Her dry, wry concern was a good tonic. I dressed quickly, in a greenand-black-striped trouser suit that I liked: it was professional but had a bit of style in the jacket waist.

Down at my office, I started my calls with one to Darraugh, so I could report on his mother’s early morning alarm. Darraugh was in New York, but his assistant said she would make sure he knew the sheriff’s deputies hadn’t found any signs of a breakin. She added that they’d already heard twice from Ms. Graham (“She wasn’t sure you understood the urgency of the assignment, but I assured her that Mr. Graham has full confidence in your abilities.”)

“I can’t get a handle on what Marcus Whitby was doing out there,” I told Caroline. “Jerry Hastings, the DuPage County ME, only did a superficial autopsy. It would be helpful if we could pin down the cause of death more exactly than drowning-if we could even make sure Marcus Whitby drowned in that water. Do you think Darraugh would be willing to call Dr. Hastings? Hastings won’t respond to a Chicago PI, but-you know how the world goes. Darraugh’s family has been prominent in DuPage for a long time.” “I’ll mention it to him when we next talk,” Caroline promised.

I next phoned Harriet Whitby at the Drake. I explained that besides

trying a strategy to buy time on the release of Marc’s body, I was also trying to get someone to push on the DuPage ME to do a more complete autopsy. “In case neither of these ideas pan out, you should get your mother to agree to a private autopsy”

“I guess I can try,” she said, without a lot of enthusiasm. “What else will you be doing?”

“I’m going over to Llewellyn Publishing, see if they’ll tell me what your brother was working on when he died. They’ve been stonewalling the press, but they might tell me since I’m working for you. I’m going to be in motion all day; take my cell phone number so you can call me if you need to-especially if Amy finds someone to let us into your brother’s house. How long will you be in town?”

“It all depends on Mother,” she said. “If I can persuade her to slow down … but she’d like to hold the funeral on Friday or Saturday.”

I offered to talk to her mother myself, but Harriet still didn’t think that would be a good idea. “It’s not as if there’s any evidence of, well, that there was anything wrong, except for him being out there to begin with. Unless you find something concrete, she’s not going to listen. She’s determined to believe it was a tragic accident.” She let out a harsh squawk of a laugh. “Maybe I’m just doing the opposite, pretending he didn’t die for no reason at all.”

“Let’s not worry about your motives right now,” I said gently. “The questions you’re asking deserve answers.”

Before going to Llewellyn Publishing, I wrapped up the work I needed to do on my three small jobs. I also looked up Marcus Whitby’s previous work. His stories for T-Square had centered on African-American writers and artists: Shirley Graham, Ann Perry, Lois Mailou Jones, the Federal Negro Theater Project of the thirties. He had detailed the rise, fall and current resurgence of Bronzeville-the South Side neighborhood where he’d bought a house-as a way of showcasing Richard Wright’s Chicago years. Whitby had occasionally written for Rolling Stone, and had done a recent piece on a young black writer whose first novel had made a big splash a year or so back. About ten years ago, Whitby wrote a biting essay on his arrest and imprisonment during an antiapartheid demonstration in Massachusetts. So that was how he’d picked up a sheet: he didn’t have any other arrests on his record that I could see.