“How funny,” I said, “and not in the side-slapping way. My client doesn’t have a receipt. So why don’t you make a call over to the station for us and we’ll pick up her phone on our way to Evanston.”
A few minutes later, a uniformed man appeared in the van with a bag of cell phones. Bernie picked hers out.
The sergeant caught up with us as we walked to the exit.
“I mean it about finding you down here again, Fouchard.” It was a face-saver, so I didn’t try to fight it, not even when she added a warning to me to make sure that Bernie didn’t leave town.
My own phone had been beeping me. I kept one arm around Bernie, but took my phone out to read texts from Peter. He hadn’t tried to get past the crowds; he was parked up the street, near the old bank where the SLICK meetings had been held.
It was an ordeal, getting out to the street. When the camera crews saw me at the sawhorses with Bernie, they rushed us. “Come on, Warshawski, who’s your client?” Blacksin shouted.
I didn’t answer, but the TV crews made us more interesting to the onlookers, who crowded around the sawhorses. The officer on duty studiously looked at the parking lot, ignoring our plight. Bernie was having trouble staying on her feet. Her body was wet with sweat, and she was starting to shake.
“Beth, this young woman is about to faint,” I cried. “Get your camera guy to make a hole for us.”
“An exclusive in exchange?”
“Do it because you’re human!” I screamed. “Just do it.”
The cameraman didn’t wait for her word; he began stepping backward, paying no attention to what was behind him, camera at his head. I pushed through after him and got Bernie to the curb, texted Peter, put her over my shoulder, and staggered to the intersection where he was waiting for us.
15
Shortest Way from A to B
Peter and I drove Bernie to my place. I wrapped her in blankets. Peter prepared hot tea laced with honey while I sponged Leo’s blood from her hands and face. I put her into my T-shirts—several layers, despite the warm evening. By and by the symptoms of shock eased. Peter helped me open the sofa bed and we left her to sleep.
It was getting on for midnight; we were both ravenous—we’d raced out of the restaurant having eaten nothing but a few olives. Before making a snack, though, I called Pierre and Arlette Fouchard to let them know what was going on. It wasn’t an easy conversation: they wanted Bernie on the next plane home and couldn’t believe, or at least Arlette wouldn’t believe, that the police had a right to demand she stay within their jurisdiction until they’d questioned her formally.
We finally agreed that the Fouchards would get in touch with my own lawyer, Freeman Carter, whose rate for six minutes stacks up nicely against any other firm in Chicago.
“She did not kill anyone,” Arlette said fiercely.
“No, of course not, but she wasn’t in any shape to give me details on what happened tonight. She’ll call you in the morning,” I promised.
Peter opened a bottle of Brunello I’d been saving, while I cooked up trecce pasta with mushrooms and Parmesan. We could talk about the night’s drama only in short, disjointed bursts.
“Will the police leave Bernie alone now?” Peter asked.
“Hard to say. She was covered in Leo’s blood.”
“They think a lover’s quarrel?”
“They think the shortest way from A to B. On the other hand, she’s a young woman whose father is a Chicago sports hero, and it would be quicker and quieter to pin the killing on a homeless person.”
Peter put down his glass. “You don’t think she killed him, do you?”
I was too tired to say what I thought or didn’t think. That I didn’t know what their relationship had consisted of, or how deep feelings had gone on either side in the short time they’d known each other. Or that Bernie could swing a stick with a well-trained aim and great power, that she had a fierce temper. She was also tenderhearted, though, and I couldn’t imagine her killing someone. Unless greatly provoked in the moment.
My thoughts made me dizzy. That and exhaustion. Peter and I stumbled to bed, leaving the dishes where they were, which meant when I got up the next morning, I had a table full of cheese-crusted plates and silver.
Bernie was at the kitchen table, picking pieces of trecce out of the pot I’d left in the sink. She was pale; the shirts I’d bundled her into last night hung on her, making her look like a street waif. Peter made espressos for the three of us, but didn’t linger: he was getting ready to leave for a dig in Turkey and the preparations were exhaustive and exhausting.
“I’m supposed to be in Humboldt Park this morning,” Bernie said when he’d left. “The program starts in an hour.”
“If you’re up to doing the job, I’ll drive you, but it would be better if you took some time off.”
She shivered and pulled one of the T-shirts over her hands. “I don’t know what to do. Mama wants me to come home, Papa says I should tough it out. Also, he said you told them I am not permitted to leave.”
“That’s right,” I said, “but they are hiring a proper lawyer for you, one who has an active practice and will make sure the police don’t act rashly.” I told her about Freeman Carter and the notable cases he’d handled.
“I cannot tell the police anything, because I do not know anything.” Her dark eyes were troubled, and she spoke without her usual fire. “I guess one of those homeless men must have hit Leo to rob him.”
“How well did you know him?” I asked.
“Are you trying to say he had a secret life that got him killed?” Her eyes came to life with anger.
“I’m not saying anything, but unless I know something about him I can’t begin to start an investigation.”
“You will investigate? But this lawyer, this Carter—”
“He’ll represent you with the police or in court if, God forbid, it goes that far. My job is to get the facts to make his job easier.”
“Oh.” She subsided. “Our relationship, it wasn’t that long. I told you—I met Leo when we were talking to SLICK about sponsorship for our girls soccer team. We met for coffee now and then.
“When I was arrested—I was very angry about this man, Coop, that he started the fight and then nothing is done to punish him. He attacked Leo in the meeting, and nothing happened. Me, I was taken into a police station, just for talking to Lydia Zamir, but this Coop—the police take him from the SLICK meeting where he’s trying to attack Leo, and they kiss him on both cheeks! I thought Leo and I could trick him, maybe, into doing something where it would be his turn to be punished.”
I looked at her uneasily. “What did you imagine doing?”
“Nothing.” She looked disgusted. “Leo is not a fighting kind of person. Leo wants—wanted—he said let a sleeping dog lie, and I said a sleeping dog wakes up in two seconds and goes for your throat.”
She sat up straighter, remembering the argument—slumped again as Leo’s death came back to her.
“Why on earth was Leo going to the park at night?” I couldn’t imagine why anyone, especially someone who didn’t like fighting, would want to go after dark to a place filled with drunks and addicts.