I went up to the third floor and looked sternly at the receptionist. “My name’s Warshawski; I’m a detective,” I said harshly. “I want to talk to Hugh McInerney about the Cleghorn case.”
Police and sheriff’s deputies are a dime a dozen at the criminal courts. I figured they didn’t flash a badge every time they wanted to see someone, so why should I? The receptionist responded to my bullying tone by quickly punching numbers on the house phone. Even though she was a patronage employee, like everyone else in the building, it didn’t help to get a black mark with a detective.
State’s attorneys are young men and women en route to big law firms or good political appointments. You never see any old people on the left side of the bench-I don’t know where they ship the ones who don’t move on naturally. Hugh McInerney looked to be in his late twenties. He was tall, with thick blond hair and the kind of trim muscularity that comes from a lot of racquetball.
“What can I do for you, Detective?” His deep voice, matching his build, was tailor-made for the courtroom.
“Nancy Cleghorn,” I said briskly. “Can we talk in private?”
He led me through the inner door to a conference room, with the bare walls and scuffed furniture I remembered from my own county days. He left me alone for a minute to get his file on Nancy.
“You know she’s dead,” I said when he got back.
“I saw it in the morning paper. I’ve been kind of waiting for you guys to get here.”
“You didn’t think of using some initiative and calling us yourself?” I raised my eyebrows haughtily.
He hunched a shoulder. “I didn’t have anything concrete to tell you. She came to see me Tuesday because she thought someone was following her.”
“She have any idea who?”
He shook his head. “Believe me, Detective, if I’d had a name in here, I’d have been on the phone first thing this morning.”
“You didn’t think about Steve Dresberg?”
He shifted uncomfortably. “I-uh, I talked to Dresberg’s attorney, Leon Haas. He-uh, he thought Dresberg was pretty happy with the situation down there these days.”
“Yeah, he should be,” I said nastily. “He made you guys look like cole slaw in court, didn’t he, on that incinerator deal. You ask Haas how Dresberg felt about the recycling plant Cleghorn was working on? If he issued death threats over an incinerator, I’m not sure he’d jump for joy over a recycling center. Or did you decide that Cleghorn was imagining things, Mr. McInerney?”
“Hey, Detective-lay off. We’re on the same side on this. You find who killed the Cleghorn woman and I’ll prosecute hell out of him. I promise you that. I don’t think it was Steve Dresberg, but hey, I’ll call Haas and feel him out.”
I grinned savagely and stood up. “Better leave that for the police, Mr. McInerney. Let them investigate and find someone for you to prosecute hell out of.”
I strode arrogantly from the office, but once I got on the elevator my shoulders sagged. I didn’t want to mess with Steve Dresberg. If half the things they said about him were true, he could get you into the Chicago River faster than you could change your socks. But he hadn’t done anything to Nancy or Caroline over the incinerator. Or maybe he figured the first time around you got a warning; the second time meant sudden death. I soberly merged the Chevy with the rush-hour jam on the Kennedy and headed for home.
14
When I got home Mr. Contreras was in front of the building with the dog. She was gnawing on a large stick while he cleaned debris from the little patch of front yard. Peppy jumped up when she saw me, but sank back down when she realized I didn’t have my running clothes on.
Mr. Contreras sketched a wave. “Hiya, doll. You get caught in the rain this morning?” He straightened and looked at me. “My, my, you’re certainly a sight. Look like you’ve been wading through a mud puddle that came up to your waist.”
“Yeah. I’ve been down in the South Chicago swamp. It kind of stays with you.”
“Oh yeah? Didn’t even know there was a South Chicago swamp.”
“Well, there is,” I said shortly, pushing the dog away impatiently.
He looked at me closely. “You need a bath. Hot bath and a drink, doll. You go on up and rest. I’ll look after her royal highness here. She don’t need to go to the lake every day of her life, you know.”
“Yeah, right.” I collected my mail and moved slowly up the stairs to the third floor. When I saw myself in the full-length mirror on the bathroom door, I couldn’t believe I’d gotten McInerney to talk to me without a struggle. I looked as though I belonged with the fishing couple out at Dead Stick Pond. My panty hose were in shreds and my legs were streaked with black where I’d tried washing the mud off down at the county building. The hem of my dress was heavy with caked dirt. Even my black pumps had gotten dusty from the dirt on my legs.
I kicked the shoes off outside the bathroom door and threw out the panty hose while turning on the bath water. I hoped the cleaners could rescue the dress-I didn’t want to sacrifice my entire wardrobe to the old neighborhood.
I took the portable phone from the bedroom into the bath with me. Once I was in the tub with whiskey at close reach I checked in with the answering service. Jonathan Michaels had tried to reach me. He’d left his office number, but the switchboard was closed for the day and I didn’t have his unlisted home number. I stuck the phone up on the sink and leaned back in the tub with my eyes closed.
Steve Dresberg. Also known as the Garbage King. Not because of his character, but because if you wanted to bury, burn, or ship refuse in the Chicago area, you had to cut him in on the action. Some people say that two independent haulers who disappeared after refusing to deal with him are rotting in the CID landfill. Others think the arson in a waste storage shed that caused the evacuation of six square blocks on the South Side last summer could be traced to his door-if you had enough people with paid-up life insurance to do the tracing.
Dresberg was definitely police business, if not FBI. And since the odds were against Caroline’s phoning McGonnigal with an amended statement, that meant I should play Cindy Citizen and tell him myself
Holding my breath, I slid down so that the water covered my head. Suppose Dresberg wasn’t involved at all, though. If I pointed the cops toward him, it would only divert their attention from more promising lines of inquiry.
I sat up and started rubbing shampoo into my hair. The water around me was turning black; I opened the drain and turned on the hot-water tap. All I had to do was find someone on Jurshak’s staff who would talk to me with the same frankness he’d used with Nancy. Then, when sinister figures began following me, I would take out my trusty Smith & Wesson and blow them away. Preferably, before they could bonk me on the head and dump me in the swamp.
I wrapped myself in a terry-cloth robe and went into the kitchen to forage. The maid hadn’t been shopping for some time and pickings were slim. I took the jar of peanut butter and the bottle of Black Label and went back into the living room with them.
I was on my second whiskey and my fourth spoonful of peanut butter when I heard a tentative knock on the door. I groaned in resignation; it was Mr. Contreras with a laden TV tray. The dog was at his heels.
“Hope you don’t mind me barging up like this, doll, but I could see you was all in and I thought you might like some supper. Did me a little barbecue chicken in the kitchen, and even without the charcoal it tastes pretty good, if I say so. I know you try to eat healthy so I made you a big salad. Now, you want to be alone, you just say the word and Peppy and me’ll head back down. Won’t hurt my feelings any. But you can’t live on that stuff you’re drinking. And peanut butter? Scotch and peanut butter? No way, doll. You’re too busy to buy food, you just let me know. No trouble for me to pick up something extra when I’m buying for myself, you know that.”