of his squad cars over to the address on Superior that Olympia had given him and ordered another unit to take the thugs to the station for booking.
“You can’t arrest them just on Warshawski’s say-so.” Olympia had given up her little-girl act. “I’m not pressing charges.”
One of the men in cuffs winked at her and said, “Not to be worrying like this, Olympia. Lawyer will come. All will be well.”
There were a few minutes of bustle, with Terry’s minions shoving the punks out the door, followed by the fire crew and the rest of the cops.
“You need to go, too, Warshawski.” Olympia’s smile disappeared with the disappearing lawmen. “I warned you to stay away from my club, but you came back, you set a fire—”
“If you keep saying that, Koilada, you are going to be facing such a big lawsuit that even your sugar daddy won’t bail you out.”
Olympia gave an exaggerated yawn. “Good night, Vic. Get out and don’t come back, not unless you’re bringing a check to cover the damages. And tell Petra she’s got to find a new job.”
“No, Olympia, darling. I’m not your manager. You want to fire one of your staff, you spit it out in person, to her face. And if you think you can do a deal with Anton Kystarnik, in or out of bed, do remember that his wife died in a plane crash so well orchestrated that everyone agreed it was an accident.”
“It was an accident.”
I gave a tight parody of a smile. “And so was the fire on your stage. Good night, Olympia. Angels guide you to your rest, and all that.”
An unmarked car, bristling with antennas, was in the lot. I felt for my gun, but it was Terry, waiting for a private word with me. He got out of the backseat and followed me to my car.
“Vic, you know there’s not a lot we can do if Koilada insists on her story. Not unless the—uh—Artist backs up your statement. But just for my own curiosity, what was going on in there?”
“I don’t know, Terry. Olympia owes a bundle to someone. It could be as much as a million dollars, and it could be to Anton Kystarnik. Rodney Treffer, the heavy you picked up tonight, works for Kystarnik, and the boys and girls who took over the place tonight were speaking some Slavic language. Connect the dots your own way, but to me it looks as though Olympia lets them use the club as some kind of way of getting information to each other without going through any wires. That’s why they’re so furious that they can’t get access to the pictures on her site. My opinion only, of course.”
I started my engine.
“What were you doing here tonight?”
For a moment I couldn’t remember, the evening had been so full of drama.
“Nadia Guaman’s older sister died in Iraq,” I finally said. “I’m thinking Nadia’s murder is connected to that, to the fact that Chad Vishneski was over there when Alexandra Guaman died.”
Terry slapped the roof of my car in frustration.
“I don’t know who gets my goat more: that piece of work in there”—he gestured toward the club—“pretending a bunch of lowlifes were rehearsing a show, or you, thinking you can skate right over evidence of murder because it doesn’t fit some damned theory of yours.”
“Listen to me . . . Oh, forget it. Do what you want.” I fumbled in my bag for a dollar bill. “This picture of Washington bets that when your team gets to the address Olympia gave you, you’ll find a vacant lot. Or maybe an abandoned warehouse. You won’t find Karen Buckley.”
He was starting to answer me when his phone rang. He had a short, biting conversation with someone and then squatted to look me in the eye.
“How did you know?” he asked. “Have you been over there?”
“That was your officer out on West Superior?”
“It’s a warehouse, but it’s empty. How did you know, Warshawski? Are you involved in some con of your own?”
“It was a guess. I’ve been around these women awhile now and they are the original shell shufflers.”
“Oh, hell !” he swore uncharacteristically. “That explains—”
“What?” I asked, when he bit off the sentence.
“Just that an alert squad car found the SUV your Artist boosted. She’d dumped it on Irving near the Blue Line, which means she could have jumped the L to anywhere in town or even the airport. We put an alert out at O’Hare, but TSA can’t find the bathroom