Sophy Duran-goo believes in letting her one teenage daughter loose in the urban jungle on her own.”
Kendrick paused dramatically. “Who was Miles Wuchnik, and why doesn’t Sophy Durango want to talk about him? Was he her lover? Was her daughter in the cemetery because Sophy brought her child there with her while she met her lover? The voters of Illinois have a right to answers to these questions.”
The harsh voice went on and on with one hate-filled phrase after another. I couldn’t seem to move, not even to summon the energy to turn off the television. The leap from Nia, to Wuchnik’s death, to the assertion that he’d been Sophy Durango’s lover, was made seamlessly, but without any regard to facts or logic. What could Durango possibly say to counter such extreme language?
The station finally turned to a commercial. The sight of women jumping up and down in a field of daisies, extolling the freedom that came from a drug to control leaky bladders, seemed like a garish counterpoint to Kendrick’s onslaught. The drug might well be part of Kendrick Pharm’s profit centers, but the dancing women broke the spell of Kendrick’s voice enough that I could turn off the set and resume dressing.
11.
HERE A MOB, THERE A MOB
A S I PUT ON LIPSTICK AND EYELINER, MY LANDLINE RANG A few times. In case Leydon was trying to call me again, I let the calls roll over to the answering machine. It turned out I was getting my own fifteen minutes of fame: NPR and the local CBS affiliate both wanted to talk to me about what I’d seen in the cemetery.
The third call, as I was finally walking out the door, came from Max Loewenthal. “Victoria, I will try your office number. Chaim Salanter would like to talk to you and I promised to act as a go-between.”
That was so startling I turned back to pick up the phone, but Max had hung up. Anyway, I was late. I raced to my office, where I dumped my car and picked up the L into the Loop.
In between meetings and teleconferences with the clients who form the backbone of my business, I called Max. He didn’t know why Salanter wanted to talk to me, although we both took for granted it had to do with his granddaughter’s outing and Wuchnik’s death.
“He called me because he knows me from Malina’s board. We’re not at all close; he’s not a person one becomes close to, although of course I’ve cultivated him as a potential donor to Beth Israel. He hoped you could meet him for lunch today.”
“Not possible today. I’ve got commitments until—” I’d been about to say until five, and then I remembered my tangled conversation with Leydon. Assuming I could figure out our old favorite spot, I’d be heading there at five-thirty. “Tell him I’m free this evening after seven or so. And give him my cell-phone number; no need for you to act as his gofer.”
At every meeting I went to that day, people were frankly curious about the girls and the dead Miles Wuchnik. Their voyeurism didn’t trouble me particularly—we’re all human, after all, we most of us take part in a gaper’s gawk when there’s blood and gore all over the floor. What bothered me was to find out the number of my clients who took Helen Kendrick seriously.
Kendrick’s tirade this morning had been on everyone’s smartphone within thirty seconds—all these lawyers and managers subscribe to news feeds, of course. And a number thought Kendrick raised legitimate questions.
“Why was Sophy Durango in the cemetery?” one corporate security VP demanded.
“She wasn’t,” I protested. “She was downstate Saturday night, campaigning in Jacksonville and Roodhouse for the U.S. Senate. I read about it in yesterday’s Herald-Star. She didn’t get home until Sunday.”
“That’s what she wants you to think,” the vice president said, pitying me for my gullibility. He scrolled through his phone. “Jacksonville—that’s near St. Louis. She could hop into Chaim Salanter’s private jet, fly here to kill the
Kendrick paused dramatically. “Who was Miles Wuchnik, and why doesn’t Sophy Durango want to talk about him? Was he her lover? Was her daughter in the cemetery because Sophy brought her child there with her while she met her lover? The voters of Illinois have a right to answers to these questions.”
The harsh voice went on and on with one hate-filled phrase after another. I couldn’t seem to move, not even to summon the energy to turn off the television. The leap from Nia, to Wuchnik’s death, to the assertion that he’d been Sophy Durango’s lover, was made seamlessly, but without any regard to facts or logic. What could Durango possibly say to counter such extreme language?
The station finally turned to a commercial. The sight of women jumping up and down in a field of daisies, extolling the freedom that came from a drug to control leaky bladders, seemed like a garish counterpoint to Kendrick’s onslaught. The drug might well be part of Kendrick Pharm’s profit centers, but the dancing women broke the spell of Kendrick’s voice enough that I could turn off the set and resume dressing.
11.
HERE A MOB, THERE A MOB
A S I PUT ON LIPSTICK AND EYELINER, MY LANDLINE RANG A few times. In case Leydon was trying to call me again, I let the calls roll over to the answering machine. It turned out I was getting my own fifteen minutes of fame: NPR and the local CBS affiliate both wanted to talk to me about what I’d seen in the cemetery.
The third call, as I was finally walking out the door, came from Max Loewenthal. “Victoria, I will try your office number. Chaim Salanter would like to talk to you and I promised to act as a go-between.”
That was so startling I turned back to pick up the phone, but Max had hung up. Anyway, I was late. I raced to my office, where I dumped my car and picked up the L into the Loop.
In between meetings and teleconferences with the clients who form the backbone of my business, I called Max. He didn’t know why Salanter wanted to talk to me, although we both took for granted it had to do with his granddaughter’s outing and Wuchnik’s death.
“He called me because he knows me from Malina’s board. We’re not at all close; he’s not a person one becomes close to, although of course I’ve cultivated him as a potential donor to Beth Israel. He hoped you could meet him for lunch today.”
“Not possible today. I’ve got commitments until—” I’d been about to say until five, and then I remembered my tangled conversation with Leydon. Assuming I could figure out our old favorite spot, I’d be heading there at five-thirty. “Tell him I’m free this evening after seven or so. And give him my cell-phone number; no need for you to act as his gofer.”
At every meeting I went to that day, people were frankly curious about the girls and the dead Miles Wuchnik. Their voyeurism didn’t trouble me particularly—we’re all human, after all, we most of us take part in a gaper’s gawk when there’s blood and gore all over the floor. What bothered me was to find out the number of my clients who took Helen Kendrick seriously.
Kendrick’s tirade this morning had been on everyone’s smartphone within thirty seconds—all these lawyers and managers subscribe to news feeds, of course. And a number thought Kendrick raised legitimate questions.
“Why was Sophy Durango in the cemetery?” one corporate security VP demanded.
“She wasn’t,” I protested. “She was downstate Saturday night, campaigning in Jacksonville and Roodhouse for the U.S. Senate. I read about it in yesterday’s Herald-Star. She didn’t get home until Sunday.”
“That’s what she wants you to think,” the vice president said, pitying me for my gullibility. He scrolled through his phone. “Jacksonville—that’s near St. Louis. She could hop into Chaim Salanter’s private jet, fly here to kill the
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