I followed them in, not sure what I was hoping to accomplish. Women with infants, women with boyfriends on crutches or in wheelchairs, women looking after aging parents, old women like Señora Guaman taking care of grandchildren, filled the lobby. One television was blaring in Spanish, another in English. Children were crying, mothers stared ahead in stolid resignation.
Ernest and his grandmother were standing in line to check in. The grandmother had found someone she knew sitting nearby; the two women were talking in Spanish. I bent over, pretending to pick up something from the floor, and held out the flyer with the puppy’s picture to Ernest.
“Did you drop this?”
He looked at me, not understanding what I was saying, but then his eye fell on the picture of the puppy, and he snatched it from me.
“My dog! Nana, my dog!”
His grandmother turned. She sighed with fatigue when she saw the picture, and I felt ashamed for exciting him-looking after her grandson must be a hard enough job without a private eye rousing him.
“Your dog, Ernest?” she said. “You don’t have a dog. This is a picture of a dog.” Her English was fluent but heavily accented.
“I’m sorry,” I smiled at her. “I found this next to him on the floor and thought maybe he’d dropped it.”
“He wants a dog, and maybe we should get him one, but I don’t want to care for a dog as well as for Ernest. Anyway, his sister is allergic.”
“He’s here for therapy?” I asked.
“I don’t know how much they can do for him, but we come two times every week. After all, if you give up hope, you have nothing left.”
“It’s hard,” I said. “One of my cousins was shot in the head. He can still walk and talk, but he’s lost his impulse control. He behaves so wildly in public we don’t know if he can ever live on his own again.”
Lies. The detective’s stock-in-trade was really making me squirm today.
“With Ernie, it was a motorcycle,” she said. “We kept him out of the gangs. He was a good boy, always, but not a scholar like his sisters, They all are brilliant students. Were brilliant students.” Her face creased in sorrow. “Two of them are dead now.”
“I’m so sorry! Was it in the same accident where he was injured?”
It seemed disrespectful to talk about Ernest as if he wasn’t there, but, in a way, he wasn’t. He was crooning over the picture of the puppy. My guilt mounted.
“The oldest, she died in Iraq. These two were close. Her death hit him in the heart. I think that’s why he was careless with his motorcycle. Six months after Allie’s death, he ran off the expressway. Somehow, the motorcycle climbed over the railing. I don’t understand how, I wasn’t here. And my son couldn’t explain it to me.”
“Allie!” Ernest heard his sister’s name and dropped the picture. “Allie is a dove. She flies around with Jesus! Now Nadia is a dove. Men are shooting my sisters. They’ll get Clara next! Bam, bam! Poor Clara.”
“What, Allie was shot in battle?” I asked the grandmother.
“They shot Allie, bam, bam!”
“No, Ernesto, poor Allie was killed by a bomb.”
“They shot her, Nana, bam, bam! They shot Nadia, bam! Next, Clara, bam, bam!”
He was getting more and more agitated. I picked up the picture of the puppy.
“The puppy will kiss Clara and make her all better,” I suggested, holding it out to him.
“Yes! Nana, we need to get Clara a puppy. No one can shoot her if she has a puppy.”
In another minute, he was crooning happily over the picture again. I apologized to his grandmother for stirring him up.
“How could you know?” she said. “The death of his sister, he still can’t understand what really happened to her. And his mother, she won’t allow us to mention Alexandra’s name. So he never has a chance to talk. Maybe one day his poor brain will clear, and he will understand what happened to her.”
“The third sister isn’t really in danger, is she?”
The grandmother’s eyes clouded. “I pray night and day for her safety. When you have lost two-three, really”-she nodded toward her grandson-“you are frightened all the time.”
The clerk called her by name. “Daydreaming, Mrs. Guaman? It’s your turn! Ernie, your friends are waiting for you.”
I slipped away as the grandmother began to chat in Spanish with the clerk and drove to my office in a sober mood.
26 A Show in the Dark
Back in my office, I wrote up my conversation with Scalia and the odd reaction of everyone I’d met at Tintrey to Alexandra’s name. I left out the tampon-why include that in a document that might get subpoenaed for a trial?-and threw out the notebook that Scalia had damaged. The last column in my investigator spreadsheet was labeled “Dead Ends.” Jesse Laredo, Chad’s buddy from Iraq, was dead. Jesse’s mother had called while I was out to say she couldn’t find any trace of Chad’s blogs or e-mails among her son’s things. The message wasn’t a surprise-it would surprise me if I learned one reliable thing in this wretched case-but it did depress me further.
I looked up embodiedart.com again to see if there were any new postings, but the site was still down “out of respect for the dead.” I took out my notes where I’d copied some of Rodney’s code. There were several L’s but no Q’s. I rubbed my eyes. Kystarnik had to know he was under surveillance. He had to realize he needed multiple avenues to communicate with his thugs. So it seemed reasonable to assume that Rodney’s scribbles were some means of communication. Even so, the feds could also be watching the Body Artist, so it wasn’t exactly a secret code. So why was he doing it?
Maybe Rodney’s mission was simply to taunt Olympia about the money she owed Rest EZ. When she’d been so angry with Karen Buckley the other night for refusing to let Rodney write on her buttocks, Olympia had told her they were in the same boat together. But Karen said it wasn’t any of her business if Club Gouge went under. I turned the argument this way and that in my mind, but couldn’t come up with any compelling reason Karen had for doing what Olympia and Rodney wanted.
I looked at the column I called “Key Players” and added Gilbert Scalia. I couldn’t see any place that Tintrey and Rest EZ intersected except at Olympia’s club. Rodney, Rainier Cowles, Scalia, and Tintrey owner Jarvis MacLean had all been there on the same night. But what did that prove?
Olympia knew things she wasn’t telling. So did the Body Artist. All I needed was for one of them to open up, and the whole house of cards would fall neatly around me.
I dug deeper into Rainier Cowles’s biography and found that he had handled litigation for Tintrey. As I’d suspected, Palmer & Statten was Tintrey’s outside counsel. But so what?
I flung a pencil at the wall in frustration. As if on cue, John Vishneski called to say that Mona hadn’t printed out any of Chad’s blog postings, either.
“The docs say he’s holding his own still,” he said. “What have you found out?”
“I’m trying to see where his life and Nadia Guaman’s intersected, and I’m assuming it had to be in Iraq, where Nadia’s sister died, so that’s the lead I’m working right now. I’ll call you when I know something definite. Or if Chad regains consciousness and can talk, let me know. Meanwhile, keep playing your clarinet for him.”
I hung up before he could criticize my lack of progress or pry more deeply into what I was or wasn’t doing. Because I couldn’t think of anything else to do, I looked up Ernest Guaman’s motorcycle accident. Of course, injuries like his are routine in a city like Chicago. Like Chad Vishneski’s squad-eight men dead and only three mentioned by name-there so many accidents in Chicago that you’d have to be in a spectacular one for anyone to care.