roared past, rattling the little Omega. The car cooled, and my feet began growing numb inside their pumps. “Two shots in the head and the police still haven’t ruled out suicide,” I muttered. My voice jarred me back to myself; I turned the motor on and headed back into the city at a sober pace.
WBBM played the story at ten-minute intervals, with few new details. The bullets were from a twenty-two-caliber pistol. The police finally decided to eliminate suicide since no gun was found by the body. Miss Paciorek’s purse had been recovered from a locked drawer in her desk. I heard Sergeant McGonnigal saying in a voice made scratchy by static that someone must have intended to rob her, then killed her in rage because she didn’t have a purse.
On impulse I drove north to Addison and stopped in front of Lotty’s apartment. It was almost eleven: no lights showed. Lotty gets her sleep when she can—her practice involves a lot of night emergencies. My trouble would keep.
Back at my own apartment, I changed from my suit into a quilted robe and sat down in the living room with a glass of Black Label whiskey. Agnes and I went back a long way together, back to the Golden Age of the sixties, when we thought love and energy would end racism and sexism. She’d come from a wealthy family, her father a heart surgeon at one of the big suburban hospitals. They’d fought her about her friends, her life-style, her ambitions, and she’d won every battle. Relations with her mother became more and more strained. I would have to call Mrs. Paciorek, who disliked me since I represented everything she didn’t want Agnes to be. I’d have to hear how they always knew this would happen, working downtown where the niggers are. I drank another glass of whiskey.
I’d forgotten all about laying some bait for my anonymous phone caller until the telephone interrupted my maudlin mood. I jumped slightly and looked at my watch: eleven-thirty. I picked up a Dictaphone from my desk and turned it to “Record” before picking up the receiver.
It was Roger Ferrant, feeling troubled about Agnes’s death. He’d seen it on the ten o’clock news and tried calling me then. We commiserated a bit; then he said hesitantly, “I feel responsible for her death.”
The whiskey was fogging my brain slightly. “What’d you do—send a punk up to the sixtieth floor of the Fort Dearborn Tower?” I switched off the Dictaphone and sat down.
“Vic, I don’t need your tough-girl act. I feel responsible because she was staying late working on this possible Ajax takeover. It wasn’t something she had time for during the day. If you hadn’t called her—”
“If you hadn’t called her, she would have been there late working on another project,” I interrupted him coldly. “Agnes often finished her day late—the lady worked hard. And if it comes to that, you wouldn’t have called her if I hadn’t given you her number, so if anyone’s responsible, it’s me.” I took another swallow of whiskey. “And I won’t believe that.”
We hung up. I finished my third glass of scotch and put the bottle away in the built-in cupboard in the dining room, draped my robe over a chair back, and climbed naked into bed. Just as I turned out the bedside light, something Ferrant had said rang a bell with me. I called him back on the bedside phone.
“It’s me, Vic. How did you know Agnes was working late on your project tonight?”
“I talked to her this afternoon. She said she was going to stay late and talk to some of her broker pals; she didn’t have time to get to it during the day.”
“In person or on the phone?”
“Huh? Oh, I don’t know.” He thought about it. “I can’t remember exactly what she said. But it left me with the impression that she was planning to see someone in person.”
“You should talk to the police, Roger.” I hung up and fell asleep almost immediately.
Chapter 10 - Mixed Grill
NO MATTER HOW often I wake up with a headache,
WBBM played the story at ten-minute intervals, with few new details. The bullets were from a twenty-two-caliber pistol. The police finally decided to eliminate suicide since no gun was found by the body. Miss Paciorek’s purse had been recovered from a locked drawer in her desk. I heard Sergeant McGonnigal saying in a voice made scratchy by static that someone must have intended to rob her, then killed her in rage because she didn’t have a purse.
On impulse I drove north to Addison and stopped in front of Lotty’s apartment. It was almost eleven: no lights showed. Lotty gets her sleep when she can—her practice involves a lot of night emergencies. My trouble would keep.
Back at my own apartment, I changed from my suit into a quilted robe and sat down in the living room with a glass of Black Label whiskey. Agnes and I went back a long way together, back to the Golden Age of the sixties, when we thought love and energy would end racism and sexism. She’d come from a wealthy family, her father a heart surgeon at one of the big suburban hospitals. They’d fought her about her friends, her life-style, her ambitions, and she’d won every battle. Relations with her mother became more and more strained. I would have to call Mrs. Paciorek, who disliked me since I represented everything she didn’t want Agnes to be. I’d have to hear how they always knew this would happen, working downtown where the niggers are. I drank another glass of whiskey.
I’d forgotten all about laying some bait for my anonymous phone caller until the telephone interrupted my maudlin mood. I jumped slightly and looked at my watch: eleven-thirty. I picked up a Dictaphone from my desk and turned it to “Record” before picking up the receiver.
It was Roger Ferrant, feeling troubled about Agnes’s death. He’d seen it on the ten o’clock news and tried calling me then. We commiserated a bit; then he said hesitantly, “I feel responsible for her death.”
The whiskey was fogging my brain slightly. “What’d you do—send a punk up to the sixtieth floor of the Fort Dearborn Tower?” I switched off the Dictaphone and sat down.
“Vic, I don’t need your tough-girl act. I feel responsible because she was staying late working on this possible Ajax takeover. It wasn’t something she had time for during the day. If you hadn’t called her—”
“If you hadn’t called her, she would have been there late working on another project,” I interrupted him coldly. “Agnes often finished her day late—the lady worked hard. And if it comes to that, you wouldn’t have called her if I hadn’t given you her number, so if anyone’s responsible, it’s me.” I took another swallow of whiskey. “And I won’t believe that.”
We hung up. I finished my third glass of scotch and put the bottle away in the built-in cupboard in the dining room, draped my robe over a chair back, and climbed naked into bed. Just as I turned out the bedside light, something Ferrant had said rang a bell with me. I called him back on the bedside phone.
“It’s me, Vic. How did you know Agnes was working late on your project tonight?”
“I talked to her this afternoon. She said she was going to stay late and talk to some of her broker pals; she didn’t have time to get to it during the day.”
“In person or on the phone?”
“Huh? Oh, I don’t know.” He thought about it. “I can’t remember exactly what she said. But it left me with the impression that she was planning to see someone in person.”
“You should talk to the police, Roger.” I hung up and fell asleep almost immediately.
Chapter 10 - Mixed Grill
NO MATTER HOW often I wake up with a headache,
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