“Taggett was there,” I persisted. “He took questions on the proposal.”
She gave a thin smile. “Superintendent Taggett would never have presented a preliminary idea as a completed proposal. I suggest you talk to your community group and find out what the superintendent said to them when he came to their meeting. They may have exaggerated the state of the proposal in an effort to push him into quicker action than he’s able to provide.”
I thought about demanding to speak to her boss, but if the official line was to stonewall inquiries, all I would do is waste more of my own time without any result except to increase my frustration. Just to stir the pot, though, or maybe because I hate admitting defeat, I left a note for the superintendent:
Dear Mr. Taggett,
You said if I wanted to talk to you, to come to your office. Here I am.
I understand that the proposals for changes to the Burnham Wildlife Corridor are preliminary only and not available for public viewing. Has your team let you know that Mr. Prinz’s computer has disappeared, as have Mr. Lensky’s maps and drawings of the park during that well-timed mugging? Thieves could well get those maps out on the Internet, but ordinary citizens don’t have access to the maps and drawings Mr. Prinz showed at the most recent SLICK meeting. Can you please tell your highly protective staff to let me look at such drawings as are available?
I signed it with my office phone and email. Taggett might never receive it, of course, but I felt the dubious satisfaction of having the last word.
When I looked at my phone back in my car, I saw a message from Donna Lutas at Devlin & Wickham: I could come into the office tomorrow at eleven, and she and one of her coworkers would help me figure out a way to search for Lydia.
33
A Little Help from My Friends (?)
Before going down to the Devlin offices in the morning, I called Mona Borsa to tell her about my futile visit to the Park District the previous day.
“They say all the plans are preliminary, and that none of the drawings are available for public viewing, so what were you showing in those public meetings?”
“They gave us drawings, we showed the drawings.” Her voice was tired. Simon’s death had turned her apathetic.
“Then why is Taggett withholding them now?”
“I don’t know. Maybe because all Simon’s copies got lost when his briefcase was stolen. They need to make sure they’re using the same material they gave us, so they have to double-check their records. I guess. Why do you care?”
“I’m trying to figure out whether the drawings played a role in his and Leo’s murders. Leo was arguing with him about one of the maps, remember?”
“No.” Her voice sharpened. “That’s your memory, not mine. I don’t remember them arguing about anything at all.” She hung up.
I was lucky again this morning with street parking near the old Ft. Dearborn Bank building. Donna Lutas was apparently eager to see me—the guard sent me straight up to the tenth floor. Lutas met me by the elevators, accompanied by another young woman, both in the uniform of striving young professionals—blazers, man-tailored white shirts, pencil skirts. Lutas started to hustle us into the Devlin offices, but I turned to her companion, hand held out, and introduced myself.
“Rikki Samundar, from our Mumbai office.” She flashed a smile, teeth very white against dark skin. “Let’s see what our three brains can do to find this unfortunate singer.”
She swiped a key card against a pair of heavy wood doors and held one open for me, admitting me to the Devlin & Wickham main lobby. The heavy furniture and drapes gave it an atmosphere more of a funeral parlor than a modern law firm, but a six-foot bronze of a bucking horse demonstrated the partners’ commitment to fine art.
“The Mumbai office?” I said to Samundar. “How did Lydia Zamir end up on Mumbai’s radar?”
Samundar flashed another smile, not shared by Lutas, who was holding her shoulders so stiffly I could have broken pieces from them.
“I trained for the bar under British and Indian law, but all Devlin attorneys need a working knowledge of American legal systems, no matter where we’re placed. I’m one of the fortunate ones who gets to intern here at the U.S. headquarters. And I was one of the young research team when the firm undertook Arthur Morton’s defense.”
She stopped to tell a receptionist we would be in conference room L and that her and Lutas’s phone calls should be routed through to there for the next hour. Conference room L held a cart with coffee and soft drinks, a speakerphone, a wall monitor, notepads, and a view of the pillars of the Federal Reserve Bank across the street.
“I’ve been curious about that,” I said. “How did a firm like Devlin hear of a Kansas farm boy?”
Samundar laughed, softly. “Everyone in the world briefly knew about that Kansas farm boy, Ms. Warshawski. However, we have clients among the big ranchers in the west of the state. Specifically, Sea-2-Sea had acquired Arthur Morton’s family farm when his father had to abandon it. Local people harbored ill will, thinking Sea-2-Sea had driven the farm boy to desperation and so to murder. By taking on the case, pro bono, with Sea-2-Sea covering the administrative costs, we were able to smooth over some of those feelings.”
“That sounds most noble,” I said dryly.
“In a big farm state like Kansas, there are vast spaces with many cattle and few humans.” Samundar spread her arms, indicating the size of the western lands. “Sea-2-Sea found poison in one of their wells, cattle stolen from other holdings. It was important that they regain the trust of their neighbors.”
Lutas was watching me closely, as if to monitor how much of this story I bought. I smiled amiably: yes, I’m on board with your version of events.
“Of course, Lydia Zamir was deeply disturbed by her lover’s murder,” I said. “She wasn’t placated by Sea-2-Sea’s goodwill gesture.”
“Personally, I was devastated by her deterioration after the trial. All my friends at home loved her Continental Requiem album, especially ‘Savage.’”
“But professionally, you agreed with the orders of protection.”
Samundar held out her hands, palms up, the gesture of helplessness. “What could we do? She actually tried to attack Clarence Gorbeck—our lead attorney at the trial—physically, not just in court, but also here, on LaSalle Street.”
“So how do you think you can help find her?” I asked.
“Her boyfriend was from Chile.” Donna Lutas spoke for the first time.
“Hector Palurdo was American,” I said sharply. “He was born in Chicago to two American citizens.”
Lutas waved an impatient hand. “His father was from Chile, which amounts to the same thing. We’ve contacted our Santiago offices to be on the lookout for Zamir. It seems Hector Palurdo had an aunt who worked there a long time ago. The Zamir woman might have gone there, looking for his family.”
“Filomena Palurdo worked for Devlin in Chile?” I was so startled I ignored her ignorant statement about Jacobo’s Chilean birth meaning Hector was essentially Chilean.
Jacobo had told his wife that his sister had been murdered. Or at least, Elisa told me that was what Jacobo had said. I had no idea whose version of events I could trust in this story.