I had been a Cubs fan for too many years to have any hope; I switched off the set.

“That the pond you was in, doll?” Mr. Contreras said. “Doesn’t look like the kind of place a man would choose to drown in. Not if he lived in the city and had this whole great big lake right at his doorstep.”

“None of it makes a lot of sense. Unless he was meeting someone out there.” I told the old man about Catherine Bayard. “I don’t know if she was a source he was meeting or a lover-“

“A lover? Sixteen-year-old kid and a black-” He caught my eye and hastily changed to “and a man that age?”

“Please,” I coughed hoarsely. “You’re the only person I’ve told about finding her there. I just learned her name this evening and I am counting the minutes until I can get my hands on her in person. But if Whitby didn’t go out to New Solway to see her, what was he doing there? Maybe his magazine will talk to me. I know they’ve been stiffing reporters, but, after all, I’m the person who found their guy’s body.”

Mr. Contreras patted my arm reassuringly. “You’ll have some bright idea in the morning, cookie: I know you. Right now you need to go back to bed, nurse that cold.”

The phone rang as I got up to help him stack the dishes. I looked at the clock: nine-forty. I almost let it go, figuring it was either Beth Blacksin or Murray Ryerson, wanting to talk about the sheriff’s report on Marcus Whitby, or, even worse, Geraldine Graham wanting more attention. But what if Morrell-I jumped on the phone before my answering service could pick it up.

“Is this V I. Warshawski? It is? You sound different. This is Amy Blount ” “Ms. Blount?” I was surprised. Our paths had crossed last summer: she

had a Ph.D. in economic history and had written a book on an insurance company I was investigating. We’d achieved some degree of mutual respect during the course of my investigation, but we weren’t friends.

“I’m sorry to call so late, but-Harriet Whitby is with me. We were roommates at Spelman. She wants to talk to you.”

“Sure. Put her on.” I tried to mask the dismay I felt: I didn’t have the energy to talk to the dead man’s sister. “Although I doubt I can tell her anything that she hasn’t heard from the sheriff.”

“She wants to talk in person. It’s difficult to explain, and I shouldn’t try to do it on her behalf, but, because I know you, it seemed easier for me than her to call you … I don’t know if you remember, but you gave me your home number last summer.”

Of course Marcus Whitby’s sister would want to talk face-to-face to the person who found her brother’s body. My morning was free; I told Amy I’d be glad to drive down to her Hyde Park apartment if she and Ms. Whitby didn’t feel like coming to my office.