I pulled open my PalmPilot to get the Bayard apartment number when I suddenly realized I hadn’t called Mr. Contreras. When I reached him, my neighbor had already been on the phone to Freeman Carter to warn him that I’d disappeared. The old man’s relief at hearing from me slid rapidly into a prolonged scolding. I cut him short so I could get to Freeman Carter before he spent billable hours trying to find me in a holding cell.

It was seven-thirty; Freeman was at home. “I’m glad you’re still at large, Vic. Your neighbor has been anxious enough to phone me three times. For God’s sake, if you’re not in trouble, remember to check in with him on time-once he starts, he goes on for a year or two before he stops.” “Yeah, sorry: I was in a meeting with Augustus Llewellyn, trying to figure out what all these rich important people did fifty years ago that they don’t want anyone to know about today. While I’ve got you on the phone, did Harriet Whitby talk to you about getting her brother’s tox screen from the county?”

“The tox screen. Right. Callie told me it came in just as we were shutting down for the day. Neither of us have read it, but I’ll have her messenger over a copy first thing in the morning. I’m going to dinner. Good night.”

People kept hanging up on me abruptly, or shoving me out of their homes and offices, as if talking to me wasn’t the pleasure it should be. Even Lotty … and Morrell, who should have been here to hold me close and tell me I was a good detective and a good person, where was he?

As if to underscore that I was a pariah these days, a concierge came over and asked if I was waiting for someone in the hotel; if not, could I go elsewhere to use my phone? Rage rose in me-useless, since I had no choice except to leave. On my way through the revolving door, I caught sight of myself in a lobby mirror: my face was haggard from lack of sleep, my hair wild from running across the Loop this afternoon. No wonder the concierge wanted me to leave. And no wonder Janice Llewellyn’s first instinct had been to send for the guard-I looked more like the people in the shanties underneath the avenue than those passing me on top of it now.

I felt more like them, too, confused, tired, cold. My tired brain went round and round like a hamster on a wheel. At the top, yes, it was clear that Whitby had been killed. At the bottom, no, he’d gone into the pond on his own. How had Whitby … why wouldn’t Benji … why had Llewellyn said … why had Darraugh … Renee Bayard … I was too tired to make decisions, too tired to do anything but doggedly plow in the direction I’d already started.

Under the dim bulb of a streetlight, I picked the Bayards’ apartment number out of my PaImPilot and typed it into my cell phone. Yes, Elsbetta told me, Miss Catherine had come home today, but she was resting now and couldn’t be disturbed. Could I call back later this evening? No, Mrs. Renee had given strict orders.