if it comes from you than from me. But I’d suggest instead of saying you’re bringing in a bodyguard that you tell her you want a friend with Chad at all hours in case he wakes up when you’re not around.”
“I’ll talk to her, but, man, I wish you knew what was going on. This is so frustrating, you not knowing if my boy’s in danger or not, or who from. How could he survive Iraq and get caught in some conspiracy here at home? Do you think it’s al-Qaeda, stalking an American soldier out of revenge?”
“I don’t think Arabs were with your son the night he was drugged.” Mona Vishneski’s nosy neighbor would have noticed Arabs. “And if al-Qaeda was at work here, the Justice Department or Homeland Security would be tripping over me in this investigation. Does Chad know any older guys who served in Desert Storm, maybe, or even Vietnam?”
“God, I don’t know. Maybe he met some guys at the VA, but he never said anything about them to me.”
I looked across the room at Tim Radke and Petra and remembered that chunks of Chad’s blog had been blocked or deleted.
“I’ve got to go, Mr. Vishneski. But if you were going to guess at a password your son might have used on his blog, what would it be?”
“Password? What are you talking about now?”
“Some way to try to get at his missing posts. Do you have a hunch about a password for him?”
Vishneski thought a moment, then said, “Probably he’d have the number 54 in it, on account of he’s a big Brian Urlacher fan. Maybe something about the Black Hawks. I’d try those.”
34
Night Work
We drove down to Club Gouge in Petra’s Pathfinder, Tim in the front seat with my cousin, me drowsing in the back. I’d collected my picklocks from my car’s glove compartment and locked my handbag, with Chad’s black armor mitt, in my trunk. I planned to drive straight to the Cheviot labs in the morning.
“So is this, like, your first break-in?” Petra asked Tim. “It’s my—I don’t know—do I count the time you broke into my apartment when I forgot my keys, Vic?” She looked over her shoulder at me as she spoke, and the Pathfinder fishtailed.
“Keep your eyes on the road,” I squawked. “I don’t want it to be my last.”
Petra managed to straighten out, narrowly avoiding a collision with an oncoming bus.
“Do you two gals think because I was a soldier I’m some sort of outlaw?” Tim Radke asked. “I mean, Vic here thinks I’m a hacker. And you, you think I’m a break-in artist.”
“I’m the outlaw in this party,” I said just as Petra started to say, Oh, gosh, me and my motormouth. “Unless you have skills you’re keeping to yourself, I’m the one who can pick a padlock in thirty seconds using the lip of a sardine can. Petra, darling Petra, put your damned phone away or let Tim or me drive, okay?”
“Gosh, Vic, I was just—”
Tim took the phone from her. “I didn’t survive five years in Iraq to die in a Chicago car crash.”
“Okay, okay, you two bullies,” Petra said. “I’ll get back at you, see if I don’t.”
Without seeing her face, I knew she was giving her exaggerated pout, the look she assumed when she knew she’d been caught in the wrong. We were taking her car because neither my Mustang nor Tim’s old truck handled well on these slush-filled streets, but I was beginning to realize that a good car isn’t as important as a focused driver.
When we got to Club Gouge, I had Petra drive slowly past so I could see if Olympia had any security in place. The fire had been confined to the interior, so no boarding alerted you to the damage. Only the empty parking lot told passersby the club was closed. That and a message in the box by the front door used to announce upcoming acts. Tonight it read “Club Gouge is closed for repairs. Stay tuned for our grand reopening next week.” Which was clever, because no matter when the repairs were complete, the grand reopening would always be next week.
No one seemed to be watching the club, either from the alley or the L platform. I told Petra to park up the street and stay in the car with Tim while I worked the lock. If I holler, take off, and leave me on my own.”
Tim got out of the car with me. “I learned a thing