“Where were you last night when Leo Prinz was murdered?” I asked instead.
“You think I killed him?” He gasped.
“Did you?” I asked. “I saw you go for him twice at those SLICK meetings. Anger Mismanagement could be the name on your personnel file.”
“Have you been digging into my life?” he said so ferociously that his dog moved against his legs, either protecting him or slowing him down, hard to tell. “How—”
“I don’t know your last name, or where you live. Mona Borsa from SLICK mentioned you get fired from jobs for not controlling your temper, but she didn’t know your surname, or at least she wouldn’t tell me.”
“People think they can be anonymous in a big city, but everyone always has their nose stuck in your business,” he grumbled. “Anyway, I didn’t kill Leo Prinz. I shouldn’t have jumped him in the SLICK meetings; Prinz was just a mouthpiece for the people with money. That’s who needs to be whacked, not some poor clueless kid.”
“Who are the money people?”
“They’re always the same. The ones who think they own land and sea, even though they’ve done nothing to create the land or care for it.”
“The money people in this particular case,” I said impatiently. “Should the guy Taggett deferred to at the SLICK meeting—Larry Nieland, the economist—should he be whacked?”
Coop looked at me strangely, then said, “If I had my way, all economists would be whacked. Now tell me how to find Lydia.”
My shoulders sagged and I leaned against the rusty stairwell railing. “I’m telling you because I don’t see other options. I hope it’s not a mistake.”
I described how to find her hideout. “If you really care about her, get her to a place where she can receive proper medical attention. I left a phone for her with my number programmed into it, along with the number for the best doctor in Chicago, or really, anywhere. Charlotte Herschel is a Holocaust survivor; she’s worked with victims of torture. She can help Lydia and she would protect her privacy.”
I took one of my own business cards from my day pack and wrote Lotty’s details on the back.
“It would be a big help if you gave me your own name and phone number. That way I wouldn’t have to rely on blind luck to see you when your friend needs you. I brought her food and water, but she must have a bed and a bath and real nourishment if she’s going to survive.”
“You don’t need my phone number, or any name for me except ‘Coop.’ I’ll look after Lydia.”
All my old street fighting anger rose in me, but what good would it serve to break his nose—even if I had the energy to do it right now? I hoisted myself up the rusty steps of the old iron street crossing and made my way to my car.
At home, I washed my hair and put my filthy clothes into the laundry. The trip down four flights of stairs to the basement washing machines and back felt like the final ascent on Everest, so weary were my muscles.
I lay on my living room floor to straighten my spine and undo the kinks in my neck. I phoned Bernie while I lay there, to make sure she was managing to keep her own fragmented spirits together. To my relief, Arlette had flown in from Quebec to care for her daughter.
“Victoire, how much danger is there for Bernadine?” Arlette demanded. “They will arrest her?”
“I don’t think so,” I said. “I have to think that one of the homeless people who sleep in the park killed Leo. Maybe to rob him, maybe because they thought he was infringing on their space. The police are dogging Bernie because of the previous altercation she was involved in.”
Arlette said she had spoken with my criminal defense lawyer, Freeman Carter, who’d agreed to represent Bernie if she were arrested. “All of this is a shock, naturellement. Mr. Carter, he has suggested a counselor, a psychiatrist, but for someone like Bernadine, the best cure is movement. She will go back to her coaching job tomorrow and run around in the hot sun with her little athletes. That will restore her spirit.”
“There’s one thing I need to discuss with her,” I said. “Bernie says she went to the park to look for Leo because she thought she might have misunderstood where they were meeting. And I gather he wasn’t answering her texts—his phone had likely already been stolen. Still, I have a feeling there’s something she isn’t saying?” I prudently didn’t accuse her of lying, not to Arlette. “Bernie isn’t the kind of person to wait around for a dilatory lover.”
“Di-la-torie? Quoi?”
“Someone who keeps you waiting.”
“Ah, yes. I will ask her these things and believe me, she will tell me the truth, no fear over that. And I will stay for a few days. These girls, they live out of packages, as if there were no such thing in Chicago as real cheese.”
That made me laugh, but when we hung up, my own spirits were still oppressed. Running around in the hot sun was not a good cure for me, certainly not the running around I’d been doing today.
19
Unending Grief
I phoned Lotty to let her know I’d given her clinic number to both Coop and Lydia Zamir. When I described the condition in which I’d found Lydia this afternoon, Lotty insisted on talking face-to-face. We met for a late supper at a café near her condo building.
Lotty hadn’t paid attention to Leo Prinz’s murder—she refuses to follow news about any violent deaths. “I would have no time for surgery if all I did was read about the day’s shootings and stabbings. There is a limit, anyway, to how much misery the mind can absorb before it buckles under the weight.”
That meant I had to tell her the story from the beginning, from stumbling on Zamir after Bernie’s soccer match, through Bernie’s near-arrest, Murray’s article, the disastrous aftermath on the train platform, and then the suspicious way Coop kept popping up.
Lotty asked questions, and discussed the answers with her usual intelligent sympathy. The conversation helped wash some of my own misery from my bones.
“Do you believe this Coop killed the young man?”
I grimaced. “I would feel confident it was a homeless person camping in the park if it weren’t for the fact that Leo went there when he was supposed to be joining Bernie. I guess it’s possible he spent the afternoon in the Wildlife Corridor, but it seems more likely that someone arranged a meeting. He’d seen something on one of the maps at the SLICK meeting that bugged him—maybe someone assured him they could explain the map if he came to the park.”
“This man Coop doesn’t sound as though he thinks ahead like that,” Lotty said shrewdly.
“True enough,” I agreed. “He explodes on provocation, but only he knows what the provocation will be. Maybe not even he knows. I wish I could get him to bring Lydia to you. Or hospitalize her.”
Lotty shook her head. “Look what happened when the police took her to Provident—this woman who is malnourished and exhausted found the strength to flee, probably on foot, a distance of what?”
“About two miles,” I said. “You’re repeating what others around her have been saying, that she’s allergic to care.”
“There’s a lot of debate these days about involuntary treatment,” Lotty said. “It’s not my field, of course, but I do encounter families who are dealing with this issue. Even for someone who is deeply delusional, there is still a need for some autonomy, some decision-making. Only Ms. Zamir can decide if she’s ready for care. Right now, the idea frightens her.”