“Be careful,” Carolina said. “I don’t have to remind you of how much collateral damage can happen with these wired cases.”
“No reminder necessary. I still have my separation papers signed by the HR commissioner to prove it.”
32
SLEEPING WAS SOMETHING THAT was never a problem for me, whether on a plane next to a crying baby or on a long car ride under the hot sun. But last night I couldn’t keep my eyes shut for more than a two-hour stretch. I couldn’t stop seeing Chopper’s body lying on that narrow, neglected street. He looked like he had just fallen asleep. I kept asking myself questions for which I had no answers and didn’t seem to be getting any closer. Who killed this kid and why? Where the hell was Tinsley Gerrigan?
I slid some organic frozen waffles into the oven and poured myself a tall glass of cold strawberry orange juice I had squeezed a couple of days ago. The oven timer chirped just as my cell phone sang from the kitchen counter. The fetching Carolina Espinoza.
“Couldn’t be a more perfect way to start the morning,” I said. “Tell me you haven’t gotten dressed yet.”
“Haven’t even taken my shower,” she said.
“What word trumps perfection?” I said.
“I’ve always been partial to sublime.”
“That works for me.”
“I haven’t had a chance to look into the phone number more, but I got the information on that license tag,” she said. “Came back to me late last night, but I didn’t want to bother you.”
“So, the exhumation was a success.”
“And a little mysterious.”
“I like a good mystery.”
“Even if you’re in the middle of it?”
“You’ve got my attention.”
“The company buried underneath all of these LLCs is none other than the Gerrigan Real Estate Corp.”
“I won’t offend you by asking if you’re sure.”
“I won’t offend you by asking if you’re being safe.”
“This certainly adds a new dimension to everything.”
“Maybe they’re keeping tabs on you to make sure you’re really doing all this detecting you claim to be doing.”
“Or maybe all of my detecting has ruffled the wrong feathers.”
IT WAS AN UNCHARACTERISTICALLY warm morning, and with a few hours to spare before our flight, I decided to take advantage of what could be Mother Nature’s last blessing and kill two birdies with one golf ball. I headed south to the driving range adjacent to the Jackson Park Golf Course and chose the last stall farthest away from the motley crew of old-timers hawking swing lessons. When I needed to concentrate, I preferred the stalls closest to Lake Shore Drive, where the constant drum of rubber tires on pavement and the waves breaking onto shore proved meditative.
I had brought only three of my clubs from the car to practice, as I once heard a PGA player say that the mistake too many amateurs make is trying to hit every club in their bag during one session. His advice was to take only three or four and work on mastering the swing with just those clubs. Then, for the next session, choose a different group until you’ve worked your way through the entire bag. Today, I decided to work on my lofted clubs, since this would help me improve my approach shots to the green. I’d already hit about forty balls with my pitching wedge, and my draw was nicely shaping the ball flight from right to left. I picked up my nine iron and visualized myself left center in the fairway, about 145 yards away from the flag. Just as I brought the club up into my back swing, my phone buzzed loudly in my bag. I shanked the shot hard to the right and almost hit a car whizzing by on the drive.
It was Burke’s private cell number.
“Where the hell are you?” he blared through the phone. “Sounds like you’re in a damn wind tunnel.”
“And a good morning to you too,” I said. “I’m working with my nine iron.”
“You’re building something?”
“My golf swing.”
“Jesus fuckin’ Christ,” he said. “How about working on the damn case you’ve been hired to solve.”
“This is where I do my best thinking.”
“So you say. Listen, we never had this conversation.”
“The one about my golf swing?”
“No, the one we’re about to have.”
“I’m all ears.”
“Violet Gerrigan has filed for divorce twice in the last ten years. Each time she pulled it back about a month after filing.”
“A little trouble in paradise,” I said.
“Someone got ahold of the filings. The second time she filed, she accused her husband of having multiple affairs, including with a former housekeeper.”
I wasn’t surprised. “Did he respond?”
“He didn’t need to. Both times she pulled the filing back before it went in front of the judge. Case closed.”
“Was she telling the truth?”
“According to our intel, there’s at least one extramarital relationship we’re aware of. Supposedly, he’s bopping some doctor over at Northwestern.”
“So, it turns out our Randy is quite randy.”
“You really amuse yourself.”
“Tiger Woods once said, ‘If you can’t laugh at yourself, who can you laugh at?’”
“I’m glad to hear you’re taking this so seriously.”
“I stopped swinging my nine iron.”
“I’m giving this to you because I need it to be handled delicately.”
“With kid gloves,” I said.
“We haven’t even told the Fifth Floor. This needs to stay between us. But we need more answers. We move around too hard and we’re gonna leave tracks.”
“Thus, the need for my sluicing sleuthing.”
“Is there anything you take seriously?”
“Any downhill putt over five feet.”
“I need you to let me know as soon as you find something,” he said. “And call me on this number.”
“I have you on speed dial. How about telling me the name of the doctor Randy’s involved with?”
“Hold on for a sec.” The phone rustled a bit, and I could hear the sound of pages being turned. “She’s some Indian woman,” he finally said. “Dr. Gunjan Patel.”
33
DR. PATEL SAT ACROSS from me, highly sophisticated and eternally composed. Knowing what I now knew, it was difficult not to look at her and wonder how she
