Peter rolled over and put an arm around me, pulled me back down next to him.
“We haven’t had time for a forensic analysis yet. But someone left a message on my cell phone last night, telling me where to look for it.”
“And you think that ‘someone’ was me?” I said. “Just a minute while I look at my call log. I might have been sleep-talking—it’s how we lazy detectives get through our workload.”
“That stung, did it? No, it wasn’t you, but I figure you have friends who’d do it for you. Someone had been camping in the hole by the expressway where we found the gavel. Was that Lydia Zamir?”
“Sergeant, I’m guessing you called at the dawn’s early light in the hopes of knocking me off-balance, but I can’t help you with gophers digging holes by—what, the Ryan? The Ike?”
She skipped a beat, then said, “I read my patrol unit’s notes wrong. Wasn’t the Ryan, but the Metra tracks down near where the Zamir woman used to camp out.”
“Still can’t help you,” I said.
“What about the man Coop?”
“What about him, indeed?” I said. “I asked you for a last name and an address. Do you have those? If Coop lured Prinz into that wilderness to beat his brains in, he needs to be under lock and key ASAP.”
“For a lazy woman, you work too hard,” Peter said. He was nibbling on my left ear. “Stop the drudgery and get back under the sheets with me.”
I rolled over into his arms. “A hardworking detective would already be out with her bloodhounds following a trail of creosote, not lolling around with an archaeologist.”
We could hear Pizzello’s squawk from my phone but I didn’t bother to turn it off—she shouldn’t have tried sucker-punching me.
We finally got up an hour later. Mr. Contreras had kept the dogs with him last night, but when I walked Peter down to his car, they were ready to run.
Peter scratched Mitch’s ears. “Could you follow a creosote trail?” he said to the dog.
“He and Peppy have saved my life more than once. I don’t know if they smell my fear across the miles, but I wouldn’t trade them for fifty Sherlock Holmes bloodhounds.”
“That’s good.” Peter was suddenly serious. “I’m leaving for Turkey in three days. I don’t like you chasing after someone who bludgeons people’s heads into pulp, even if you do have Mitch and Peppy on your side.”
I didn’t like the idea, either, which meant I needed to find out who it was as fast as possible. I drove the dogs up to Evanston to check on Bernie. She was getting ready to leave for her day’s coaching job, but Arlette was coming with her.
“Maman! This is not take-your-mother-to-work day,” Bernie protested.
“I think it’s a great idea,” I said.
“Me, too,” Angela agreed. “I wish my mother could come up here to see me coach.”
It didn’t take much coaxing to persuade Bernie we were right. She was still nervy; she wanted the comfort of her mother’s presence, just didn’t want to admit it. I drove them to the West Side park where Bernie was working, ran the dogs around, let them jump into the lagoon, and got to my office by nine.
I called the hospital where Simon Lensky worked, but they still hadn’t heard from him. Neither had Mona or Curtis.
“But we only meet when we have SLICK issues to discuss,” Mona said. “Sometimes weeks go by when we don’t talk to each other. If his son had a bad turn, he’s probably staying at the care facility.”
She gave me the name, but when I called, they also hadn’t seen Simon. He’d been mugged after the SLICK meeting. Leo had been killed. The two events had to be connected through the document the two had argued over, but I couldn’t figure out how to find a link.
Over my first cortado of the day, I went back to Larry Nieland’s web page, the one where he listed the boards he sat on. The surveyors’ sticks I’d found in the Burnham Wildlife Corridor had left me curious about whether a private company was already giving money to the Park District.
I was hoping one of Nieland’s companies might be connected to the elegantly dressed man who’d sat next to him in the SLICK meeting, but four of the six were closely held, which meant they didn’t have to list their board or their officers for any public documents. One of the U.S. companies was a hedge fund, which meant Nieland definitely could afford a better wardrobe. One was a Fortune 100 company that did everything from building nuclear reactors to trading in dried seaweed.
The South American companies included one called Minas y Puentes—Mines and Bridges—which might be anything. Another seemed to deal mostly with exporting raw materials, although I might have deciphered the Spanish wrong.
When I’d first looked at Nieland’s profile, I’d dug up his cell phone number. On an impulse, I called him.
“I don’t talk on or off the record with reporters unless the interview has been set up by my public relations manager.”
“Very wise, Mr. Nieland. I’m not a reporter, but an investigator, curious about your involvement in the Park District plans to redesign the Forty-seventh Street lakefront.”
He paused a beat too long before saying, “I’m not involved in that.”
“Then it was an exceptionally generous pro bono act to come to the community meeting last week and pinch-hit for Superintendent Taggett.”
“Oh, that. Giff Taggett and I are old sailing competitors and therefore old friends. He’s trying to put together a public-private partnership and I agreed to run some numbers for him.” Nieland had recovered his geniality.
“And the man with you?” I asked politely.
“Another old friend. What did you say your name was?”
When I repeated it, he cared enough about the call to make sure he had the spelling correct. A man in his position definitely needed to be careful about the person he spoke to, but I didn’t think there was any doubt that he had some kind of stake in the proposed development.
I didn’t even try to call Taggett. The park super was appointed by the mayor, which meant money that came to him wouldn’t be disguised as a campaign contribution, it would be a straight-out bribe. So if Taggett was getting rich from his public-private partnership, I’d have to find his bank accounts, his offshore holdings, all those things that are really hard to track down.
I resolutely turned to my paying clients’ needs. These fortunately were fairly easy to sort out. A few background checks on potential new hires, double-billing from a subsidiary that was easy to spot. I was just finishing my reports when Norm Bolton called from Global to see if I was ready to sign his contract. Something about him or the contract made me uneasy enough that I didn’t tell him I wouldn’t sign, just said I’d sent it to my lawyer for review, that I’d get back to him as soon as Freeman had gone through it.
“You’d do well to act quickly, Warshawski,” Bolton said. “Ryerson’s ready to move, and we can find another investigator to work with him.”
“That might be your best bet then,” I said.
“We’ll give you another twenty-four hours to think it over,” Bolton said after a pause.
When he’d hung up, I added his name and his series offer to my Zamir file. Maybe Murray was raring to go, maybe not, but there was no reason for this project except to keep an eye on what I was doing.