“You know some of the people who work for Art, don’t you?” Caroline asked Nancy.

“Yes, yes I do.” She fiddled with another piece of chicken. “It’s just I haven’t wanted … Oh, well. Anything for the cause of right and justice, I guess.”

She picked up her coat and headed for the door. She stood looking at us for a moment, then set her lips firmly and left.

“I thought you might want to help her find out who’s against the plant,” Caroline said.

“I know you did, sweet pea. And even though it would be lots of fun, working for one poor customer in South Chicago is about all my budget can take at a time.”

“You mean you’ll help me? You’ll find my father?” The blue eyes turned dark with excitement. “I can pay you, Vic. Really. I’m not asking you to do it for nothing. I’ve got a thousand dollars saved.”

My usual rate is two-fifty a day, plus expenses. Even with a twenty percent family discount, I had a feeling she was going to run out of money before I ran out of detecting. But no one had forced me to agree. I was a free agent, governed only by my own whims, and guilt.

“I’ll send you a contract to sign tomorrow,” I told her. “And you can’t be on the phone to me every half hour demanding results. This is going to take a long time.”

“No, Vic. I won’t.” She smiled tremulously. “I can’t tell you how much it means to me to know you’re helping me out.”

4

The Old Folks at Home

In my sleep that night I saw Caroline again as a baby, her face pink and blotchy from crying. My mother stood behind me telling me to look after the child. When I woke at nine the dream lay heavy in my head, cloaking me in lethargy. The job I’d agreed to do filled me with distaste.

Find Caroline’s father for a thousand dollars. Find Caroline’s father against Louisa’s strongly voiced opposition. If she felt that violently about the guy after all this time, he was probably better left unfound. Assuming he was still alive. Assuming he’d lived in Chicago and hadn’t been an itinerant journeyman amusing himself on his way through town.

At last I stuck a leaden foot out from under the bedclothes. The room was cold. We’d had such a mild winter I’d turned off the radiator to keep the place from becoming stuffy, but the temperature had apparently dropped during the night. I pulled my leg back under the blanket for a minute, but moving cracked my shell of indolence. I swung the covers back and got up.

Grabbing a sweatshirt from a pile on a chair, I trotted into the kitchen to start coffee. Maybe it was too cold out to go running. I parted the curtain overlooking the backyard. The sky was gray and an east wind was blowing debris against the back fence. I was dropping the curtain when a black nose and two paws appeared against the window, followed by a sharp bark. It was Peppy, the golden retriever I shared with my downstairs neighbor.