran his hands along my shoulders and upper back. When he found the spot that made me squawk loudest, he rubbed something into it.
“Used this on horses when I was a boy. Got them back between the traces in no time flat.” He gave another of his sudden barks of laughter. “Put some in ajar for you, get someone to rub it in if you can’t reach the spot. Best if you tape it up. Leave that stinking shirt here, take one of ours.”
He handed me an orange and gray St. Remigio’s sweatshirt, faded from much washing, but mercifully clean. When I pulled it on, my trapezius already moved a bit more smoothly.
He escorted me out the back door of the school to my borrowed wheels. “You get in trouble, girl, come back here. No one to look after you but those two dogs and an old man.” He laughed again. “Probably only got six to seven years on Contreras, but I fight regularly and he don’t: INS, city cops, they’re around here all the time. FBI wants to join in, won’t bother me.”
When I put the Jaguar in gear and drove off, my shoulder moved only a little better, but my spirits were easier. The voice of believable authority – it worked on me, too.
CHAPTER 31
While I was still in the clear-I hoped-I went to a place called TechSurround to send Whitby’s pocket organizer to the forensic lab I use. You can do everything at TechSurround, from photocopying to sending mail; I used their computer to type up a letter to the lab, explaining where the wallet had been, said that I wanted to see any papers Whitby might have kept in it, told them to make it a top priority job, and put the whole thing in a bubble-pack envelope.
I was about to stick the envelope into a FedEx packet, but today was Saturday; the lab wouldn’t get it until Monday. I didn’t want to use my cell phone, in case someone was actively tracing me, but the one thing TechSurround lacked was a pay phone. I risked turning on my mobile for a minute to phone the messenger service I use, arranging for a pickup at TechSurround-I planned to be here for a bit, checking messages.
I logged onto one of their computers and looked at both my phone log and my e-mails, which depressed me, since there was nothing from Morrell and a slew of messages from Murray Ryerson. Catherine Bayard had been shot, this was big news in Chicago, he had scooped the city because of me, so I got dinner at the Filigree-especially since DuPage had first tried to pretend she’d been shot by a fleeing Arab-but why the hell hadn’t
I mentioned terrorists? And did I know police from three jurisdictions wanted to talk to me? Make it four, if you counted New Solway’s finest! I sent him back a brief message saying it was nice to be wanted, I knew nothing about terrorists, I’d slept through the day in a motel, and I’d get back to him after all the fine men and women in blue had mauled me. I also typed a quick message to Morrell, shutting my eyes, trying to remember what he looked like, what he sounded like, but gray mist swirled behind my eyes when I said his name. “Morrell, where are you?” I whispered, but I exed that out. “I’ve had twenty-four unusual hours, upside down in a pond and squeezing out through mansion windows. Wherever you are, I hope you’re warm, safe and well fed. I love you.” Maybe.
Before leaving the machine, I pulled up my phone log, which only confirmed what Murray had said: DuPage sheriff Rick Salvi wanted me ASAP, in which he was joined by the Chicago police-which I couldn’t figure out-and Derek Hatfield from the FBI, who would appreciate my calling at my earliest convenience. Behind the bureaucratic formula, I could hear Derek’s baritone rumble with menace.
There were also two messages from Geraldine Graham. I hadn’t expected to hear from her again after Darraugh’s furious phone call, but I should have realized that his mother would want the inside story on what happened last night at her beloved Larchmont. She’d probably watched the helicopters and emergency vehicles from her living room. Darraugh had also called. I would get to the Grahams in due course, but I couldn’t feel excited by yelps from the rich and powerful right now. The only message I was really glad to get was one from Lotty, asking if I was all right and to please call.
As soon as the messenger service took my packet for Cheviot Labs, I got ten dollars in quarters from the cashier, and found a pay phone in a Laundromat up the street.
I didn’t think Benjamin Sadawi merited massive surveillance. I didn’t think I did. But we were living in paranoid times. Everyone in law enforcement was on edge, not just the hormone-crazed youngsters who’d fired at Catherine Bayard last night, but everyone.
My first call was to my lawyer. Just in case worst came to worst, I wanted Freeman Carter to know what was going on with me. To my amazement, I actually found him at home.
“Freeman! I’m glad you’re in-I thought you’d be in Paris or Cancun or whatever your usual weekend spot is these days.”
“Believe me, Vic, when I heard your name on the news, followed by the magic phrase `Arab terrorist,’ I tried to book a seat on the first flight out. Why can’t you get into trouble during normal business hours? And without pulling Homeland Security’s chains?”
“Like a real criminal, you mean? I’m at a pay phone, but even so, I think I should keep this simple. I’ve been out of circulation all day, catching up on my sleep, so I don’t know what DuPage or thefederales will have in store for me when I go home. Under this Patriot Act, if they think I have something they want-whether it’s a runaway kid or a library book-do I have a right to phone counsel before they hustle me away?”
“I’m not sure,” Freeman said, after a pause. “I’ll have to research that. But just in case, leave word with Lotty or your tiresome neighbor to call me if you don’t show up when you’re expected. And for once in your own tiresome, ornery life, Victoria, check in with someone once a day until this blows over. Otherwise, Contreras will be on the phone with me and I’ll be billing new hours to your outstanding balance. Which is not small as it is. Agreed?”
“Copy that, Houston.” Nothing would bring Mr. Contreras more pleasure than to baby-sit me. Few things would bring me less, but Freeman was right. There are days when it’s better to be pliant.
I tried Amy Blount next. When I got her voice mail, I phoned the client at the Drake. Harriet Whitby was in her room.
“When I saw the report on TV this morning, I wondered, well, were you out at Larchmont because of Marc or because of the terrorist?” she asked. Every time someone referred to Benjamin Sadawi as a terrorist, he changed from a scared kid hiding in an attic to a bearded monster in a Yasser Arafat scarf. But if I started saying, no, he’s not a terrorist, he’s just terrified, then I’d have to explain that I’d seen him, and I couldn’t do that. “Your brother’s affairs took me out to Larchmont; I was looking in the pond where he drowned to see if he might have dropped something. He did, in fact: his pocket organizer. I’ve sent it to a lab to dry it out and extract any documents.”
A woman was waiting to use the phone, looking ostentiously at the clock above the dryers. I held up my thumb and forefinger to say, only a little longer.
“While I was out at Larchmont, I found the kitchen door open, I went in to see whether anyone was inside, and
