I forced my weary mind back to the time before my assault. Only three days earlier, but the neurons moved as though they’d been rusted over for years. When every muscle aches it’s hard to remember feeling whole.

I’d been warned out of South Chicago Monday night. On Wednesday I’d been dispatched most efficiently. That meant something I’d done Tuesday had brought an immediate reaction. I frowned, trying to remember what all happened that day.

I’d found Jurshak’s insurance report and talked to Ron Kappelman about it. I’d also left a message for young Art implying I had the material. These were tangible documents and it was tempting to think they showed something so damaging that people would kill to keep them secure. It might be difficult to pry the truth from Kappelman if he was concealing something, but Jurshak was such a fragile young man, I ought to be able to pound the facts from him. If only I could find him. If he was still alive.

Still, I shouldn’t concentrate on those two at the expense of the other people involved. Curtis Chigwell, for example. Early Tuesday I’d sicced Murray Ryerson on him and twelve hours later he’d tried to kill himself. And then there was the big shark, Gustav Humboldt himself. Whatever Chigwell knew, whatever they were concealing about Joey Pankowski and Steve Ferraro, Gustav Humboldt had full knowledge of. Otherwise he would never have sought me out to try to get me to swallow lies about two insignificant workers in his worldwide empire. And the insurance report Nancy had found dealt with his company. That must mean something—I just didn’t yet know what.

Finally, of course, there was little Caroline. Now that I’d worked out that she was protecting Louisa, I figured I could get her to talk. She might even know what Nancy had seen in the insurance report. She was my best starting point.

I took the blanket from my legs and got up. The dog immediately sprang to her feet, waving her tail—if I stood up, it was clearly time to go running. When she saw me just move to the phone, she flopped down in depression.

Caroline was in a meeting, the SCRAP receptionist told me. She was not to be disturbed.

“Just write the following on a note and take in into her—‘Louisa’s life story on the front page of the Herald-Star?’ And add my name. I guarantee she’ll be on the phone within nanoseconds.”

I had to cajole a little more, but the woman finally agreed. I carried the phone back over to the easy chair. Peppy eyed me in disgust, but I wanted to be sitting down for the coming blast.

Caroline came on the line without preamble. I let her rant at me unchecked for some minutes, shredding my character, expressing remorse that I’d risen unchastened from the swamp, even lamenting that I didn’t now lie buried in the mud.

At that I decided to interrupt. “Caroline, that was vile and offensive. If you had any imagination or sensitivity, you would never have thought such a thing, let alone said it.”