“Hot damn,” I said. “We’re starting to get somewhere. Maybe Tinsley is with baby, which makes the elite Randolph Gerrigan of great fame and fortune and social standing the grandfather of a new type of mulatto baby. Half WASP. Half ex-thug. A Waspug.”
Carolina shook her head. “Inventive,” she said. “But the real question is whether the very fertile Chopper knows he might have sired a baby.”
“If he does, he wasn’t telling when we spoke. But I have every intention of finding out.”
THAT AFTERNOON I CALLED Chopper on his cell phone. He didn’t answer, so I sent him a text message to call me back. I wanted to ask him about Tinsley’s pregnancy and why he didn’t think it was an important enough detail to tell me about it when we spoke. I spent the better part of the afternoon looking at my notes and writing a timeline on my office whiteboard. It was going to be extremely important to keep track of when things happened and who knew that they were happening. Tinsley’s pregnancy was not just a trivial matter, and it instantly raised the stakes as well as questions about whether that had any critical role in her disappearance. I wrote Tinsley’s name in the center of a circle just like the hubcap of a tire. Then I connected her name to all the players I had learned about so far, spokes labeled with their names and her relationship to them. I stood back and looked at the connections, but all I saw were holes staring back at me. If Chopper hadn’t told me about the pregnancy, then how much other information hadn’t I been told?
17
PENNY PACKER WAS THE wealthiest person I knew. In fact, she was obscenely wealthy. Her family had made billions in the cosmetics business, among other enterprises. Even after dividing the inheritance and business interests among all the cousins and in-laws, Fortune magazine still had her net worth pegged at somewhere around $4 billion. Penny was also the city’s biggest philanthropist and a socialite like no other. It was difficult going more than five blocks in downtown Chicago without seeing the Packer name carved into the front of a building or the wing of some institution. But more importantly, Penny didn’t take her money or her family’s name too seriously. She was just as comfortable talking to a busboy as she was a head of state. Most importantly, she was a fierce competitor on the golf course. That was how we had become friends.
Several years ago, I had been invited to play at a course of which she was also a member. I was chipping on the practice green when a caddie ran up to me breathlessly and explained that my friend who had invited me had called the clubhouse at the last minute to say he had gotten tied up in a business meeting and wouldn’t be able to make it. But Penny Packer’s group was looking for a fourth, because they’d also had a last-minute cancelation. She had one stipulation—the person had to really know how to play so their pace of play wouldn’t be slowed. Would I like to join her? She and I teamed up and rode in the cart together for the next four hours, during which we unapologetically beat the snot out of the other two. An unlikely friendship had been fortuitously cemented.
“Where the hell have you been, Ashe?” she said. She was dressed in one of her trademark black pantsuits with a silk blouse and a string of pearls big enough to choke an alligator.
I had just taken a seat in the kitchen of her limestone mansion in Lincoln Park on the North Side of the city. Refusing to live far out in the suburbs like her fellow billionaires, Penny had bought five lots on a quiet street, torn down the houses, then had an enormous Greek revival mansion arduously built to rigorous specifications. We met every third Thursday of the month, except for November and December, when she wintered in Palm Springs. Just the two of us. I had plenty of work to do, but I always looked forward to our dinner and never canceled.
“I’ve been trying to get my stubborn handicap down before the cold blows in,” I said.
“Then you better get your swing path fixed,” she said, taking a bite of cubed tuna tartare sitting on a thin cracker. “That slice is getting you into too much trouble off the tee.”
Penny was an excellent golfer. She could hit the ball farther than any woman I had ever seen. Her swing mechanics were a work of art. Helps when growing up your grandfather had his own eighteen-hole course in his backyard.
“I can’t get enough rounds in,” I said. “I’m neck-deep in this new case.”
We were seated at a table that could comfortably sit twenty. The cook was on the other side of the kitchen, going about his work quietly. The aromas were making the inside of my mouth tingle.
“What are you working on?” she asked, taking a sip of wine.
“Missing person case,” I said.
“Wouldn’t happen to be the Gerrigan girl?”
I wasn’t the least bit surprised Penny had heard about it. The billionaire’s club was extremely small.
“The mother hired me,” I said. “Not sure what to make of it all yet. What do you know about them?”
“Plenty,” Penny said. “I’ve known Randy and Violet for decades. Violet’s great-grandfather and my great-grandfather were founding members together at the Chicago Golf Club in Wheaton. Violet is a good mother and a strong woman. Randy is nothing short of a genuine
