I call a cab to pick us up.
“Bobby?” I ask Brittany.
Her face crumples. “One of the paramedics mentioned him,” she says through a torrent of tears. “I didn’t know he was dead until then. Why, Dad? Why?”
I gather her into my arms and stroke the back of her head. “I’m so sorry.”
She pulls back after a minute or two and turns her tear-streaked face up to mine. “I suspected the worst after they took Bobby away, but they wouldn’t tell me anything about what they planned to do with him. When I asked if they were bringing him back, Joe just smirked.”
The bastard.
“I’m glad you killed him, Dad.”
I nod. I’m certainly not lamenting the end of Joe, but being the instrument of anyone’s death isn’t sitting well with me.
“You want to talk about Bobby?” I ask.
She winces and swallows, then shakes her head. “Later, Dad. I’m still having a hard time believing that he’s really gone. Besides, you can barely talk.”
It’s true. My shattered nose has been wrestled back into place and is being held there by some sort of cast, supplemented with a swath of gauze and surgical tape. My nostrils are packed with cotton or something. Speaking is a chore.
We sit quietly for a minute or two before a couple of people approach. FBI, judging from their demeanor and the cut of their suits.
“Mr. Valenti?” a middle-aged woman asks.
I nod. “FBI?”
She nods, then introduces herself and her partner. “You feel up to talking to us?”
I cut my eyes to Brittany, who is curled up against my side, then shake my head. “Not now?”
She nods as her sorrowful eyes linger on Brittany, then hands me a business card. “We’ll need to speak with both of you. Soon.”
I nod and pocket the card. “We’ll come by tomorrow, if that’s okay?”
“Tomorrow is good,” she says. “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry we’ll have to put you through more grief. You’ve been through more than enough already.”
“Yeah,” I reply.
“You’re free to go,” she says with a final sympathetic glance at Brittany. A mother, no doubt.
I thank her, wondering if she would have sprung me if she’d known I have murder on my mind. Good thing I didn’t mention it. With my common sense a little scrambled by the drugs from the hospital and maybe the knock on the head, I have decided that I have business to take care of. I have the cab drop Brittany at Pat’s house.
When I don’t get out of the cab, Brittany turns a surprised look on me. “Where are you going, Dad?”
“I hab a little business to take care of.”
Pat, who has come out to greet us, leans down to meet my gaze. “Hab?”
I shrug. The letter V is going to be absent from my vocabulary for the foreseeable future.
Pat eyes me suspiciously. “Business, Valenti? Whatever it is can wait. You look like you should be in bed.”
“Soon,” I mutter.
When I call to check in with Penelope and tell her where I’m heading next, she demands that I stop in the office first. I do, and when she fails to dissuade me from what she proclaims to be “your crazy idea,” insists that she’ll drive. I down a couple of extra painkillers before we leave.
“I can’t talk you out of this?” she asks a final time when she parks at our destination.
I reply by pushing the car door open and climbing out.
We barge through the doorway of Jonathan Walton’s Willis Tower office five minutes later. Walton’s eyes widen for a second when he sees us. My blackened eyes are swollen almost shut, but I can see enough to enjoy the moment of fear in his eyes when he recognizes us. I hope the sight of me scares him as much as it frightened Penelope when I walked into the Law Offices of Brooks and Crooked Nose Valenti a short while ago. If my appearance doesn’t terrify the fucker, the erupting volcano of my fury ought to do the trick.
“Walton,” I growl.
Walton’s smug smile drops back into place after he absorbs my appearance. He immediately presses the intercom button on his phone.
“Security,” a deep male voice responds.
“Get up here right now.”
“Yes, sir!”
Last night’s events in Wisconsin haven’t yet hit the airwaves. Otherwise, Walton might not look so cocky as he adopts the Asshole Pose by easing his chair back and casually crossing an ankle over a knee. He tilts his head an inch or so and smirks. “You’ve got maybe a minute to say whatever you’re here to say.”
Penelope tartly replies, “You’ll be seeing plenty of us in the days ahead, Mr. Walton.”
“Hopefully in the many nightmares you deserb to hab,” I add.
His lips curl up in an amused smile. “Deserb to hab, huh?” he mocks. “Did you take a fall in the shower, Valenti?”
I don’t reply. Penelope does.
“Don’t be an asshole,” she snaps. “The man is hurt.”
Walton shrugs. “Whatever. You should have called Herbert Cumming before you came here to bother me.”
“Cumming,” Penelope mutters in disgust. “He’s your lawyer, after all, is he?”
“He’s the guy you’ll need to speak with about settling the claim against your client.”
“So, you’re in bed with Butterworth Cole, too,” I say while a smile tries to form on my face. A picture of Jack Nicholson as the Joker in an old Batman movie comes to mind. It scared the hell out of me as a kid. Bet that’s how I look. Hope so.
