April 13
Learned today that Bryn Mawr accepted me. Told Ma and everyone at school, full scholarship, but they only gave me half of what I need. I’ll still have to work, but even with that, it’s SO expensive—need Mr. M’s support. I AM GOING TO PHILADELPHIA IN AUGUST & NO ONE CAN STOP ME!!!!
April 15
Told Mr. M I know what he and Rory Scanlon are up to, told him I’d found the bank statements from Continental for the
Say, Yes!
foundation. Said I hoped the foundation could help pay my college tuition when I go away next year. He said he’d talk to R.S.
He asked, what did I do with the papers, told him they were in a
very safe
place. Scary look on his face.
April 18
Ma beat me so bad tonight I want to kill her! Betty, busybody hypocrite Betty told her I’m on the Pill. Ma said I was stabbing the Blessed Mother through the womb. Went through my private things! Found the money Mr. M gave me, stole it, said it was immoral, time I learned she would never let me leave Chicago for college. I picked up kitchen knife, said, “You want to see what it’s like to stab someone through the womb, try this!” and she went insane, hit me with a frying pan. I blacked out. Came to with goose egg on head, woozy, throwing up.
Mr. W keeps saying I can stay in Vic’s room until it’s time to leave for college. Maybe I will, Ma will go insane, she hates all the Warshawskis, most of all my beloved Mrs. W.
Joel came over. I was in bathroom cleaning sick off my face. He saw my goose egg and freaked, begged me to let him marry me so he could protect me against Ma. Told him I don’t need protecting, just need to leave Chicago!!
Then he said he’d gone to Wrigley Field and found my book of papers, but he freaked when a maintenance man came in. He dropped them in the mud! They’re gone. All but one page from the Continental Bank which doesn’t mean shit on its own. I sat down in the middle of the floor and bawled my eyes out. He tried to put his arms around me and kiss me, tried to say he was in love with me. I told him to leave, to leave me alone, he ruined my plan. Anyway no man will ever own me. Not him, not Mr. M or Rory or Spike, none of them.
Joel looked so sad, slouching off down the sidewalk, almost forgave him for losing my papers, but what will I do without them?
I saw Rory Scanlon’s Buick across the street. I’m watching Joel, R.S. is watching the house like he does two or three times a week, maybe he thinks he can find something to blackmail me with. Like, if he said Joel was sleeping with me, I’d give him and Mr. M their papers back.
CLUTCH HITTER
Dead teen, and beautiful at that, life cut short, missing documents, sex with powerful men. It was a story made for TV; it went viral in an hour. By mid-morning, I was once again fielding media inquiries from as far away as Kazakhstan.
How and where had I found the diary?
It had come to me in the mail, in an anonymous envelope, no return address and according to the private forensic lab I use, no fingerprints.
How sure was I that this was really Annie’s handwriting?
I had the condolence letter Annie had written to my father; I was willing to let an independent lab compare that to the diary I was looking at—but only if Stella Guzzo would submit her diary to the same lab for the same tests.
The Kazakh media, obsessed with hockey, were more interested in Boom-Boom—did my copy of the diary vindicate him?
Other reporters had other questions, of course, about the drama at Dead Stick Pond, about the Sturlese brothers, but the main focus was on Annie’s death. Did I believe Rory Scanlon was responsible?
“I don’t know who killed Annie Guzzo. Twenty-five years ago, it seemed obvious that Stella Guzzo murdered her daughter, so no forensic evidence was taken from the crime scene. Now it’s a wide-open field. We know Annie was alive when her mother left to play bingo, but we only have these pages to suggest other names. It’s tantalizing, but we probably will never have the truth.”
In the middle of the media push, a cop came to my office, one of Bobby Mallory’s personal staff. The captain would like a word; could I ride with him to Thirty-fifth and Michigan.
Bobby had Conrad and a forensic tech with him. “I need to know about these documents, Vicki.”
Bobby was getting old; his jowly face had deeper lines around the mouth and eyes. At least he was no longer so red in the face—Eileen and his doctor had finally persuaded him to change his diet, take some blood pressure meds.
“I don’t know anything about them, other than what’s up on the Herald-Star website. They came to me in an anonymous envelope, and I don’t know if they’re real or fake. And they are in a vault right now until Stella Guzzo produces hers for comparison. Or you produce a subpoena.”
“The envelope?” Bobby held out a hand.
I took it from my briefcase: a plain manila 10x14, available at every office supply store in America. Postmarked three days ago, date-time stamped “Received” by me yesterday.
“What proof do you have that this is the envelope that held the so-called diary?” Bobby asked.
I shook my head. “I don’t open my mail expecting to have to prove I got it. When I saw what was in the envelope, I drove up to Cheviot Labs with it. They checked for fingerprints, and for DNA on the gummed label, but whoever sent it used tap water, not saliva, and apparently handled it with gloves.”
I held out the notarized report from Cheviot’s fingerprint specialist. Bobby grunted and handed it, with the envelope, to his forensic tech.
“A written receipt, please,” I said. “Or I can photograph your expropriation.”
I switched on my phone camera, but Bobby, with an exaggerated scowl, called to his secretary to bring me a receipt. I was supposed to feel guilty for making them do extra work while seizing my property.
Conrad and Bobby exchanged glances; Bobby nodded at Conrad.
“Vic, whether what you’ve put out is really Annie Guzzo’s diary or if it’s a forgery, you could be lighting a fuse on a powerful piece of dynamite,” Conrad said.
Meaning, I was in serious danger. “You think it’s a forgery?” I asked.
“With you, I think anything is possible,” Bobby said. “You and the law know each other well, but you don’t always respect the acquaintance.”
“Unlike people with money and with access to the Illinois Speaker,” I said. “They are sans reproche. That’s comforting.”
“I’m not going to argue that with you,” Bobby said. “You know Illinois politics better than you know the law. Rawlings and I are just saying, it would have been better to bring those pages to us, instead of publishing them first.”
“Got it.” I stood to leave, but Bobby asked Conrad and the tech to step outside.
“Vicki, Rawlings told me about the letter the old Fourth District watch commander wrote, saying he’d sent someone off to the Seventh District. He said you assume that was Tony, right?”
“Right.”
Bobby fingered the fold of skin above his necktie, as if the knot were too tight. “It might have been. Say it was, say Brattigan did send your dad off to face the danger of—well, the dangers he did face in the Seventh. Say it was Rory Scanlon who put him up to it. This diary you’ve conjured wouldn’t be payback for that, would it?”
“Conjure. That is a very loaded word. No one used it when Stella burst forth with a diary of Annie’s that mysteriously appeared in a drawer twenty-five years after her sister-in-law had been pawing through the same place looking for cash.”
“Tap-dance around, clown around, but did you hire someone to create a forgery so you could try to get at Rory Scanlon? If you’re framing him as punishment for upending Tony’s life, you are playing a dangerous game.”