Instead, Mr. Contreras and the dogs came bustling down the walk to greet me, the old man voluble in relief that I hadn’t been locked up. I lay on his living room floor with my arms around Peppy, running through the highlights, or maybe lowlights, of the evening. When he learned the FBI had also searched my office, and might well be tapping my phone, Mr. Contreras spoke his views on the law colorfully and at length. He might think any and all measures the government had taken in the name of protecting America were justified, no matter whose rights they violated-but when it came down to me, the Feds had crossed an inviolable line. I’d always miss my mother when times were hard, but having my neighbor as a partisan was a pretty good second.

“But going out the window of that mansion, doll, that musta shook you up bad. I see how you been favoring your shoulder.”

“It wasn’t the window, it was diving into the pond and then climbing up

that wretched wall. I saw”-I stopped just before blurting out Father Lou’s name-“a sports trainer on my way home this afternoon. He gave me some salve and told me to tape up the shoulder. I just haven’t had time to stop at a drugstore for firm enough tape-I’ve been using an Ace bandage, which doesn’t hold the muscle quite in place.”

“Go see the doc tomorrow. Don’t rely on no sports trainer’s half-baked notions.”

That was a good idea: Lotty dispensed more than medical comforts from her storefront clinic. I lay on the dog’s shoulder, thinking I should get up and go to bed before I fell asleep on the floor, when my cell phone rang. To Peppy’s indignation, I stopped petting her and got up to retrieve the phone from my handbag.

It was Harriet Whitby, apologizing for calling so late, but she and Amy were at the hotel waiting for me; did I still want to see them?

I was about to moan that I was too tired to move, but then I remembered that the DuPage state’s attorney was going to ask the Whitbys to return Marcus’s body. I needed to talk to Harriet tonight, so she didn’t learn about it from some functionary. In case the Feds were really monitoring my calls, I didn’t want them to learn that I had already organized a full autopsy. I told Harriet I’d be at the hotel in half an hour.

When Mr. Contreras realized I was going out again, he tried to argue me out of it: it was late, I was beat, I shouldn’t be driving. I agreed with all of those things, but said I would take a cab. It’s one of the few benefits of living in Chicago’s most congested neighborhood, that taxis cruise the streets at all hours. Mr. Contreras and the dogs walked down to the corner with me and waited until a cab pulled up in front of a new hot spot at Belmont and Sheffield. He ushered me in with the assurance that he would wait up for me.