a textbook stalker. And the murder weapon was in bed with him.”
“You’ve tested the weapon?”
“I know you think we’re too inept to tie our shoes without you holding the laces for us, but, yes, it did occur to me to get the weapon tested. The Glock on the pillow next to Chad Vishneski fired the bullet that killed Nadia Guaman.”
“And residue? You did an atomic absorption test on Chad’s hands?” I persisted despite his annoyance.
“Of co—” He broke off mid-word. “I’ll get back to you on that as well.”
I was aching to know what Finchley was reading on the computer. Had someone screwed up and forgotten to test Chad? Or was there some anomaly in the result itself that gave him pause?
“By the way,” I said, “it would help Chad’s treatment if the doctors knew what drugs they found in his system. Did they test him over at Cermak?”
“Freeman Carter can get a court order, if you need to know.”
That raised my hackles. I hadn’t planned on riding him about sloppy work at the crime scene, but I added, “You might like to know that Chad vomited on his pillowcase. I sent that, and the empty beer cans by the bed, out to a private forensic lab for analysis.”
“Damn you, Warshawski, couldn’t you have called me first?”
“It was four days after Guaman’s murder. I figured if your team had wanted to collect evidence, they had plenty of time.”
I thought I could hear Finchley gnash his teeth, but all he said was, “If someone jumps you tonight, or breaks into your place, don’t call 911, Vic. Even if we caught the perp red-handed, you wouldn’t think we knew what we were doing.”
I opened my mouth to apologize, then stopped. I would not apologize for letting Terry Finchley know his team had missed evidence. And I would not apologize for getting Chad Vishneski good medical care—assuming it wasn’t too late.
19
The Grumpy Cousin
The client called moments after Finchley had slammed the phone in my ear to ask if I’d found anything.
“It’s more what I haven’t found, Mr. Vishneski.” I explained what my search at Nadia Guaman’s had turned up—or actually, hadn’t turned up.
“So you’re saying you can’t prove anything,” he cried, frustrated. “And I still have to come up with money for your bill. If I promised someone a building would go up and he came around and found an empty hole in the ground, he’d be within his rights to sue me. Especially if I’d taken his money.”
“Detecting isn’t like putting up a building. It’s like hide-and-seek. They’re hiding, I’m seeking, and right now the hiders are ahead of me. They’re very good. If you think you can find a better seeker, I can understand that. I will say that I have not failed a client yet, but I’m sure that’s how you feel about your buildings, too.”
He wasn’t ready to fire me, we both knew that. He just needed to vent his fears about his son. His son, who Iraq had changed from happy boy to angry man. His son, who was lying in a coma. His son, who might have killed a young woman.
Outside, I dusted the residue of the snow from my car. My cousin had been texting me when I’d been on the phone with Terry, her messages increasing in urgency. While the engine warmed up, I phoned her, wondering what new crisis had occurred at Club Gouge.
“Vic, I got fired,” she blurted as soon as she heard my voice.
“I’m not sure that’s such a bad thing,” I said. “Club Gouge is looking more and more unstable—”
“You don’t understand! From my day job. That’s why I’m calling. I desperately need the club job now. And when I called in this afternoon, to see if they could add to my hours, Olympia told me she’d only do it if you stopped hanging around the club. She says you’re bad for her business and she can’t keep me on if you keep showing up.”
I massaged my forehead with my gloved hand—a mistake, because I rubbed melted snow into my face. How typical of Olympia to blackmail one of her waitstaff like this.
“You need to look for a real job, pronto. Olympia is way too erratic for you to count on her for your rent money. Besides which, I need to be at the club as I work on Nadia Guaman’s murder. If I have to come back, I’ll figure out a disguise, but—”