‘Somewhere north of the Chicago River, on the Gold Coast?’ he asked.
‘Because that’s where Grant Carson was killed?’ I shook my head. ‘Are you in Homicide?’
‘Special Projects.’
‘I’ve never heard of it. How many are in that department?’
‘Just me.’
‘Why isn’t Homicide looking into this?’
‘Not enough heat yet.’ Delray grinned. ‘My boss respects unofficial inquiries from powerful men.’
‘Someone asked your boss to look into Arthur Lamm?’
‘You got it.’ He stood up. ‘I’m going to take apart Grant Carson’s hit-and-run, because it’s the freshest death. I’m looking at Whitman, too, because his daughter, and you, can’t figure where he got those extra pills or even why he would have bothered. I’m saving Benno Barberi for last, because frankly, I see nothing in his death that suggests murder.’
‘And Arthur Lamm?’
‘I’m interested in him most of all.’ We walked outside. ‘Keep me informed, and I’ll do likewise. I’ll even put in good words to Debbie Goring, help you get a reward. But we do things my way.’
‘Who’s your rabbi?’ In Chicago-speak, a rabbi is a clout guy, somebody connected, a person who can take care of getting whatever a kid in a striped tie needed.
Grinning, he said, ‘The deputy chief,’ and got into his car.
As I watched him drive away in his long black cop sedan, I saw a young, brash, arrogant guy who knew how to get clouted into a job. He was ambitious, and he had power behind him. He’d be relentless; he’d learn things.
Some of which would lead him straight to Wendell Phelps and whatever he was hiding.
TWENTY-FIVE
The cell number Wendell had given me no longer worked. It must have been a disposable, discarded like me.
I mulled, but not for long. I owed Amanda an explanation for last night, and a warning about the cop who was likely to complicate her father’s life.
I called her cell phone six times in three hours and left no messages. She answered the seventh, angrily.
‘You dumped me,’ she said.
‘Your father had me thrown out.’
‘He said you stormed off.’
‘He accused me of calling the cops. One was just here.’
‘Why would you call the cops?’
‘I didn’t. You know I’d never rat out a client…’ I paused, a hypocrite, about to do just that. ‘It must have been someone else in the heavy cream who called-’
‘The heavy cream?’ she interrupted, almost shouting with impatience.
‘They’re the people who have risen to the very top, people like your father, who run Chicago. One of them must have gotten scared and called the Chicago police. Delray Delmar, a pup but earnest, caught the case, and came round to ask what I knew.’
‘Scared by what?’
‘Your father told you nothing last night?’
‘Only that you blew up and left. I tried to press him. He mumbled something about talking later and walked away. For the next hour, he kept himself surrounded by others. Obviously he was avoiding me, so I got one of the guards to drive me home.’ She paused for a moment, then said, ‘You could have waited out on the street, you know.’
‘I called you from outside, but your phone was switched off. Then I realized I’d been followed. It was safest to leave you with your father’s guards.’
‘You’re scaring me. Who was following you?’
‘Benno Barberi’s widow put a tail on me. She knows I’m chasing the case and doesn’t want to wait for information. I put a stop to it.’
‘Is Mrs Barberi frightened like my father? Benno died last year from a heart attack.’
‘Did you know Jim Whitman, or Grant Carson?’
‘Benno Barberi died of a heart attack, right?’
‘All signs point to that.’
‘And Mr Whitman and Mr Carson…?’ She stopped, understanding. ‘This is why my father hired bodyguards? He sees something sinister in their deaths?’
‘Yes.’
‘But Mr Whitman technically died of natural causes, though he may have swallowed too many pain killers. Mr Carson was hit by a car.’
‘There are wrinkles surrounding each death.’
‘I ask now for the third time: is my father in danger?’
‘He’ll be in less danger if he tells the cops what he knows. Do you know Arthur Lamm?’
‘Don’t change the subject.’
‘I’m not.’
‘Arthur is my father’s closest friend,’ she said. ‘He handles our corporate insurance, and my father has invested in a couple of Arthur’s real-estate ventures. Is Arthur in danger, too?’
‘He’s dropped from sight. He might have gone camping, or he might be evading the IRS.’
‘I heard a rumor about the IRS investigation, but Arthur wouldn’t run from that. He’s got lawyers and accountants to take care of such things. If he’s not around, it’s because he’s gone camping… Right, Dek?’
‘I’d like to be sure he’s gone camping.’
‘You believe my father’s not delusional, that someone’s out to kill the men in the… whatever.’
‘Heavy cream,’ I said, supplying the words. ‘Wendell won’t tell me what he knows. Young officer Delmar has better resources than mine, and he’ll find out what that is.’
‘This can’t be real,’ she said, but she said she’d talk to her father.
On the stoop, outside his bungalow, Leo went straight for a vein. ‘You, pass for a rich guy?’ He laughed.
‘Just for a night, maybe two. I’ll breeze up to Lamm’s fishing camp and see if I can sniff out his whereabouts.’
‘Because you think that’s something Lamm’s friends, family, Wendell’s previous investigator, the IRS, and most especially your new young cop friend haven’t been sharp enough to consider doing themselves?’
‘Because I don’t know what to think.’
‘Your cop is OK with you pursuing this on your own?’
‘I promised I’d report anything I find out.’
‘Meaning you’ll report anything that doesn’t incriminate Wendell.’
‘I’m sure he understands.’
A sly grin lit Leo’s face. ‘Merely driving my car won’t pass you as rich enough to be a friend of Lamm’s,’ he said. ‘You’ve got to have the threads, too.’ He touched the hem of his tropical shirt like he was caressing imperial silk. ‘Red parrots and yellow flowers on blue rayon are the true signs of affluence. They make you look wealthy enough to not give a damn.’
‘I want to look like I own the Porsche, not like I stole it.’
He sighed and handed over the keys.
TWENTY-SIX
Two hours north of Milwaukee, the concrete highway softened into rippling blacktop and the barns began fading from freshly painted reds to chalking shades of rose. An hour north of that, the blacktop crumbled and so had some of the barns. Every few miles, I spotted one lying in a bleached gray pile across an abandoned field. Bent Lake was one more hour up. I arrived just before sunset.
It was a one-block town, anchored at the front by a Dairy Queen and the remains of a gas station. The DQ’s parking lot was empty, though the red-and-white wood hut was lit up bright with yellow bug lights and looked ready for commerce.
The gas station across the street did not. Its pumps had been pulled and the only visible reminder of its heritage was an oval blue-and-white Pure Oil sign creaking from rusty chains on a pole. The young man working inside on an old truck didn’t jerk up, startled, as I passed by, so I assumed the town was accustomed to some degree of traffic.
I drove slowly past storefronts that were boarded up. The only light came from a Budweiser sign in a tavern window in the middle of the block.
A cluster of old, clapboard motel cottages was curled at the far end. Its sign read: ‘Loons’ Rest. Rooms $30.’ The paint on the sign was fresher by a couple of decades than the white flakes peeling off the cottages. A new, shiny blue Ford F-150 pickup truck with a big chrome radiator and pimp lights on its roof was the only vehicle in the lot.