Jurshak was looking around, trying to find his son. He paid only passing attention to me until he realized I was planning to talk to him.

“Art won’t be able to make it, Mr. Jurshak—he sent me instead. I’m V. I. Warshawski. I think you’ve heard my name from your wife. Or from Gustav Humboldt.”

Jurshak was wearing a black cashmere coat that buttoned up to his chin. With his face set off by the black collar, I could see an overwhelming resemblance to Caroline—the same high round cheeks, short nose, long upper lip. Even his eyes were the same gentian, a bit faded with age, but that true blue that you rarely see. In fact, he looked more obviously like her than he did young Art.

“What have you done with my son? Where are you holding him?” he demanded in a forceful, husky voice.

I shook my head. “He came to me on Saturday afraid for his life—said you’d told his mother he was as good as dead for letting me get that report you filed for Xerxes with Mariners Rest. He’s someplace safe. I don’t want to talk to you about your son, but your daughter. You may want to ask your friend to step aside while we speak.”

“What are you talking about? Art’s my only child! I demand that you take me to him at once, or I’ll get the police along quicker than you can blink.” His mouth set in the angry stubborn line I’d seen on Caroline’s face a thousand times.

Art had been a power in Chicago since before I’d started college. Even without his clique controlling the City Council, there were plenty of police who owed Jurshak favors and would be happy to run me in if he wanted them to.

“Think back a quarter century,” I said softly, trying not to let anger turn my voice ragged. “Your sister’s daughters. Those luxurious afternoons when your niece danced for you while your brother-in-law was away at work. You can’t have forgotten how important you were in the lives of those two girls.”

His expression, as mobile as Caroline’s, changed from rage to fear. The wind had whipped color into his cheeks, but beneath the red his face looked gray.

“Take a walk, Manny,” he said to the stocky man at his side. “Go wait in the car. I’ll be over in a couple of minutes.”

“If she’s threatening you, Art, I oughta stay.”

Jurshak shook his head. “Just some old family problems. I thought this was going to be business when I asked you and the boys to come along. Go ahead—one of us oughta stay warm.”

The stocky man looked at me narrowly. He apparently decided the bulge in my pocket must be gloves or a notebook and headed back to the limo.

“Okay, Warshawski, what do you want?” Jurshak hissed.

“A whole bunch of answers. In exchange for answers I will not let the fact that you are a child molester with a daughter who is also your great-niece get into the papers.”