30
I was being buried alive. An executioner wearing a black plastic hood was pouring dirt on me. “Just tell us the time, girlie,” he said. Lotty and Max Loewenthal sat nearby eating asparagus and drinking cognac, ignoring my helpless screams. I woke from the dream sweating and panting, but every time I went back to sleep the nightmare returned.
When I finally got up for good it was late morning. I was stiff and sore, my head filled with the cotton wool an uneasy night always leaves behind. I moved on thick, ungainly legs to the bathroom. With Peppy watching anxiously from the doorway, I soaked in the tub for a long while.
It had to be Kappelman who’d arranged for last night’s ambush. He was the only one who knew I was leaving my apartment, the only one who knew the anxious care Mr. Contreras lavished on me. But try as I might, I couldn’t think why he’d do it.
It wasn’t beyond belief to think he might have murdered Nancy. Love affairs gone awry bring at least one person a day to Twenty-sixth and California. But a crime of passion had nothing to do with me. All my machinations about Humboldt, about why Pankowski and Ferraro had sued the company, about Chigwell, didn’t seem to connect with Ron Kappelman. Unless he knew something he was desperate to keep hidden about Jurshak’s insurance file. But what could his involvement have been with them?
It was easier to think that Art Jurshak had staged last night’s aborted attack. After all, he could have drawn the old man off without knowing I wasn’t at home, then decided to lie in wait until I got back. My mind churned fruitlessly. The water grew cold, but I didn’t stir until the telephone began to ring. It was Bobby, brighter and more alert than I could tolerate in my febrile state.
“Dr. Herschel says you left her in the middle of the night. I thought I told you to stay away from your apartment until we gave you the all-clear.”
“I didn’t want to wait for the Second Coming of Christ. Who did you find at my place last night?”
“Watch your language around me, young lady,” Bobby said automatically-he doesn’t think nice girls should talk like hard-boiled dicks. And even though he knows half the reason I do it is to ride him, he can’t resist rising to the bait. Before I could put in my two cents about not being a subaltern he could order about-there are baits I also can’t resist -he hurried on.
“We picked up two guys hanging around your door. They say they’d just come upstairs for a smoke, but they both had picklocks and guns. The state’s attorney got us twenty-four hours with them on concealed and unregistered felony weapons. We want you to come down to a lineup-see if you can identify either of these gents as being involved in Wednesday’s attack on you.”
“Yeah, I guess,” I said unenthusiastically. “They had black slickers on, the kind with hoods that cover a lot of the face. I’m not sure I’d ever recognize them again.”
“Great.” Bobby ignored my lack of ardor. “I’ll have a uniformed man pick you up in half an hour-unless that’s too early for you.”
“Like Justice, I never sleep,” I said politely, and hung up.
Murray phoned next. They’d put the morning edition to bed before word of an arrest outside my place had come in from one of his police snitches. His boss, knowing of our relationship, had woken him with the news. Murray pumped away with tireless energy for several minutes. Finally I cut him off crossly:
“I’m going down to look at a lineup. If either Art Jurshak or Dr. Chigwell’s sister is there, I’ll give you a call back. Which reminds me-the good doctor has gone off with the kind of guys who like to break into other people’s houses.”
I hung up on his squawk. The phone rang again as I was stomping into the bedroom to get dressed. I chose to ignore it-let Murray get his news from public radio or something. As I was brushing my hair with surly ill will, Mr. Contreras brought breakfast to the door. My last night’s desire for his companionship had worn off. I drank a cup of coffee ungraciously and told him I didn’t have time to eat. When he started fussing over me I lost my temper and snapped at him.
A hurt look came into his faded brown eyes. He collected the dog with quiet dignity and left. I immediately felt ashamed of myself and ran after him. He’d already reached the lobby, though, and I didn’t have my keys with me. I headed back up the stairs.
While I was gathering my keys and my handbag, sticking the Smith & Wesson into my jeans, the uniformed man arrived to take me down to the lineup. I carefully locked the dead bolt behind me-some days I don’t bother with it-and ran down the stairs. Soonest started, soonest ended, or whatever it was Lady Macbeth said.
The uniformed man turned out to be a woman, Patrol Officer Mary Louise Neely. She was quiet and serious, holding herself ramrod straight in her fiercely pressed navy serge, calling me “ma’am” in a way that made me acutely aware of the twelve or more years between us. She opened the door for me with military crispness and ushered me down the walk to the waiting patrol car.
Mr. Contreras was out in front with Peppy. I wanted to make some gesture of reconciliation, but Officer Neely’s stern presence robbed me of any words. I held out a hand, but he nodded stiffly to me, calling the dog sharply as she headed down the walk behind me.
I tried asking the patrolwoman insightful questions about her work and whether the Cubs or the Sox could worsen their abysmal performance of last season. She snubbed me completely, though, keeping her stem gaze on malefactors on Lake Shore Drive, murmuring periodically into her lapel transmitter.
We covered the six miles to the Central District at a good clip. She pulled smartly into the police lot about fifteen minutes after leaving my apartment. Okay, it was Saturday, not much traffic, but it was still an impressive performance.
Neely whisked me through the labyrinth of the old building, exchanging unsmiling greetings with fellow officers, and brought me to an observation room. Bobby was there, with Sergeant McGonnigal and Detective Finchley. Neely saluted them so sharply, I thought she might keel over backward.
“Thanks, Officer.” Bobby dismissed her genially. “We’ll carry on from here.”
I found my palms sweating slightly, my heart beating a little faster. I didn’t want to see the men who’d bundled me into that blanket on Wednesday. That was why I’d fled my place last night. They had me well and truly spooked. And now I was to perform like an obedient dog under the watchful eyes of the police?
“You got names on the two you picked up?” I asked, keeping my tone cool, trying to shade it with a little arrogance.
“Yeah,” Bobby grunted. “Joe Jones and Fred Smith. They’re almost as funny to deal with as you are. And yes, we’ve requested a print check, but these things never happen as fast as you hope they will. We can make a case on the loitering in a private building and carrying concealed unregistered weapons. But you know and I know they’ll be on the street Monday unless we can back it up with attempted murder. So you’re to tell me if they’re your pals who sent you swimming on Wednesday.”
He nodded to Finchley, a black plainclothesman I’d known when he started on patrol. The detective went to a door across the room and gave orders to unseen people beyond to start the lineup.
Eyewitness identification is not the great revelation they make of it in courtroom dramas. Under stress the memory plays tricks on you-you’re sure you saw a tall black man in blue jeans and it was really a fat white man in a business suit. Stuff like that. Probably a third of my presentations as a public defender had been based on reciting remarkable instances of mistaken identity. On the other hand, stress can bum some indelible memories-a gesture, a birthmark-that come back when you see the person again. It never hurts to try.
Keeping my hands in my pockets so as to hide their tremor, I walked with Bobby to the one-way observation window. McGonnigal turned out the lights on our side and the little room beyond sprang into relief