had the worst ERA for the 1987 Cubs? Who died first, Leopold or Loeb?”
“I don’t think we can trust Murray,” I said to Sal. “He’s too desperate for a story.”
Murray snatched the Black Label bottle from Sal before she could pour me a drink. “Deliver, you two feminazis, or you’ll never see this bottle alive again.”
“Do we go quietly or break his arms?” Sal said.
A lifted glass sent her to a corner table with a bottle of wine. When she came back, she said to me, “You know, I told you the other night that your friend was a good manager, but that was old news, dating back to the Aurora Borealis.”
“Olympia, Club Gouge.” Murray’s smile was smug. “I can still do research even if no one wants to print my stories.”
“She got in over her head. And then a benefactor pulled her to shore,” I said.
I told Murray and Sal about Rodney, and asked Murray if he’d tracked the license plate from the sedan Rodney had been driving the night before. “Did you get his last name or an address?”
“The sedan belongs to a guy named Owen Widermayer, who’s a CPA with an office in Deerfield and a home in Winnetka,” Murray said. “Owen does not have a criminal record, and no one named Rodney works for him.”
“They’re lovers, then.” I copied Widermayer’s address into my handheld. “I don’t understand what Rodney is trying to communicate through Karen Buckley’s body. But maybe Widermayer will talk to me and it will suddenly make sense.”
While Sal went over to check on her other customers, I showed Murray the numbers I’d found on the Body Artist’s site. He puzzled over them with me but couldn’t offer any suggestions. And he had the same objection I did: If it was a code of some kind, why rely on such crude transmission. Why not use a cell phone or the Net, where you knew you’d reach your target. Or if you were afraid of eavesdroppers and hackers, why not write a letter?
Sal came back and offered me another drink, but it was getting close to ten; despite my nap earlier, I was beat. Once again, I took the side streets home. A few lazy snowflakes were falling, just enough to cover my windshield from time to time. The blurry view just about matched what was going on in my head.
Before getting ready for bed, I went to the safe I’d built into my bedroom closet. It’s where I keep my mother’s few valuable bits of jewelry and my handgun. I pulled out the Smith & Wesson and looked it over to make sure it was clean. I put in the clip, double-checked the safety, and laid it on the nightstand next to my bed. It was starting to feel like that kind of case.
20
An Egghead Enters the Scene
In the morning, I drove to the northwest suburbs under a sun that dazzled and blinded. I brought along Mitch and Peppy; before going to Owen Widermayer’s offices near the Tollway, I stopped at the Forest Preserve in Winnetka. We ran down to the lagoons, which were frozen solid enough to hold my weight, and covered with a dusting of snow that provided traction.
None of us had had much exercise the last few days, and I was glad for the chance to run. The dogs rolled in the snow and chased after balls, which bounced high on the ice. We passed people on cross-country skis who cheered us on—everyone’s spirits were better for this rare day of bright sunshine.
As we moved on, I sang “Un bel di” just because the beautiful day brought the words to mind. Yet a sense of menace underlies that aria, and menace seemed to rise up and greet me when I reached Widermayer’s building. The address board listed two tenants for the second floor: Owen Widermayer, CPA, and the Rest EZ company.
I don’t know every sleazy operation in Illinois, but Rest EZ was hard to overlook. About eight months ago, the owner, Anton Kystarnik, had been in the middle of a messy divorce when his wife conveniently died in a small-plane crash. Investigators came to the reluctant conclusion that it had been a genuine accident. I’d followed the story with the same enthusiasm as every other conspiracy theorist, learning along the way that Kystarnik’s wealth came from payday loans, which, in my book, are just juice loans that aren’t conducted in alleys.
Say you get caught short near the end of the month.